Night Games
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Night Games
By Pretzelgirl
"Most games are lost, not won."
-- Casey Stengel
* * *
Evenings are the best for sporting events. High school, collegiate, or the
pros --there's nothing like the brilliant white glow of halogen lights in
an emerald field set against a jet black sky.
So the field wasn't emerald. It was concrete.
And the lights weren't white. They were dirty yellow.
For the record, there were no officials present. It didn't matter. The
ref's had already been gotten-to.
The take at the gate was good though. A stampede of noisy, fat people
elbowed their way through.
Drunken.
Distracted.
Delusional ... well, some of them at least.
Nobody noticed. The fans did not even take notice of themselves. Players
and spectators merged into a single throng of fools, ignorant of anything
but their own selfish tunnel vision. It's the price of free agency. The
individual now supersedes the team. The days of cooperative play belong in
an era of black and white television and untainted records. Everyone is a
superstar.
Yet somehow, the games must go on.
There was no public address system, no booming announcer, and no starting
lineups.
But somehow, an inaudible whistle assailed everyone's senses, letting
everybody know they had witnessed the signal for the games to begin.
The first event of the evening wasn't a team sport. It would be the four-
hundred meter dash after three martinis, while wearing stiletto heels.
The first competitor would be a rookie.
* * *
The kid stepped out of the alley and pointed a dirty steak-knife at the
woman.
"Hi," he growled nervously. "Nice night."
He gestured with the knife. His left hand remained hidden in his pants
pocket.
The crowd moved silently past, intent on ignoring this event. It might
have been anything: a lover's quarrel, a friendly argument, mere mock
indignation. It was none of their business.
The woman hesitated and gulped. Her face turned brick red. It was her
business, all too clearly.
"Give," said the kid.
She nervously adjusted a purse that didn't hang quite naturally on her.
"Look I'm just..." she began hesitantly.
He cut her off with a wave of the knife.
She wasn't comfortable in these clothes, in these shoes, or in this body.
She'd imbibed too much. She'd drowned her sorrows too deeply. She'd
wallowed too long. Now she wobbled uneasily, perched a few inches higher
than her normal cruising altitude. Now she and all that vodka would pay a
price.
"Now!" he said.
Summoning the courage of inevitability she finally spoke. Her words were
coarse, rough, and far too masculine.
"It had to happen tonight," she mumbled.
"Now bitch!" he said. "The purse."
She gritted her teeth and swallowed hard. She'd passed the point of no
return years ago.
"No," she said in a firm, low voice.
"Bitch, you didn't hear me," he answered.
"No," she replied louder. "I heard you."
The knife thrust for her abdomen. A beer belly not-so-delicately encased
by a plastic and nylon girdle managed to deftly edge away unscathed from
the dirty blade.
She grabbed his knife-wielding wrist with a large, hairy hand.
"Fuck!" he muttered, disgust dripping from his words. "You're a dude!"
Those words cut more deeply than any steak knife ever could have.
"If it makes any difference to you," she began. "I consider myself quite
feminine."
The kid struggled with a surprising amount of strength for such a scrawny,
malnourished body.
She held him tight.
"You picked a very poor night for this," she answered. "I've had a hell of
an evening. Care to hear all about it?"
His answer was all too clear.
She continued nevertheless.
"Do you have any idea how much courage it takes to wear lipstick?" she
snarled. "This dress, these shoes, the mascara, the wig -- all this work,
all this effort, and I can only go out at night!"
The kid yanked back hard, but her grip was a vice. No doubt he injured
himself. She ignored him.
"I can only be me at night," she continued. "The rest of the day, I wear a
costume. The rest of the day, I'm at a masquerade. I play the game, I
pretend to be the man. I strut, I swagger, I swear ... I drink -- good
lord, how I drink! I spit, I scratch, I watch sports. Though I hate it
with the white-hot passionate intensity of a bijillion blazing suns -- I
watch sports!"
This was no team sport. This was man versus man -- woman versus man. Only
individual action would dictate tonight's outcome.
She knew it.
So did he.
"I came out tonight with a friend," she hissed through barred teeth. "To
watch the big game. I hate games, I hate sports, I hate football, and I
hate competition!"
The kid nervously eyed the passersby's. They ignored him, as they'd
ignored her.
"She ditched me," said the woman. "Thought she was a friend ... she just
wanted to get laid. You know what it's like to get stuck in a nightclub
alone? Imagine that --friendless in a strange crowd -- but also dressed
like this! Strange part of town, strange club full of strangers, strange
man in a strange dress ... and then I get fucking mugged? I don't need
this fucking strangeness!"
For the first time, the kid's eyes showed fear.
She tightened her grip on his hand. His left hand, still in his pants
pocket, began to move.
"Bitch," he said. "Fucking fag! Let me loose or you die."
She smiled and looked at the kid's pocket. His left hand gripped
something, making the pocket bulge.
"If there's a gun in that pocket," she said slowly. "You win. If you've
got nothing but your dick in your hand ... then ... hell, I guess you
still win."
She sighed.
"There's no fucking way for a man in a dress to be a winner."
Defeated, she loosed her grip just enough.
The kid ran off, disappearing into the end zone.
The crowd went mild.
No one cared.
The lights stayed on.
The spectators herded over to a new event.
The games must go on.
* * *
Disgusted with the city, she sauntered into a diner. Disheveled, wig
askew, pantyhose torn, she limped through the door. Out of breath, out of
courage, out of patience, she sought sanctuary.
The room treated her kindly, if indifferently. Old men, lives filled by
too much vice, quietly focused on their steaks. Middle-aged women, lives
used up with too much vice, gazed intently on their salads.
She sat at the counter and ordered coffee.
The waitress brought a cup, one napkin, two Kleenex, and a side order of
compassion.
"You need a ride honey?" whispered the waitress.
The woman shook her head.
The room silently eyed the pair. A different match had begun. Tennis
anyone? But were the participants going to be competitors or perhaps
doubles partners?
"Rough night?" asked the waitress.
The woman sighed.
"You don't want to talk about it, that's fine," said the waitress. She
started wiping down the diner's Formica counter.
The woman looked back at the waitress and slowly began to speak.
"Life is a game," the woman said. "It's a game we play every night ... and
every day for that matter. Though the rules get enforced differently, less
consistently once the sun goes down, it's still all a game. We're
selfishly competing, trying to edge out the guy next to you with a season-
ending injury that won't get you called for a foul. We're all in it for
ourselves. And I'm sick and fucking tired of it all. The game stinks."
"Maybe so," answered the waitress. "But as long as it's the only game in
town, we gotta keep playing. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do."
"No," the woman said shaking her head. "I'm done playing the game. I quit.
I'm opting for early retirement. I'm taking my balls and going home."
"If you refuse to defend yourself, you risk getting tackled," said the
waitress. "You might quit the game ... but I doubt your opponent is going
to quietly let you forfeit and walk away."
"I'm not forfeiting!" said the woman. "I'm not quitting, either. I've
lost. Game over, man. I am the loser. Chalk up the final score, go to the
post-game report, and let's wrap this thing up. I lost. End of story."
"Honey, life can't be wrapped up neatly in a single metaphor," said the
waitress. "It's a game, yes. But it's a lot more than just that. Not all
games are 'I Win/You Lose.' There are plenty of win/win situations in the
real world. And I don't think you're a loser."
"Well, I think I'm a loser," said the woman in a louder voice. "I should
never have even be born. I don't fit in ... fit in here in society, in
this city, in these clothes, in this body. Who am I? Just who the fuck am
I?"
"You're a customer," said the waitress with a smile.
"Yeah," laughed the woman sourly. "I guess to you, that's all I am."
"I didn't say that," corrected the waitress. "You're not just a customer.
But we're all trained to see each other in certain roles. When you walked
in that door, did you stop to consider who I am? What my name is? What my
life story might me? Nahh ... of course not. To you, I'm just a waitress.
At least at first. And to me, you're a customer. That's the first thing I
see. But, it's not the only thing I see about you."
The woman scratched at her wig and squinted bleary-eyed at the waitress.
"Maybe it's still the booze talking," said the woman. "But you've piqued
my curiosity. Okay -- what do you see? What do you really see? Who am I?
And remember, I'm still drunk enough to numb this old, bruised ego. So
feel free to be harsh."
"No one is free to be harsh," said the waitress. "Honest, maybe. But
harsh, no."
"Go ahead and be either," said the woman. "I may be drunk, but you're
'honest.' And in the morning, I'll be sober and you'll still just have
your honesty."
"I don't think I've ever heard Churchill so eloquently misquoted," laughed
the waitress. "You really want to play this new game?"
The woman nodded.
The waitress stopped wiping the counter and looked for a long, quiet
moment at her customer. The patrons of the diner silently busied
themselves with their meals, their crossword puzzles, their magazine
articles. They listened without looking. No one spoke.
"I see a man," began the waitress. "I see a man who's been hurt. He's been
trampled down pretty hard. Betrayed -- not just random hurt, but something
calculated. That's usually the hardest kind of pain to heal from ... if
you ever do heal from it."
The woman's face flushed red, but she did not speak.
"I see somebody who's confused," continued the waitress. "But not about
just the obvious. It's not in your clothes ... it's ... it's in your eyes.
In your posture, the way you nervously twist and fidget ever so slightly
while you sit. I don't think your clothes are wrong -- I think maybe it's
your job, your friends, the life you pretend to live. You're trying to be
someone you're not. And again ... it's not just gender. There's more to it
than that."
The woman remained impassive.
"I see someone who's been used," said the waitress. "Not used-up ... but
maybe starting to get close. I see somebody who needs to be refreshed,
rejuvenated, be made to live again. It's not over for you yet. There's
still more minutes left in the game. But ... you've let it get to you too
hard. You look older than I know you must be."
The room was silent for another moment.
"Maybe you're right," said the woman finally. "I'll give you the silver --
but not the gold, because you forgot one important thing: you see a loser.
A great big, colossal loser in the game of life."
"I said I wouldn't be harsh," the waitress replied.
"So you admit that's what you see," demanded the woman.
The waitress sighed. "I see a man in drag who is absolutely convinced he's
a victim. He thinks he's downtrodden, oppressed, wounded, wronged, and
left in the gutter to die. And he desperately wants credit for that. I see
a martyr in the making. You want someone to feel sorry for you, then
that's all you're ever going to be -- a sorry excuse for a human being.
Playing the pity game is usually a pretty self-fulfilling prophecy ...
eventually you become just as pitiful as you want to be."
"You said you wouldn't be harsh," sighed the woman.
"Forgive me," said the waitress impatiently. "It's been a long night and
maybe I'm getting too tired to adequately sugarcoat my observations."
"No, you were right the first time," answered the woman. "And see that's
just it. Even as a martyr, I really don't fit in. Yeah, I know I'm proving
your point for you. But listen: I'm such a loser in the game of life, I
can't even martyr myself properly. Hell, could you see a bust of me in
some hallowed hall of fame? You think they could capture my running
mascara and five o'clock shadow in bronze?"
"You've still got your sense of humor," said the waitress. "Even if it's
at your own expense."
The woman frowned, sensing the waitress had somehow snuck the puck past
the goalie. She shook her head, trying to clear some of her inebriation.
Her wig flopped into an even less flattering angle.
"Look," said the woman. "You said life isn't all 'I Win/You Lose' ...
except it is. That's exactly how it is. And since I'm the freak ... well,
I'm the one who loses. All the normal people out there -- they've got a
level playing field to compete against one another. They've got a running
head start against a guy in a dress."
"Suit yourself," said the waitress. "You seem so damned insistent about
it. You're welcome to your viewpoint. But me, I've never bought into the
whole shtick of us competing against one another in some game. Or even
some race. If life is a game, it isn't any sport grown-ups play. It's like
some wild, unorganized children's game. Something kids play at recess,
with no rules, no refs, and no clear winners or losers. It's something we
do to pass the time, while we wait for the bell to ring."
"Fine," said the woman. "So we're playing the ultimate game, and the only
rule is the law of the jungle. I'm still the loser. Life is all 'be
fruitful and multiply.' Even if I don't get eaten alive by the lions and
bull sharks out there, how do I achieve endgame dressed like this? How do
I pass on my genes and re-set the whole damn game for a new generation
when I'm ... I'm ... dressed like this?"
The waitress was silent, looking at the woman's choice of attire.
"Do you like girls?" asked the waitress.
"I wouldn't wear their clothes if I didn't," replied the woman.
A hearty laugh slipped past the waitress' mask of self-control.
"So find yourself some woman to team up with," said the waitress. "If your
'endgame' is to have kids ... well, that's no great feat. Thousands of
people who should never become parents do it every day. As a man, your
role in that particular game is nothing but fun. Too bad you can't test
drive a real woman's perspective on childbirth."
"But I'm an evolutionary dead-end," said the woman. "You still don't see -
- I'm not playing the game. I'm not spreading out my peacock feathers to
lure in all the peahens. What self-respecting woman wants me siring her
kids? Something mutated wrong with me and made me a freak. My brain is
wired for all the wrong courtship rituals. Instead of attracting women,
I'm dressed to attract men. Which, believe it or not, isn't something I'm
into. No, I've lost the game of evolution as well."
"That's bullshit," answered the waitress. "Evolution doesn't work so
neatly. Hell, nothing in nature is ever as simple and clear-cut as we like
to imagine. You really want to find a nice girl and settle down ... do it.
Sure, you're not exactly dressed the way most gals envision their Romeo.
But most silly little schoolgirls grow out of that whole knight in shining
armor fantasy eventually. You're more than the clothes on your back."
The woman frowned impassively.
"Look," the waitress continued. "I don't want to steal your thunder. But
you're nothing unique. There's gotta be at least ten, twenty thousand in
this city alone -- just like you. Pulling on panties, stuffing a bra,
squeezing their hairy asses into nylons. It's an age-old story, man!
You're not new. Ya think you invented cross-dressing? Fuck! I'd be
surprised if Delilah didn't have Samson in her negligee at least once."
"Again: I thought you weren't going to be harsh," said the woman.
"I think you're a big enough boy to handle the truth," answered the
waitress. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe your father conceived you
while dressed as a milkmaid? Or a naughty nurse? Or a nun? Maybe your dad
wore a rubber chicken costume while your mom dressed up as a schoolgirl?
It's not exactly a story you tell the kids. You don't put that kind of
shit in the family Bible or write it down in memoirs for posterity. But
how many times do you think it's happened in the history of the universe?"
"You're part of nature," the waitress continued. "You might not like it.
But you're just as much a child of the universe as every other man who
ever had a weird sex thought pass through his hormone-laden nethers. Leg
men, boob men, ass men ... dudes who get off from rubber, leather,
feathers ... men who like pain, men who inflict pain ... guys into blonds,
brunettes, redheads ... if there's some trait associated with women: a
body part, an article of clothing, anything uniquely feminine -- there
will come along men who intensely love that thing. The world is a big
enough place for ever fetish under the sun to flourish."
"For a simple waitress," said the woman with a weak smile. "You're rather
philosophical."
"I've got a PhD in pain," said the waitress with a laugh. "I'm just an
observer. Like everyone else playing the game. And my observation is that
your thing is clothes. It's nothing scary. And it's not bad. You're
nothing frighteningly new or mutated. And whether your like it or not,
evolution, fate, God, or whatever has its talons so deep into you, you
don't even notice. Every sex thought is just second nature to you. It's
natural. Don't fight it. Life's too short to pretend you're not you. We
get a handful of decades, parceled out like the universe is suffering a
scarcity of time! It isn't fair. Don't get tricked into wasting what few
years you have moping in a stupor of self-pity."
The woman was silent for a very long time. Her head hung low, she stared
at her false breasts in deep contemplation. Finally the waitress broke the
silence.
"Look it's getting late ... well, early," she said. "I'm sorry if I struck
a nerve with you or something. But ... well ... my shift is over. Are you
gonna be okay?"
"Fine," answered the woman, slowly lifting her head. "Say ... wait. Before
you go. Would you ... I mean ... dammit, you'd think this would be easier
while inebriated."
"I'd love to," said the waitress.
"I didn't even..." said the woman.
"Then go ahead," answered the waitress.
"Would you like to go out some time?" asked the woman. "Dinner and a
movie. Maybe some dancing."
"I'd love to," repeated the waitress.
"I'll wear a tie," said the woman. "And pants, I mean. Obviously."
"Then I guess I'd better wear a dress," laughed the waitress.
* * *
Mornings are the best for practices. Varsity, university, or professional
-- at every level, they get up early to start their calisthenics under the
salmon glow of a rosy fingered sky.
So the man wasn't wearing a sweatshirt. He was in an evening gown.
And his shoes weren't sneakers. They were bright red pumps.
For the record, his companion didn't look dressed for practice either. It
didn't matter. She knew what she was doing.
The two strolled along concrete sidewalks, arm-in-arm. Quiet, knowing
smiles on their faces, each soothed injuries the other had suffered in
games and practices long ago.
Calm.
Courageous.
Caring ... in that gentle, ginger way beginners tend to be.
They took notice of themselves. Without words, the two walked along,
breathing the fresh air that even urban streets enjoy with sunrise. Man
and woman merged into a single couple, just out for morning exercise,
enjoying the oldest dance known to humankind. It's the game everyone
plays. Men and women need company. Both knew this new game, this practice
might not lead anywhere, but it was better than being alone.
Nobody should be alone.
Somehow, the games will always continue.
There was no public address system, no booming announcer, and no starting
lineups.
But as the man in the dress softly kissed the waitress, both of them felt
a whistle somewhere had been blown, a signal somehow had been given, and a
whole new exciting game was poised to begin.
This morning's game would be a team event. It would be a two-person squad
ready to tackle the world.
And with a little luck, maybe they could actually both wind up as MVPs.
* * *
"The essence of sports is that while you're doing it, nothing else
matters, but after you stop, there is a place, generally not very
important, where you would put it." -- Roger Bannister
- The End -
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Jo
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