Since We Last Met

On my way home last night, I bumped into someone I hadn't seen in at least a year.  Lucy was getting chicken-on-a-stick from a "street meat" cart next to the Capital One bank on Broadway.  So, I noticed, was a rugged-looking man who looked to be a couple of years older than her.

He's her husband.  He wasn't, the last time I saw her.  They met around this time last year, she said, and got married, in a very small ceremony, in September.  I'm not surprised that it happened so quickly:  I always figured that Lucy wouldn't have a long engagement after meeting "the one."  And, from what little I had seen of him, I wasn't surprised that he "fell" so quickly, either.  You know how it is:  those tough-looking biue collar guys can be, deep down, such softies sometimes.  Maybe that's the reason why the men who've mattered most to me in my life--save perhaps for Bruce--have all been blue-collar, in spirit if not in fact.  Somehow I think Lucy feels the same way.

It's a strange feeling, though, to meet a friend's spouse and realize that you've known that friend for longer than the spouse has.  You realize that, apart from the physical intimacy, there is something else that makes your friend's relationship with her husband different from her friendship with you or anyone else.  I'll describe it as best I can:   Although you are friends in this moment, your friendship is defined by its history.  On the other hand, if you are going to spend your life with someone, you have to be able to look toward the future, or at least forward from the current moment, with that person.  

I met Lucy some time during the first year I was living in Astoria.  I had just moved from Park Slope and the life I had with Tammy; I think she met me during the time when I was still going to work as Nick but was going to Manhattan and the LGBT Community Center whenever I could, as Justine.  I also believe it was just before I started taking hormones.  I'm pretty sure that I introduced myself to her as Justine, which would make her one of the very first people who would meet me that way.  


In any event, she recalled that she was nineteen years old then.  That sounds right; she was in her second semester of college--ironically enough, LaGuardia Community College, where I was teaching at the time.  Now she's twenty-seven and working with her husband, who is an independent electrical contractor.  


He talked about how he met Lucy.  The funny thing is that he said almost the same things I've said about her:  that she's pretty, but that's not what you notice about her.  It was "a light within her," he said.  And that, of course, is what I've always liked about Lucy:  that radiance from within.  "That's forever," he said.  "Someone who's pretty today might not be tomorrow."


Then, for no reason I could discern, he told me, "You must have been really beautiful when you were younger.  You're a beautiful lady now. But you really must have been something."


Lucy and I could only smile to each other.

Hearing My "Secret"

The other day, I was returning home from a bike ride. It wasn't a long ride--about 30 miles or so--but through most of it, a rather stiff wind rushed at me head-on or at my side. It seemed that I never had the wind at my back. And I was riding my fixed-gear bike, so I couldn't shift into an easier gear.

On a fixed-gear bike, which is what racers ride on enclosed tracks, if the wheels move, so do the pedals. So the bike doesn't move unless you pedal it, and it doesn't allow you to coast. I chose to ride that bike because I had intended to ride a flat route to and along the ocean, from Rockaway Beach to Coney Island.

By the time I got to Coney Island, I was toast. And it was very late in the afternoon. So I decided to get on the subway to come home.

The "F" train is probably the most direct way back to my place. But I like to take the "D," which winds and curves along an old stretch of elevated track along New Utrecht Avenue in the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Bensonhurst and Borough Park. That is where I lived until I was about thirteen years old, when my family moved to New Jersey.

That line offers some of the most sweeping views of the Verrazano Narrows and Bridge, as well as of the solid and, oddly enough, charming brick row houses in two of the last blue-collar New York neighborhoods.

Also: Underneath the elevated tracks near the Bay Parkway station, one of the most famous movie scenes was filmed: the chase in The French Connection. I'm not normally a fan of that sort of thing, but because it was done so well--and the movie was so good--and, well, let's face it, I have pride in my roots--I enjoyed that scene.

Anyway...The D train was re-routed due to track work. The change wasn't announced until the doors were closed and the train was about to pull out of the station. So, instead of those vistas I mentioned, I was treated to panoramae of weather-stained concrete walls along the stretches of track between the dilapidated stations of the N line, where the D was re-routed. There is one neat feature about that line, though: It runs below ground level, but under an open sky.

Then the D train returned to its normal route after crossing the Manhattan Bridge to Grand Street in Manhattan's Chinatown. Ironically enough,a few minutes and three stations later, I would transfer to the actual N train at the 34th Street-Herald Square Station.

Somewhere along the way to Queens, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone I sometimes see on the street. Actually, she called out to me: I sat at the end of one of the long benches near the rear of the subway car with my bike propped by a railing and my right hand, and she stood near the other end of the car, which had filled up by that time, with a friend.



Since we live only a block from each other, we disembarked at the same station: Broadway in Astoria. From there, it's about a ten-minute walk back to my place. Along the way, Lucy and I talked and she commented on how she hadn't seen much of me lately. I commented that I was busy with work and other things. Then we talked about things that are to come in our lives.



I have bumped into Lucy from time to time for the past several years. She is pretty and has a warm, contagious smile. And, in every encounter that I can recall--including the one I am describing--we parted with a hug and a kiss. Being the emotional person that I am, I very much enjoy that.



When we've talked, it's been more about how we felt than what we were doing or had done. More than one person has said that is more or less typical of conversations between women. It's more of a conveyance of emotion rather than a report of actions or happenings. So, while we knew a bit about each other, we didn't know the details of each other's lives.



Until the other day, that is. You might say that I "came out" to her: I mentioned that I am about to have my surgery. Although she knew that I've never been a typical woman--much less a typical man--that revelation surprised her. Although she never knew me when I was still living as Nick, she said that, because of some of the people she's met, she "thought" I was undergoing a gender transition: She could see it in the softening of my facial features and that I've grown something like breasts. But, in all of the time we've known each other, neither of us said a word about my change. It just happened that way.


After we parted, with an even heartier embrace than usual, I felt both relieved and a little sad. There was something almost innocent about our not having talked about my transition or upcoming surgery, but at the same time, I was happy to know that I could share my "secret" with her.



Today she sent me an e-mail in which she thanked me for being "open" about myself. I am glad she appreciates that, but all I really did was to share something true about myself. To me, she's really the one who's being "open."



Not that I'm complaining! :-)