There was this girl - Toni

I got off the elevator in the hotel lobby after taking my things upstairs. I wanted nothing more than to relax and have a drink after driving all afternoon to get to this damned conference. I had my heels off in the car, so my feet were still willing to stay up for a bit. I figured a drink, a light supper, maybe listen to the little ensemble they had playing for the traveling salesmen and the lounge lizards, and then I’d be in heaven until I had to get up the next morning and listen to drivel while know-it-alls droned on about awareness beyond oneself. I had to fill squares for ‘my next promotion’, after all. That thought was almost funny in itself.

I headed for the bar to get my refreshment period started, hoping to read a bit on my phone and just relax for a while when I looked down at the end of the bar. You know, down by the lift-up gate where the waitresses and barkeeps went in and out.

There was this girl.

I ordered a double Tanqueray Tom Collins, downed it, ordered another, and when the young lady bartender, her nametag said ‘Lilly’, handed it to me, I thanked her then approached the waif at the end of the bar. She was the cutest little thing. Her hair was multicolored, reddish on top and more blondish as it went down to just below her shoulders, styled in cute bangs and one of those ‘scene look’ hair dos. She was wearing a simple black tank top and a tight little gray mini skirt, with off black hose and gray stiletto sandals.

It was plainly obvious she’d been crying. I went for broke, feeling if I could make her smile, maybe I could distract myself as well.

“Excuse me for being so bold, but you’re awfully pretty and dressed way too nicely to be sitting here by yourself crying. Any reason for that I might be able to help with?”

“Probably not. I’m not what I seem. This isn’t one of those say something nice and everything is better situations. Rainbows and unicorns and all that.”

“Oh! My mistake. And here, I thought you were a pretty girl crying into an empty glass, and I thought I could say you were pretty and buy you a drink. You are very pretty, but I’m sure you already know that.”

She looked at me, almost, but not quite smiling. “Oh, well, thank you. You really thought that?”

“I certainly did. I’m staying upstairs, came down for a drink, and saw a pretty girl crying. I don’t like things like that. That doesn’t make me happy. Pretty girls should be smiling. Can you smile for me?” She did, but just barely. Still, it was a smile. She was a cutie.

She spoke, with the most gentle, serene voice. Maybe this is the voice they describe as the voice of an angel. Soft and airy. “I think of myself as a one and I’ve been working on it since I was eight years old, but I’m not completely there yet. I don’t know if I want to go there. Only one thing left to do, to be a girl, a woman, and I just don’t know if I want to do that.”

“You wanna talk? This sounds pretty heavy.”

“Yes, actually, I do want to talk, and by the sound of your questions, you want to listen. Wanna buy me a drink?”

“Would a Tom Collins be OK?” The girl nodded. “Lilly, can you bring me two more of those things? Make them singles this time, dear.”

The young lady behind the bar nodded and said, “Coming right up.”

And that’s how it started. She explained that she had just turned eighteen, after years and years of therapy, and help from her father, transitioning to womanhood. She knew quite young, as did her father, that she would never be a boy. She was born a boy, but she didn’t feel like a boy, she didn’t act like a boy, and she didn’t want to be a boy. She was a girl, through and through. Her father had a friend in the medical business, a psychiatrist that met with them and concurred. He got the prepubescent boy started in a program with the right people, doctors, teachers, the whole shebang, to help her be a girl. Her dream.

Then, just recently, her father succumbed to a heart attack. She lost him six months ago, and her life had been hell with her mother ever since. Mother had an endless string of boyfriends and lovers, in and out of the house, spending every dime her father left them on everything except the now girl’s medications and wellbeing. It seems her mom had fallen prey to the madness that grief often brings.

She never agreed with the gender transition. She thought it was a weakness and that she was just a gay little boy with no friends and wanted to draw attention to himself. I could see from our talk that evening that her mother could not have been farther from the truth.

“So, what exactly are you doing at a bar with a fake ID, which you must have since you’re drinking, and a glass full of tears on the rocks?”

“She hasn’t asked for one. I don’t have a fake ID. I wish I did.”

“Nice to know. Maybe she just feels for you. Now, why are you here, exactly?”

“Well, I’ve been staying with friends, which only works for a little while, and now I need some money and I thought I’d see if I couldn’t… I thought I’d try to sell myself for a little cash?”

“How’s that working out for you?” I asked her, with a bit of a smirk.

“It isn’t. Not at all. No one wants a tranny with a little tiny dick. They either want a real live woman or a she-male with a horse cock.”

“I guess you can call me ‘No One’ then, honey.” That time, she smiled. A real smile. “Will you have dinner with me. We can eat here at the bar if you’ll feel safer.”

“That sounds nice. This will be fine, but it’s not a safety thing. If you want a table, or maybe a booth, maybe we should do that.”

“OK, a booth it is. There is a quiet one over there and it looks empty.” I looked at Lilly and pointed to the booth asking if it was OK. She told us ‘Yes’, so I helped the girl off the stool and held her hand as we walked over then I handed her into the bench of the booth. I went back for our drinks, set hers in front of her, then sat myself down.

“Now, where were we?”

“Talking about my problems, an endless pit of them. Why would you reach out to me, Miss?”

“Honestly? You’re very pretty. Very cute, too, I might add, and I’m lonely. Not exactly the most honorable of reasons, but I enjoy honesty from others, so I practice it. Is that a problem? Do you need me to produce a more noble reason to talk to you?” I smiled at her. “Do you need some empirical evidence that I’m not trying to get to your nonexistent money, or your almost forfeited virtue? Do you want to hear that I saw something written in the stars and it pointed in here to the stool you were sitting on? Nope. This is pure coincidence. I came in for a drink and found a crying little girl and decided to talk to her because she looks like she needs someone to talk to, and she is NOT hard to look at. Honesty. The only way to fly.”

“No. Honesty is cool. I don’t need some spiel. How could you possibly be lonely, though? You’re young, gorgeous, and obviously not broke, unless you’re in debt for buying that outfit. You look like a million bucks in it.”

“This old thing?” I had to laugh. That must be the most cliché of all possible responses. “Thank you. No, it’s paid for, and I do OK. I actually had someone for quite a while. They decided they needed less excitement in their lives and met a banker. He, I guess, was more sedate than I, so she fell for his charms. He may have been more sedate, but I would have been more faithful. She has since come to her senses, but I could never trust her, so I told her to move along and wished her well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. May I say something?” the girl asked.

“Please do. I’ve been talking too much.”

“I just want to say, ‘thank you’. Thank you for talking to me. I was scared shitless of being raped and killed tonight. It may still happen tomorrow, but if you feed me, and I think that’s what you offered, I’ll make it one more day.”

“How amazingly optimistic!” I said sarcastically. “You are certainly a qualifier for clinical depression poster child of the year. That’s not a good thing, by the way. Yes, I would like you to join me, and I’ll be more than happy to feed you. Let’s share names, then I’d like to know more about you. I have an idea, and if it works out, we both may benefit from it. I’m Charla Reynolds. My real name is Charlene, but it was also my Nana’s name, so everyone called me Charla and it stuck.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Charla. My name is Antoinette Baxter. Toni with an ‘i’ for short.”

“Could I presume, then, Toni with an ‘i’, that you were born as Anthony?”

“Good guess. Anthony Marion. I think I heard my dad say that my grandfather was a huge John Wayne fan. I just shortened it to Marie. What’s your middle name, if you have one? I understand some people don’t.”

“I do. It’s Cecilia. Charlene Cecilia Reynolds. CCR. I catch some heat for that with old people that remember ‘Bad Moon Rising’, and other classic rock jingles by the group.” I finally got Toni to giggle. So sweet. “OK, Toni, we have names. Tell me about your education, your schooling.”

“I just graduated high school last month. Top five percent. Gold Cord. It’s been three weeks now, since this is the middle of June. I have a few credits, fifteen or so, toward college in the state system through some advanced courses. College is out of my reach now, since my acceptance letters all required Dad to pay most of the tuition, and that money is gone. I don’t know what my mother did with it, but she says my ‘college money is down the drain, you’re an adult now so go deal with it.’ She’s not my most ardent admirer. I think that was my father, and, as I told you, he’s dead.” She lost another tear.

“Stop dwelling on that just for a minute, if you will. You don’t really have a place to live then, do you?” She shook her head. “Let’s talk for a bit.” Lilly came over and we ordered. She ordered a baked chicken thing, with asparagus, so I had to believe she was maturing. A lot of kids that age would have asked for a hamburger and fries. “OK, next, what WERE your plans for school.”

“I wanted a degree in business and office management.” Toni offered.

“You mean to be like an actual office manager or a personal or administrative assistant? That kind of thing?”

“Exactly that kind of thing. Being an assistant to an executive would be my ideal position. Sometimes they travel and do exciting projects, research and work like that. I read a lot about the field and decided that would be my dream job. I could be an office manager, too, it’s just that the travel and interesting duties sound pretty nice, too.”

“You said earlier that no one wanted you. Tell me how you came to know that.”

She laughed. “This evening, I had exactly two men approach me. One seemed a bit slimy and asked me if I was looking for a date. I told him yes, I was, but that I was not what I seem, if he knew what I meant. He said he did and asked how big I was. I held my pinky straight up. I told him I wasn’t big at all, and as a matter of fact, just the opposite. He said, ‘Good luck with that,’ bought me a drink and headed out for bigger pastures. The next guy, a pudgy little pervert looking turdball, thought I really was a girl. He told me he was looking for some very young bald pussy, and I couldn’t provide it. He didn’t even buy me a drink. He was rude, too, calling me a gay little sissyboy and told me to go home to my ‘buck’. I guarantee, I am no sissyboy. I am gay, though, I’m pretty sure. I think I’m a girl and I don’t want anything to do with any more men. I just don’t think I’m up for it. Not if those two are representing the species.”