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I actually wrote this one in France. I was living a few blocks away from where Henry Miller wrote many of his novels, so I felt I ought to have the bohemian writing experience of French cafes. So, I thought I'd write a piece about how a man's life echo's through the people and things he touches, and how he lives on through that after his death. It was going to be first person from the deceased point of view, not as a ghost, but as an idea. It was in response to a Gaian contest prompt of "Yes, I am a man"

Pretty heavy, huh? But it's not the sort of thing you write if you've been sipping vin de table on a lazy, slightly drizzly afternoon. So I wrote this instead razz :, expanding off of an even sillier writing exercise my Glastonbury friend and I did (Writing Exercise 3, for those who've been following this journal)

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CROSSROADS
an absurd story by V. Wolfe




Dear Crossroads, the letter read, I am a twenty-three year old fellow who hopes to jump the great divide….

How euphemistic, Lawrence thought as he spun his pencil on the desk. Once he had thought if he spun it fast enough, it would be able to stand straight up on its point like a top. Over the years, he had decided that was physically impossible. Despite this, for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to give up the habit. Perhaps it was because he owed his livelihood to what was once physically impossible. You just never knew what the world was going to throw at you.

#

“Dude, I’m totally telling the truth here. I was too at that party,” the girl said. “Remember when we got the bright idea of doing tequila shots through Professor McGuffin’s genetic restructuring output tube?”

Tom shook his head, trying desperately to reestablish eye contact with the cute coed in the oversized tee-shirt and not much else. “How could I forget that? Don’t remember you, though, sorry. I guess I passed out early, just as John was screaming something about turning the computer on so he could play videogames naked.” He scratched his head. “You know, I haven’t seen him since then.”

“Yeah, you have.”

Tom smiled as alluringly as he could, given his still persistent tequila buzz. “Okay, so now you’re the mystery girl in a missing persons case. Wanna talk about it over lunch?”

“Dude, back off! I’m like totally a guy, okay? I mean, I’m John!”

A fuzzy memory surfaced in Tom’s awakening mind. It was all fitting together. “Oh, yeah. That. Well, the offer for lunch is still open.”

There was a long pause. “Oh, what the heck, I’m starved. You’re buying, right?”

#

After Doctors Thomas and Jane Thurgood published their paper on Tequila Induced Transgender Anomalies in Post-Pubescent Long Evans Hooded Rats, the world held its breath, waiting for major societal changes to work their way across the cultural landscape. Evangelists around the world dusted off their pulpits, waiting to disapprove of the ensuing effects. Ghost writers for self-help books organized their notes and sent out proposals. And of course, politicians consulted with their publicity agents in order to help decide which opinions they needed to hold strongly.

The world waited, and not much happened.

As it turned out, there were some serious flaws with the “Process”. Not with the difficulty of the change, as the Process really was no more involved than the average graduate student party, albeit more interesting than most. Once the Process was tested on humans, subjects who liked margaritas reported that it wasn’t painful, only mildly disturbing. They also reported being free from hangovers the morning after, which was more than could be said for many of the researchers. Nor were the physical results less than perfect, as Professor Jane Thurgood discovered when she forgot to take her birth control prescription along on their lecture tour.

The actual problems were on one hand obvious, and on the other unexpected.

For one, the equipment was tremendously expensive, and could only be located at major universities. Thanks to an unfortunate agave blight, the necessary tequila became hard to get, as well. Experiments with blended tequila and home computers only yielded an interest in NASCAR among female subjects and an ability to stay awake after sex among the males.

But the unexpected cause of the initial failure of the Process to effect any social change was the fact that nobody really wanted to use it. There were some very basic reasons for that.

#

“Ok, Jerry, that was pretty damned funny, I’ll admit it,” Mike said. “I mean, when I woke up this morning in that sorority house, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.”

“Ha! For about two seconds, I bet.”

Mike rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. And I admit I had it coming after that gag with the monkey and the shaving cream. But the joke’s over now. Flip that switch, will you?” She grabbed the tumbler of glowing tequila and sat down on a Lay-Z-Boy Recliner with a tangled mess of wires coming out of it.

“No problemo, Mikey girl.” Jerry flipped the excessively-sized double pole switch and waited as green light coursed over Mike’s body.

After a few minutes of tequila guzzling, Mike wiped her mouth and belched. “What’s up, Jer? How much longer is this going to take?”

Jerry said nothing, but slowly backed away from the computer monitor. Mike staggered over and blinked at the display.

“Like, oh my god,” she breathed. “Configuration error 437, unable further modification.”

“You’re not mad?” Jerry called from the other side of the room.

She blinked. “I think I am. But I’m too drunk to do anything about it. Stupid Process has turned me into a cheap date.” She sat down on the floor.

“I’ve got the rest of the tequila here, if you like.”

Mike shrugged. “Ah, what the hell. You never know, it might do some good.”

“That’s what I was about to say.”

#

“Wow, Ann, you look great!” Tina chirped. “Or should I call you Alan now?”

“Alan” shrugged, slumping on the couch and crossing his legs. “That’s fine.”

Tina sat down next to him and rubbed his shoulders. “Really, you’re pretty darn cute. In an approachable, geeky sort of way, I mean. I’m so glad I had access to the lab this semester.” She frowned, craning her head up to look at him. “Is something the matter?”

“Just leave me alone, okay?” Alan tossed his glasses off and wiped his eyes.

“Aren’t you happy?” Tina asked, frowning. “I mean, you’ve always said you were a man stuck in a woman’s body. And now, that’s all over!”

“That’s the problem,” Alan said, holding back tears.

“Huh?”

“Now I’m a woman stuck in a man’s body, damn it!”

#

Really, people should have known better, from the way Doctor Jane Thurgood hadn’t immediately fixed herself once she sobered up. The Process was a one-way street that flipped sexual orientation. But as Doctor Thomas Thurgood remarked, “Aw, c’mon, like I was going to publish a retraction with a couple of babies in the house and another on the way. Do you have any idea how much kids’ clothes cost these days?”

These two problems eliminated any practical use the Process may have had. Nobody was interested in it, with the possible exception of graduate students who needed the $150 research subjects were promised. People retained their orientation, only from a different direction. A heterosexual man who underwent the Process became a heterosexual woman, albeit with a different shoe size. It was of no use for people with gender dysphoria, or homosexuals who wanted to lead a more accepted heterosexual life.

In one famous incident, on a bet, an entire firm of male interior designers in San Francisco all popped by the Berkeley genetics research lab and underwent the Process. When they sobered up, they discovered they had lost their enchantment with Chippendale posters. Every member of their firm was now a lesbian. They accepted this philosophically at first; then to their dismay, they stopped getting calls from their old clients. Within a year, they were reduced to doing charitable work at the local food co-operative and were forced to leave their downtown condos and move to Oakland in search of affordable housing.

#

“What do you mean, you’re letting me go?” Charissa yelled.

“Hey, quiet down, little lady,” Randall said, flipping some papers over on his desk. “You’ll find some nice guy to take care of you, don’t you worry. Sure, you whine a lot, but you ain’t hard to look at.”

“What did you say?”

Randall leaned back in his chair. He was enjoying this. “Look, I’m a bit old-fashioned. You’re at that age where you’re going to start making babies. Either that, or you’re going to get all hormonal when you don’t have them. I’ve got my company to think about. I need somebody reliable.”

“You lousy son of a b***h,” Charissa said quietly. “You just don’t like having women around.”

“Naw,” he chuckled. “I like women around just fine. Bedroom, kitchen, strip club, you name it. Just not when I need to get stuff done.”

“I’ll see you in court!” she yelled, turning to leave.

“Good luck with that, toots. Times are different now, and people know it. Ain’t my fault you’re a dame. It’s yours.”

#

“Next caller, please. Hello, and welcome to the Facts Only Zone.”

“Hi Russ, long time worshipper, first time caller. I got to say, this is a great honor.”

“Good start, buddy. So what has you calling today?”

“Russ, I’m just all worked up about those femi-nazis who keep whimpering about how women don’t get hired for jobs they can’t do. I mean, if God had wanted women to work, he wouldn’t have made them so purty, right?”

Trembling with narcissistic personality disorder, Russ O’Diddly wiped his palms on his carefully brushed Italian suit. This was perfect. He leaned towards the microphone, restraining himself from nuzzling it.

“Well said, caller,” he breathed, signaling his girl Friday to cut the caller off before the idiot said anything else. “What the secularists don’t understand is that men and women are made differently. Women are good for keeping house and having babies, and men are good at everything else. All this whining about losing the vote is just from ladies who haven’t embraced their own womanhood. They have everything handed to them: they don’t have to bring home the bacon, they live longer, they always get custody of children, why, they don’t even have to open doors for themselves. But that’s not enough for them, oh, no. They want to completely lord it over us men.

“You know, there have always been people who reject the natural order of things—can I use the word ‘pervert’ here? Whoops, I just did,” he said, laughing at his own wit. “But these women don’t even have the feeble excuse of discrimination to back their agenda. Anytime they want to, they can trot on down to the local doctor and become a man.

“And why don’t they? We know the answer. Because they’re better off then we are. And that’s why I need you to call your congressman right now, and urge him to pass the Non-Restriction Act. Tell him Russ O’Diddly sent you.

“God bless.”

#

It took a decade or so for the real effects of the Process to take hold. It became important, not as something anyone actually did, but rather as something people could do. According to what passed for thinking amongst the media’s talking heads, the invention of the Process had made people more “secure” in their gender roles. No longer was gender an imposed choice, no longer did people have to resent the roles and restrictions that society placed on them. By having a mental out, everyone could be happy with their socially imposed lot.

This sounded fine enough at cocktail parties with enough non-agave based alcohol. But the reality was harshly different. With the passage of the Non-Restriction Act of 2034, discrimination on the basis of gender wasn’t just permitted, it was practically mandatory. The government would fine employers who kept a woman on when a man could possibly do the job with enough training. After all, he had family to support. This was followed soon after by the Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Head Act of 2041, which, among other things, revoked the 19th amendment and mandated makeup and poodle skirts for single women. Married women were exempt if they could demonstrate proficiency in cookie baking, of course.

In the meantime, the Thurgoods had retired to the French Riviera, where they were willing to run the process for anyone who could tolerate a week of sunshine and the admittedly good looking locals who steadfastly refused to pronounce their terminal consonants.

#

“Well, no, I’m not happy about the idea,” Nancy explained to the ticket agent. “But I can’t see any other way to use my degree. Right now, there’s not a firm out there that’ll give me the time of day.”

“Well, Mrs…..”

“Ms.”

“Miss, then. You know full well I can’t sell you a ticket for that very reason. You need your father’s permission. You wouldn’t want to disobey his wishes, would you?”

“Hello! I’m TWENTY NINE!”

The agent shook his head. “You know, if you hadn’t wasted all that time in law school, you might have gotten married by now.”

#

It didn’t take long for the government to realize that as women had more and more restrictions placed on them, more and more might be willing to put up with learning sports scores and laughing at the boss’s jokes in order to live without discrimination. Certainly, many women seemed happy with their June Cleaver existence, but the others represented a dangerous potential brain drain. Still, since they could no longer own property or sign legal papers, very few women could actually escape the continent without help.

And thus, the Crossroads Underground was established.

#

“God, I can’t believe I drank the whole fifth of tequila,” he said, pausing at the sound of his new voice. “Is that really necessary?”

Jane Thurgood Junior shrugged, creating effects that ‘Henry’ was startled to realize he was reacting to. I didn’t help that she was wearing nothing more than a bikini bottom.

“Just want to make sure it works” she said, slumping back onto her chaise lounge. “Upping the alcohol intake was all Mom and Dad’s idea, as was running the Process out here on the beach.” She frowned briefly. “Something to do with solar power, I think. Or maybe it was the atmosphere.”

“Atmosphere, right. Got it,” he said, absently.

“Want me to go back to the cottage and book you a flight for the afternoon? We’ve got all your papers.” She winked. “You men have so much freedom when it comes to travel.”

“Uh, yeah. Freedom. Haven’t had much of that recently. It really was amazing the way you guys were able to smuggle me out here.” He shook his head, trying to focus his thoughts. “Although for right now, I think I’ll just sit here with this beach towel on my lap.”

“Let me get that. Hey, you know I could always rebook you for later.”

“That’d be….nice.”

#

The underground railroad became a major thoroughfare once word got out. Far too many women just weren’t that good at baking cookies. But after the millionth woman crossed the gender fence, the Crossroads administration started getting worried. Despite having a number of top notch computer hackers in the Census Bureau (not to mention a good number of healthily bribed officials), sooner or later people would notice the gender gap.

There were some ethical concerns among the Crossroads personnel, but they had to do something. And for every woman fed up with being a second class citizen, there was at least one man who bought into the propaganda and actually believed the “fairer sex” had an easy time of it. Why, these men thought, all women did was lounge about the house, eating chocolate bon-bons and watching soap operas. Who wouldn’t do almost anything to have an easy life like that?

Crossroads couldn’t entirely rely on word of mouth for this side of the operation, however. Instead, they sought out writers to answer the questions such wannabe women might have. These writers were paid well to sooth their trembling hearts in order to lead them down the primrose path to that first sip of tequila. After all, it was their choice to believe or not, wasn’t it?

#

With a guilty bite of his lip, Lawrence picked up his pencil.

Dear Myron—or shall I use the much prettier name “Mary”? I assure you, you are about to embark on a great adventure. Think of how much easier your life will be when gentlemen buy YOU dinner. Not to mention holding the door for you, pulling seats out and endless other feminine privileges. And don’t even get me started on the joys of pregnancy and childbirth! Just keep the secret, and everything will be WONDERFUL.

Hugs, Lucinda.