Cross Dressing (4 page)

“I get it already. A chimp would get it, okay?” Dan knew instantly that Scott had created the perfect campaign for Fujioka. It was elegant, it appealed perfectly to the target demographic and its bloated desire for conspicuous consumption, and best of all, it had legs. Given this, there was only one thing Dan could say. “This is crap. Why are you wasting my time with this?”

Dan might as well have disemboweled Scott with a staple remover. “Crap?” Scott asked.

Dan was suddenly conflicted. A lot of guys in Dan’s position would have attached themselves to the idea and shared in the certain glory. But with the price of his mom’s care going up, Dan couldn’t afford to do that. He needed this one all to himself. “Scott,” he said, “I know you mean well and I know you’d like that associate creative director position, but I just don’t think this is it. Good try, though.”

Scott wanted to die. Why had he done this? “Is it really that bad?” he asked.

“Let me try to put this in sort of a ‘less is more’ way … yes. And I’m not trying to be mean, but Fujioka would never go for it. They’d be over at Ogilvy’s by lunch if we pitched this.” Dan stacked the papers and held them up. “Who else has seen this?”

“Nobody,” Scott said. “Why?”

Dan dropped the papers into the trash. “Keep it that way. Oren doesn’t take kindly to employees working outside the team concept.
Capisce?”

Scott could hear his father’s voice chiding him. The little ego he had left quickly withered. He looked sadly at the trash can. “Could I have that?” His voice was timid. “It’s the master copy.”

Dan waved him off. “Scott, it’s a waste of time, shake it off. You’re better off forgetting it. Now, shoo, I’ve got work to do.” Dan picked up the phone and dialed. Emmons slouched out of the room, defeated, yet oddly reassured that he had nothing to offer. When the door closed, Dan hung up the phone and shook his head in wonder. He reached into the trash can and retrieved the documents. “More Is More.” His eyes twinkled. “Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”

I
T WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT AND SISTER PEG WAS CREEPING
down Sepulveda Boulevard looking for a hooker. She drove slowly for a couple of reasons. First, she wanted to get a good look at the girls who were working that night. Second, she didn’t trust the brakes on Bertha, the twenty-six-year-old Chevy Suburban that was the Care Center’s sole mode of transportation. Every time she touched the brakes, Bertha made a nasty grinding noise that sounded like money going down the drain—money she didn’t have.

Sister Peg eased through the intersection at Nordoff and continued down the boulevard, her eyes scanning the corners and the sidewalks. Several of the working girls recognized the old beater and waved to the nun behind the wheel. Hers was a familiar face, since she had cruised the boulevard for years. Sometimes she stopped for these girls, but not tonight. Sister Peg was looking for one particular girl, but so far she was nowhere in sight.

As Sister Peg approached Parthenia Street, she caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. She’d been up since five-thirty that morning. She made breakfast, did several loads of laundry, cleaned some bedpans, then spent an hour on hold waiting for a federal bureaucrat who eventually told her the Care Center didn’t qualify for the program they administered. Then she made lunch, served it, cleaned the kitchen, and
started the entire process over again, finally turning out the last light around eleven. It was her usual routine, and for the past several years she had managed to maintain the schedule without taking on the appearance of the walking dead. But after her meeting with Mr. Sturholm earlier in the week, the pressure showed. She touched the lines by her eyes and wondered how long they’d been there.
I used to be prettier than this
, she thought. She kept cruising.

Finally, just past Roscoe Boulevard, Sister Peg saw who she was looking for. Josie was tall, thin, and had long straight lemon blond hair. She wore a shiny black and purple Lycra getup that was cut low in the front to reveal the ample, yet firm, goodies. Josie was perched high atop a pair of glittering four-inch platforms. The soles flared at the bottom and provided extra stability when she did a job standing. The clingy outfit said as much about Josie’s profession as Sister Peg’s habit said about hers.

Sister Peg tapped on the grinding brakes and lurched to the curb. Josie skittered over on her platforms, leaned in the passenger window, and licked her lips. “Hi, girlfriend,” she said.
“Voulez, voulez, voulez vous.”
Josie thought the French sounded sexy.

“Are you working?” Sister Peg asked.

“Ain’t going to church dressed like this,” Josie said. “Whacha looking for?”

“The usual.” Sister Peg looked around to see if anyone was watching them.

“You really like that, huh?”

Sister Peg nodded. “I’ve got a one-track mind,” she confessed.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Josie wiggled her shoulders and looked up the sidewalk, stretching her long back. Josie played this same coy game every time the nun came calling. And every time, the nun played back.

A moment passed before Sister Peg spoke again. “So, are you getting in or what?”

Josie rolled her eyes and cocked her head to one side. “Okay. But just for a minute. We gotta make it fast.” She opened the door and slid onto the ragged seat patched with duct tape.

“You look great,” Sister Peg said. She reached over to feel the stretchy purple fabric on Josie’s leg. “That’s nice, shows off your features.”

Josie waggled her head. “Use your knack, darlin’, that’s the rule.” She looked at Sister Peg. “You lookin’ tired. You sure you can stay awake for this?”

Sister Peg smiled wearily. “Try me.”

Josie sighed. “Okay with me, Sister. Let’s do it.”

“Not here,” Sister Peg said. “Let’s go somewhere more private. Wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression.” A minute later they were behind a drugstore in a dark parking lot. Sister Peg killed the engine and turned away from Josie. “You don’t know how bad I need this,” Sister Peg said. This wasn’t their first time together, and if Sister Peg had anything to do with it, it wouldn’t be their last. She needed simple human contact and this is where she found it.

Josie reached over and put her hands on Sister Peg. As Josie performed her magic, Sister Peg moaned. “Oh God, yes. That feels so good.” Josie knew exactly where the sister wanted it. “Oh yeah, right there.” Sister Peg closed her eyes. “Harder,” she said. “I won’t break.” Sister Peg arched her back and leaned into Josie’s skilled hands.

Josie, it turned out, was a part-time masseuse in addition to being a hooker. “Girl, you sure are tensed up,” Josie said. “Something you wanna talk about?”

“What I want is the knots out of my shoulders. I’ll talk later.”

Josie worked the tight muscles like bread dough. After
about ten minutes Sister Peg was so much nun putty. She lifted her head and spoke quietly. “They’re going to foreclose, I can just tell.” Her head dropped a little. “And I’m scared.”

Josie had known Sister Peg long enough to know she didn’t scare easily, and when she was scared she usually wouldn’t admit it. So the confession meant things at the Care Center were worse than usual. “What about that lady you said was helping you out? The one at the bank.”

“They fired her. Too much customer service apparently.” Sister Peg turned around to face Josie. She rolled her head to one side and something in her neck popped. “Ahhhh.”

“Don’t mention it.” Josie propped her sequined platforms up on the dashboard. “I wish I could help, but I’ve got to take care of myself. Know what I’m sayin’?”

Sister Peg put her hand on Josie’s. “You could help both of us if you got off the street,” she said. “Come work at the Care Center. I need your help. Think about those kids.”

Josie nodded. “And give up all this?” She laughed nervously.

“I know it doesn’t pay as much,” Sister Peg said. “But you’ll get beaten up less and there’s almost no chance you’ll get any STDs.”

“That’s a helluva sales pitch, Sister.” Josie reached into her spandex waistband and produced several condoms. “But you know I’m careful.” Josie folded one of her long legs under the other and sat sideways. “Besides, I’m not the flimsy little thing I was when we first met.” She flexed her biceps. “I’m tougher, harder, and a lot smarter.”

Sister Peg reached over and brushed Josie’s lemony bangs to the side. “Well, with all due respect, Professor, the hardness shows.” Sister Peg and Josie met almost seven years earlier when Josie was a fresh runaway in the clutches of a pimp with an anger-control issue. Josie, with two black eyes, had approached Peg on the street and begged for her help. Peg took Josie to the Care Center, where she stayed a while before
returning to the life. Ever since then, Sister Peg had been after Josie to quit for good. “Did you get tested like I asked?”

“No need,” Josie said, holding up one of the condoms. “Shower caps, remember?”

“Please,” Sister Peg begged. “Do it for me. The clinic doesn’t charge anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Josie said. She hated thinking about AIDS. She’d seen it kill a dozen friends and she knew the chances were good that she’d been exposed, since some guys absolutely refused to wear a raincoat. “I gotta get back to work,” Josie said. “And you look like you need some sleep.”

Sister Peg drove back to Sepulveda Boulevard. Josie hopped out to the sidewalk, then leaned back in the window. “That’ll be twenty bucks, girlfriend.”

“Okay,” Sister Peg said. “Let’s see, I charge forty for my good advice, so you owe me twenty.”

“Damn.” Josie pulled a twenty from somewhere in the Lycra. “I don’t want you buying no cheap wine either, you better be feedin’ the kids with that.”

Sister Peg took the twenty. “Thanks, Josie. You’re a saint.”

D
an was ready for the day to end. After resolving the hostage situation with his mother, making it to Oren’s emergency meeting, and stealing Scott’s idea, Dan had spent the rest of the afternoon polishing the “More Is More” material. It was getting late and Dan still had to come up with the spoof spot for COD. He also had to devise a strategy in case Scott Emmons took exception to the theft of intellectual property that happened to be his. Dan had no ethical concerns about his actions vis-à-vis the “More Is More” idea—this was strictly business, and anyone who didn’t know how things worked in the bigs would be improved by the education.

His career notwithstanding, Dan’s main concern right
now was hooking up with Beverly, the sexually adventurous commercial director. He had reached her at her hotel and she had invited him over for drinks later that night, after her client dinner. All he’d have to do was buy a couple of rounds of drinks and be able to perform. Since Dan hadn’t been laid in three months, he was confident, performance-wise. With visions of gymnastic sex making it impossible to concentrate on work, Dan called it a day and headed for his car.

He put the Fujioka materials in the trunk, put the top down on his brand-spanking-new Mercedes, and headed west on Olympic Boulevard toward the ocean. He could have taken the freeway, but he preferred the slower drive down the wide boulevard because it gave him the chance to be seen in his fancy German car. Of course, technically it wasn’t
his
car. It was a lease. In fact, it was a lease Dan couldn’t really afford, but image being what it was in Los Angeles—not to mention in the advertising business—Dan opted for ego over fiscal responsibility. Besides, he figured after he sold the Fujioka idea, he’d get a corner office, an enormous bonus, and an offer for partnership. He’d certainly be entitled to as much. And then his problems would be over, or at least paid for.

Dan stopped for the light at Cloverfield and began to fantasize about Beverly when he heard a woman’s voice. “Excuse me.” It was a woman panhandling from the median. “Got any spare change?” She held out her hand, neither meek nor aggressive. She was just worn down and repeating the phrase. “Spare change? I need something to eat,” she said.

Charity. Dan had a problem with charity in general, but charity of this sort made him especially uncomfortable—not because it infantilized the recipients or undermined their motivation to go out and get a job, but because it reminded him of his miserable childhood and the shame of having to take handouts. Dan never understood this response. He thought he should be sympathetic, having once been in, or at
least very near, their shoes. Sadly, Dan’s emotional baggage outweighed his altruistic instincts, resulting in an internal conflict that simply made him ill at ease with the poor. Dan had decided that sympathy wasn’t a learned response, so there was no use trying if it didn’t come naturally. And besides, he thought, it wasn’t as if he was rude to these people.

The driver behind Dan honked his horn when the light turned green. Dan quickly scooped a quarter from the change tray and tossed it to the woman. “Have a nice day,” he said as he drove off. The woman read Dan’s bumper sticker.
He who dies with the most toys wins.

Ten minutes later Dan pulled into the secured parking garage of his tony Santa Monica apartment building. Like his car, Dan’s three bedrooms and the terrific ocean view were beyond his means, but Dan’s sense of entitlement was a powerful thing and so he lived by the bay.

Dan reached the door of his apartment. He could almost taste the peaty single-malt scotch. As he stood at the door juggling his keys and the Fujioka materials, Dan felt a presence behind him. He heard a noise and noticed a man standing in the shadows. Dan hurried to get the door open, but he dropped his keys. The man cleared his throat. “Behold I stand at the door and knock,” he said.

The voice sounded familiar, yet Dan still felt threatened. He turned, brandishing his papers. “Don’t mess with me, pal.”

“Revelations,” the man said. “That’s correct.” The man shifted on his feet in the darkness.

Again the voice struck Dan, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “I’ll tear you a new asshole.” Dan hoped the strong copy would sell him as tougher than he really was.