Symptoms of Being Human (11 page)

“Hey.” Bec leans toward me, concern on her face. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, faking a smile. “Fine. Um, where are we headed?”

“Pull out the way you came in and head back to the fifty-seven,” Bec says, buckling her seat belt.

It's not until we're back on Imperial that I realize I've been
holding my breath, and I let it out slowly. There's a long silence.

That guy—he was so . . .
masculine
. If that's what she's into, I haven't got a snowball's chance in hell. Not on my most guyish guy day. But it doesn't matter, because I can't choose to fluctuate; it just happens. I can usually fake it when I need to—mostly around my parents, and for short periods of time—but, for some reason, when I'm with Bec, I can't. Something about her, something in her presence seems to short out my ability to pretend.

Maybe that's why I like being around her.

I should be making small talk, asking about her band or something, but all I can think about is my stupid sweepy hair, my lavender-scented wrists, and Bec, up on her tiptoes with her arm around that guy.

“Hey. Riley,” Bec says, shocking me out of dark thoughts. I look at her, and she says, “I'm glad you came.” There's an uncertainty in her voice I've never heard before. A vulnerability. And before I'm really aware of it, the words are coming out of my mouth.

“Was that your boyfriend?” I ask, heat rising in my cheeks.

Bec blinks, and her mouth twitches like she's suppressing either a laugh or a frown, I can't tell which. “Um. He's my drummer,” she replies.

“But you guys are, like . . . together?”

Bec cocks her head. “People are not canned goods, Riley. We don't need labels.”

I tighten my grip on the wheel. What kind of answer is that? I want to press her, but I don't want to seem desperate, or drive her away. So, instead, I change the subject.

“What's the name of your band?”

“Fluorescent Sunburn.”

“Oh. What kind of stuff?”

“It's, like, late shoegaze, early grunge.” Bec pulls out her phone and plugs it into the port on the center console.

“Is this you?” I ask, gesturing at her phone.

“God, no,” she says. “I made you a playlist.”

I shift in my seat.
She made me a playlist.

Bec goes on. “It's mostly live Bad Religion, for educational purposes, but there's some bootlegged Pixies stuff, too, since I know you're a complete pop whore.”

I gasp in indignation. “I am not a pop whore!” But I'm laughing as I say it.

“Please,” Bec says, cranking up the volume and rolling down her window. “Ramones, Pixies, the Police. Your T-shirt collection is like a tour through the eighties.” She glances over at me. “You look hot, by the way.”

The skin on my face bursts into flame.

“My cousin has that,” Bec says.

“What?” I reply.

“The blushing-for-no-reason thing.” I glance over at her, and she twists her lips into that mischievous smirk that seems to set my guts on fire. All thoughts of tall stubbly dude evaporate. She made me a mix, and she thinks I look hot. My eyes linger on Bec, her hair blowing, her blue eyes bright in the glow of the streetlights, and I see that vulnerability I heard in her voice a moment ago. I'm stricken with a sudden compulsion to ask her about it. To break through this weird wall she seems to put up at random.

“Hey, eyes on the road,” Bec says. I realize that I'm staring at her, and I turn my focus back to the road just in time to avoid drifting out of my lane. We pass under the freeway, and I turn and gun it up the on-ramp.

The conversation comes in fits and starts, with Bec interrupting frequently to turn up the volume and scream over the music that I
have
to listen to this song. She sings along with such a complete lack of self-consciousness that when we come to a song I actually know—“Where Is My Mind?” by the Pixies—I feel comfortable enough to join her. When we pull off the 101 freeway in Hollywood, we roll down the windows and scream the lyrics at the top of our lungs.

“Make a right,” Bec says, breaking off from the song. “Turn here. Pull in the back.”

We pull into the parking lot behind a three-story brick building. It looks like one of the older structures in LA; maybe a hundred years ago it was an office building or a textiles factory. I park the van and follow Bec to a heavy steel door, probably the deliveries entrance. I don't hear any music coming from inside, and when I look around, there are only half a dozen cars in the parking lot. There's no marquee, there's no velvet rope, there's no line around the block.

I turn to Bec. “What kind of club is this?”

She bites her lip, making the little silver ring twitch. “Don't be pissed, okay?”

I frown. “Why are we going in the back?”

“Have you not figured out by now that I like a little mystery? Come on.” As she moves past me, she takes my hand as if it's the most casual thing in the world, and the goose bumps
travel up my arm to the back of my neck, where all the hairs stand on end. Bec pulls open the door and we walk in.

It's an open space, like the basement of an old store, with a concrete floor and wooden columns supporting a ceiling of exposed beams. A dozen folding chairs are arranged in a circle at the center of the room.

The first person I notice is a large woman in an ill-fitting blue suit. Upon closer examination, I see stubble on her cheeks. She—or he—is holding hands with a slim Hispanic guy who looks like he could be an actor. Next to him sits a girl in combat boots, fidgeting with an unlit cigarette as she glances nervously around the room. Near the back wall, someone with short, vividly green hair is pouring water into a big electric coffeepot. From the back, I can't tell if the punk hairstyle belongs to a guy or a girl.

Then, as I'm turning to Bec to ask her what we've just walked into, the most striking woman I've ever seen waves and starts toward us. She's well over six feet tall, lean and graceful, and even in the dim incandescence, her dark skin glows. She walks straight up to Bec, wraps her long arms around her like an affectionate octopus, and lifts her off the ground.

“Baby, baby, baby,” she says. “Where on earth have you been?”

Bec's face is red when her feet finally touch ground again. “Just . . . busy.”

“Well, it's wonderful to have you back.” The woman calls over her shoulder. “Mimi! Come look who's here!” She turns to me. “And who is our new friend?”

I wait for Bec to introduce me, but she doesn't. The tall
woman bends her knees so her eyes are on a level with mine, flashes a wide smile, and extends her hand.

“I'm Kanada,” she says. “Like the country, but with a K. And I am very pleased to meet you.” She squeezes my hand with surprising strength; and that's when I notice that, from this angle, I can see that she has a very pronounced Adam's apple. I look over at Bec, who smiles at the dawning recognition on my face.

Kanada turns to Bec and makes a
tsk
noise. “Is this a surprise party?”

Bec shrugs.

“Mimi!” Kanada yells again, glancing toward the back of the room. A tall, professional-looking woman in a cranberry dress approaches.

“I'm right here,” she says, laying an affectionate hand on Kanada's shoulder. Something about this woman is vaguely familiar. Like maybe I've seen her on TV. When she recognizes Bec, she smiles broadly and embraces her. “We've missed your sense of humor around here,” she says.

And then she turns to me and offers her hand.

“Welcome to the Q,” she says. “I'm Mike/Michelle.”

TIME SEEMS TO FREEZE, AND
I stand there with my mouth slightly agape. After a moment, I sputter, “Mike/Michelle Weston?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Have we met?”

We have, in a way. She's sent me messages online—well, technically, she sent them to Alix—but of course, she wouldn't recognize me. How could she?

“I've been to your website,” I say.

Kanada laughs and throws an arm around her. “Girlfriend is
famous
!” She turns to me. “What's your name, baby?”

“I'm Riley,” I say.

“It's very nice to meet you, Riley,” Mike/Michelle says. “We're just about to get started.”

We make our way to the center of the room. I pick a seat with empty chairs on either side, and Bec sits down between me and the woman in the blue suit. Feeling a bit bigoted myself,
I glance from Kanada's prominent Adam's apple to the hint of stubble on the big woman's face. This “club” is obviously some kind of LGBTQ support group—which means Bec brought me here for a reason: She knows
.

When the realization hits me, I expect my heart to start pounding, or my fingers to start tingling—but instead, I let out an involuntary laugh of relief. If Bec
does
know, the fact that we're here together proves she's already accepted me. My laugh morphs almost instantaneously into tears, and I hastily wipe my eyes. I shoot a glance at Bec to see if she's noticed, but she's deep in conversation with the handsome Latino guy and appears to have missed my mini meltdown.

Mike/Michelle calls the meeting to order, and the rest of the group take their seats.

“Hello, everyone,” she says. A handful of people say hello, and a few clap. “Welcome to Queer Alliance, which we affectionately call ‘the Q.' We're a gender and sexuality support group, and you don't have to fit into any specific category to be here. Some of us are gay, some of us are trans, and some of us are genderqueer. Some of us are out, and some of us aren't. This is a safe place where we share what we're going through. And tonight, we have some new faces, and some old friends, too.” She nods toward Bec and me, and most of the heads turn in our direction. Bec smiles warmly. I give an awkward wave. Mike/Michelle continues, “Let's start with our dedication.” Everyone clasps hands; I take Bec's in my right, and Kanada reaches out to take my left. Most people bow their heads, and some just close their eyes. Mike/Michelle looks up as if talking to the sky. “Tonight we come together as a community—not to focus on
our flaws, but to celebrate our uniqueness. To share our pain, our joy, and our love, and to create a better tomorrow.”

Bec lets go of my hand as people start to applaud. Apparently, clapping is big with this crowd. When the applause dies down, Mike/Michelle continues.

“We'll start by going around the circle. But there's no pressure.” Mike/Michelle talks as though she's addressing the whole room, but I can tell she's speaking to me. “Feel free to introduce yourself, share something about your week, or just pass the conch to the next person. I'll start. I'm Mike/Michelle, the mediator of this group and the administrator of QueerAlliance.org. Even though my transition is complete, I go by Mike/Michelle—because when I meet someone new, my name becomes an opening for dialogue, and that's what I'm all about.” Her face splits in a smile that includes the whole room. “Okay,” she says. “Who's next?”

“I'll go.” It's the girl in the combat boots. She's sitting to Mike/Michelle's left, and speaks in a low monotone. “I'm Chris. I do IT at a big financial group.” She makes eye contact with me, but only briefly. “For the new people, I know I look like a girl, but that's not how I identify. I started transitioning about ninety days ago. I have to live with being addressed as a girl all day, so I'd appreciate . . .” Her—
his
voice breaks, and he stops.

I catch myself staring at him, and then I look down at my lap instead. This is the second time in as many weeks that I've misjudged someone else's gender identity. I feel a pang of shame; like everyone else, my instinct is to put people in a category.

Chris continues. “Yesterday, I was informed that my insurance will no longer cover my hormone therapy.”

The woman in the blue suit grunts in disgust. “You should sue,” she says. “I'll take the case myself.”

Chris shakes his head. “Companies don't have to fund birth control if it goes against their ‘moral values.' They argue the same for transition treatment. I just . . .” Chris buries his face in the crook of one arm. “I can't go back there. The way they look at me . . .” His speech dissolves into sobs.

I sit back in my chair and stare at my hands. My problems suddenly seem small, even ridiculous, compared to this man's. I glance around the group. Everyone, Bec included, is watching Chris with expressions of empathy and concern—and I start to feel like I'm intruding. Like I shouldn't be witnessing this stranger's vulnerable moment.

Once Chris has composed himself, he goes on. “I'm going to start looking for another job. And I'm
not
stopping therapy; I'll just have to figure out how to pay for it out of pocket.” The group applauds him, and he accepts their acknowledgment with a teary smile.

The big woman in the blue dress volunteers to share next. She introduces herself as Bennie, and says that she identifies as a trans woman. After twenty years of hiding, Bennie explains, she finally came out to her wife—who promptly filed for divorce. Now she's going through hormone therapy and struggling with the accompanying weight gain. Herman, the tall Latino man, is Bennie's straight, cismale boyfriend. When they met at a law conference last year, Bennie was still presenting as a man—but Herman somehow saw past that, and they fell in love. It's
a beautiful story, and they laugh as they take turns retelling it.

A few times, I find myself glancing at the person with the short green hair. She—or he—looks to be around twenty-five, has very fine features, and doesn't appear to be wearing any makeup. A puffy green flight jacket obscures the more telling parts of his or her anatomy. At one point our eyes meet, and I look away, embarrassed.

Bec goes next. She says hi and that it's good to see everyone—and that's when I wonder: How did she even know about this place? She seems to know everybody by name, as though she's been here dozens of times before. What am I missing?

And then it's my turn to talk. Mike/Michelle said I shouldn't feel pressure to say anything, but I do; after hearing everyone else share their most personal thoughts, I feel like I owe them something. As the eyes turn toward me, my heart starts to beat faster, and the saliva seems to evaporate from my mouth. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Kanada takes mercy on me by launching into a story about her daughter. I'm not really listening—I'm too busy trying to control my breathing—but I'm grateful for the rescue.

Eventually, the formal, go-around-the-circle format dissolves into a more open discussion. As everyone shares what's happening in their lives, I start to feel more
normal
. I feel lucky to have figured myself out at sixteen instead of waiting until I was married with kids. Some of these people grew up without the internet; they had no way of reaching out, no way to find out
why
they felt the way they felt, or even to discover that it had a name.

At one point, Mike/Michelle invites the member with the
green hair—who apparently goes by Morgan—to share, but Morgan graciously declines in a soft, alto voice. By the time Mike/Michelle calls the meeting to a close, reminding the regulars that next week's session has been rescheduled for Friday, I already know I want to come back.

It's 10:15 when we pull out of the parking lot and then make a right on Sunset. Traffic crawls along the Boulevard; even the sidewalks are full of life, but I don't really see any of it. Every part of my brain not required to operate the minivan is trying to make sense of the last three hours.

What kind of second date was this? Or, was it a date at all? Furthermore, how did Bec know about the Q, and why does she seem to know all of its members? I want to ask her a hundred questions.

“Hey,” Bec says. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

Bec adjusts her seat belt and turns to face me. “You were pretty quiet at the meeting.”

I shrug. “I wasn't really prepared for that kind of thing.”

“I know,” Bec says. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have surprised you like that.” She glances out the windshield, gently punching her thigh with a fist. “I have an overdeveloped sense of drama.”

“You say that like a person with an overdeveloped sense of drama.”

She laughs.

“It's okay,” I say. “Really. I just didn't know what I was walking into.”

“See? Mystery. Not a bad thing.” She smiles, and I smile back.

“So, how did you know about that place?” I ask. Bec turns away, maybe to look out the window, or maybe to avoid my gaze. “Bec?”

After a long silence, she turns to face me again, and that crooked smile is back on her face. “That's not really second-date material,” she says.

Second date? Fireworks go off in my midsection. Questions rush to the top of my mind—but before I can ask any of them, Bec says, “Wait. Where are we? Did you already pass San Vicente?”

I shrug. “I have no idea.”

“Oh, great. Hang on.” She pulls out her phone and checks the map. “Okay. Turn right up here. On Larrabee.”

Just as I pull into the intersection, Bec shrieks and starts pointing frantically out the driver's side window. I almost drive off the road.

“Look! Look! It's—ohmygod ohmygod! It's— Look, it's him!”

But I can't look, because I'm trying to pull the van back into my lane while simultaneously recovering from a minor cardiac event.

“Jesus, what? Who?”

“Him, with the . . . from the . . . band!”

“Who?”

“The . . . guy, with the— Dave! Standing right outside the Viper Room. Dave Grohl!”

“Foo Fighters' Dave Grohl?”

“Yes! Yes! Right there!” She's unbuckled her seat belt and is now hanging out the window.

“Do you want me to stop?”

She drops back into her seat and gapes at me. “Stop? Oh God, no. What would I say? Just keep driving.”

I glance into the rearview mirror just in time to see the faint green glow of the neon sign, and then it passes out of view. Bec sinks into the passenger seat, taking deep breaths.

“So, Dave Grohl, huh?” I think of that flannel-wearing drummer kissing her cheek. “Really? That's your type?”

Bec refastens her seat belt and rolls up her window. “Don't be ridiculous. I don't have a ‘type.' And even if I did, Dave Grohl transcends all sexual boundaries.”

“I guess,” I say, feeling a twinge of jealousy. “You looked like you were having a fit back there.”

“Ugh! I know. I can never spit out words when it's important,” Bec says. “Like, I was at the zoo once with my sister when I was a kid, and we were standing outside the monkey enclosure. And she was just staring through the bars at these two adult spider monkeys, who were, like, picking fleas off each other and eating them or whatever—but she didn't see the baby monkey hanging right above her, with a handful of poo, about to fling it. And you'd think I would be able to yell, ‘Sister, beware! Monkey poo from above!' Or, ‘Incoming!' at least.”

“So you didn't warn her?”

“No! All I could muster was ‘Monkey! Monkey! Monkey!' But it was too late. Splat.”

“No.”

“Yup. She took a load of monkey dung right in the skull.
Ugh. We couldn't shampoo all of it out. We had to cut off so much of her hair!”

I laugh, and Bec does, too. But the laughter fades quickly, and the silence rushes in to fill its space. Bec looks out the window again.

After a moment I sort of blurt, “How did she die?”

Bec doesn't reply right away, and I'm afraid I've gone too far. “I'm sorry,” I say. “You don't have to answer that.”

“It's okay,” Bec says, and I believe her. “She had a bad reaction to some medication, and they couldn't resuscitate her.”

“Oh. God, Bec. I'm so sorry.” It's not enough, but I don't know what else to say.

Bec nods and then falls quiet, and I pull onto the freeway. The traffic is horrible, and we inch our way through downtown at about fifteen miles per hour. Bec reaches over and turns on the stereo. Bad Religion breaks the silence, and for a while, we just listen. Finally, I reach over and turn down the volume.

“So, how come you don't sit with the Hardcores anymore?”

Bec turns to me. “The who?”

“Oh yeah, sorry. I sort of nicknamed your table ‘the Hardcores.'”

“The Hardcores
.
That's funny.” Her smile fades a little. “But it wasn't my table.”

“You said sometimes you need a day off. But that was, like, a week ago.”

Bec turns to look out the window. “People are okay one on one. But get them in groups, and they start adopting this
hive mind. Like we all have to like the same band and buy the same brand of hair dye.”

She hasn't answered my question, any of my questions, really, but I decide not to push it. I'm enjoying her company, and I don't want to spoil that. The conversation ebbs and flows. We talk about music—we like a lot of the same bands—but mostly, we avoid talking about the big issues. Sex, family, stuff like that. It's a pretty superficial conversation, to be honest, but I sort of don't care. With her, even the surface stuff feels . . . I don't know. Deep. Alive.

The traffic breaks up just south of Hollywood. Downtown recedes behind us, and before I know it, we're back in Park Hills, pulling off the 57.

“Should I take you home?” I say.