Читать книгу This One Looks Like a Boy - Lorimer Shenher - Страница 13

5

SHIRLEY

(1980–1982)

THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, I lied about being sixteen and landed a ten-day job at Calgary’s summer rodeo fair, the Stampede, calling numbers and collecting money in the midway bingo tent. My friend Megan and I stood out from the traveling carneys as the polo shirt–wearing, scrubbed, naïve schoolkids we were. We reported to a person named Shirley, whose name and gender didn’t seem to match.

Shirley stood six feet, two inches tall; a broad-backed, tough, and—though it sounds cliché—extremely-kind-underneath-a-gruff-exterior person who owned the bingo tent and traveled across North America making a living. Shirley wore men’s clothing and never told us what pronouns to use (because people didn’t specify that in those days), but as I came to know him, I learned that he identified as male. He dressed like a motorcycle gang member: plaid shirt, Wrangler pro rodeo jeans, heavy black Dayton boots, wallet chain, black leather bracelet, and a men’s chunky gold ring. His voice was low-pitched, his face leathery.

Megan and I reported to Shirley each morning at 10:30 to open the tent and clean the surrounding area, which included a large concrete water fountain—a permanent feature of the Stampede grounds. The first day Shirley instructed us to “go wake up the folks sleeping rough.” Megan and I just stared at each other, uncomprehending, frozen in place at the tent’s entrance. We noticed these people each morning and generally gave the fountain area a wide berth before entering the bingo tent, sensing we ought to be afraid of the motionless lumps but seeing no threat.

Shaking his head in disappointment, Shirley walked past us out into the midway sun toward the fountain. Ten or twelve sleeping (we hoped) people lay on the ground—a microcosm of downtown Calgary, where people would use words like hobo and bum to refer to what we would later call the homeless community. I couldn’t imagine the discomfort of sleeping as they did, on damp and uneven ground, limbs askew, in various positions covered by assorted blankets and jackets on the grass surrounding the fountain. Tugging on the large, retractable janitor’s key ring permanently chained to his thick black leather belt, Shirley selected a moderately sized key and employed it to gently tickle the ear of the sleeping man nearest to him.

“Rise and shine, partner,” he said softly. “Time for bingo.” He tickled until the man groaned and stirred. “Atta boy.” Shirley stood and turned to us. “Like that—just be nice and get ’em all sitting up.” And with that, he turned and walked back into the tent, leaving Megan and me to wake everyone.

A few days later, as Megan and I collected money from the tables on a break between bingo games, Shirley stepped away from the calling mic and beckoned me to his office, a small table behind a plastic curtain at one side of the tent. I worried I was in trouble somehow, but my concerns were unfounded.

“You wanna call numbers, ace?” He always called me ace, which I kind of liked. “You’ve got a good, strong voice.”

“Sure,” I said uncertainly. “It is hard?”

“Nah, you’ll be a natural; just pull out the ball and say ‘under the B,’ then pause a sec, and then call ‘nine’ or whatever the ball is. Easy.” He took a wooden toothpick from a drawer and placed it in the side of his mouth.

“Right now?”

“No time like the present,” he said, and looked at me intently. I didn’t feel like he’d dismissed me yet. After a pause, he said, “You and me, we’re kind of the same, you know.”

“In what way?” I asked, although I felt like I knew.

“I see you watchin’ me, tryin’ to figure me out,” he said, gesturing for me to sit down on the rickety wooden chair in front of his desk. I hesitated. “It’s okay.” I felt reassured and sat down. He took his seat behind the desk. “Do you have any questions you want to ask me?”

My mind reeled. Does he mean about bingo calling? About why I watch him? I felt afraid to somehow unintentionally offend him. He was still my boss, if only for another six days.

“You’re a woman, right?” I ventured cautiously. He smiled slightly. The toothpick moved a little.

“Well, that’s a complicated question.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then found the toothpick and rolled it between his finger and thumb. “I was born with woman parts; my folks named me Shirley. But I never felt like a Shirley, never felt like a girl.” I listened, transfixed, trying not to appear too interested. “I rebelled. They hit me, tried to whack me into shape, into being a proper girl.” He paused, looking off into the midway through the open side of the tent. “It wasn’t good. I think they were scared of me. So, I ran away.”

“How old were you?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“Thirteen.” I couldn’t imagine being on my own at fifteen, let alone two years ago.

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

“What did you do?”

“Not much to do. No education. No one lookin’ out for me. I joined a circus—funny, huh?” I nodded. “But, I got to be me. I wore my boy clothes, got to be myself. Got myself a bingo business.” He gestured toward the tent. “Even had a lady friend, for a while.” This last piece of news floored me. I wanted to ask him more, but felt it would be too much. For me, not for him. I retreated to safer ground.

“Why did you keep calling yourself Shirley?” He winced slightly and took a deep breath.

“That was a tough one. It seemed like the only thing I had that was mine. The only thing that tied me to my roots. But, no one messes with me—I mean, look at me.” He gestured to his broad shoulders and black leather fiddler cap, the type I’d seen bikers wearing downtown. “No one messes with me, no one asks me why my name’s Shirley.”

“Yeah.” I sat there imagining leaving my family behind.

This one.

Suddenly, a torrent of words rushed out from that place I’d always kept locked up tight. “I’m like that, too. I’m a boy inside, and I just, I just—” I stammered. I felt tears coming. I swallowed. “Forget it.” I rose. “I gotta go call the numbers.” I turned to leave.

“Ace?” Shirley called after me. I turned and stopped.

“Yeah?”

“Figure out what you need to do to survive. Wear what you can get away with to make you happy, listen to your parents, but remember: soon you’ll be on your own, free to live your life.” I nodded vigorously. “You’re gonna be okay.” He winked at me, then waved me back to work

Over the years, in times of darkness and uncertainty, Shirley’s words would come back to me often. You’re gonna be okay.

Megan frowned at me from the tables as I exited the office, squinting with concern. I gave her the okay signal, smiled weakly, and made my way to the bingo mic. I hit the button, releasing a floating ping-pong ball into my hand. Leaning into the mic, I called, “Under the I, nineteen. I-nineteen.”

I HELPED DAD roof houses the rest of that summer. It was just the two of us, because Jake wasn’t interested and painted houses instead. Dad and I worked well together, and when the next summer approached, I looked forward to helping him again. He was building a home for his best friend Ken’s family and I assumed he would include me. My parents had brought my older cousin Kevin in from Ottawa to help, even though Kevin was not a keen carpenter. His parents were worried he had fallen in with a bad crowd and thought he needed to get away for the summer. Dad enlisted Jake and Kevin for his paid crew, but he didn’t extend the invitation to me. Thinking it an oversight, I assumed I was still included and mentioned it one morning in the spring.

“When are we starting on the Fitzsimmons’ house?” I asked as the two of us ate breakfast. He didn’t look up from his paper.

“Well, I think Kevin and Jake are going to be helping me,” he said, taking a bite of oatmeal. Crushed by disappointment, I couldn’t speak. “Your mom has a lot for you to do around here this summer. She’ll need you for the apples,” he added, referring to the annual two-week harvest and pie-making enterprise our one apple tree generated. “I don’t think I’ll have enough work for three of you.” I heard regret in his voice, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

My construction apprenticeship under my father ended unceremoniously in that moment, without another word. As was my habit, I retreated to the rec room downstairs to listen to music in the dark. Bruce Springsteen, the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Joy Division, the Cure, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and so many other artists spoke to my teenaged anger, angst, and upset. But it was Bruce Springsteen I most closely related to; his early lyrics of disconnection and hopelessness, trying to find his place in a world he didn’t fit into, resonated strongly with me.

Realizing I couldn’t stay downstairs forever, I enrolled myself in the University of Calgary basketball summer league and camps, taking the bus to campus several times a week to play with top high school– and university-level players. I threw myself fully into basketball, first out of desperation—but this quickly grew into love. For the first time in my life, I felt almost comfortable in my body.

I grew to love the impromptu pickup games I played in more than camp and league play, mainly because the players in those games included me readily. We played for hours without referees and with no organization. Few women players at that time would join pickup games with men. In those days, sports other than figure skating, swimming, soccer, or gymnastics were considered “unladylike” and masculine by some. More than a few times in the ’80s and ’90s, I saw female players pack up and go home without playing rather than join an impromptu pickup game if there weren’t enough players for a women-only game.