Train Wreck

by:	Dimelza Cassidy

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Rating: G	Add Review   Read Reviews, Last Review 05/04/07 (3)	Added: 05/04/2007
Complete: yes
Synopsis:	The choices we make and the chances we take.
Categories:	Crossdressing / TV
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Train Wreck

By Dimelza Cassidy

The choices we make and the chances we take.



It had been a long, tiring day. I worked at a local high-end car dealership, delivering serviced customer cars and dealer trades, as well as driving the parts van. It was brainless work, but rewarding nonetheless. At least to me.

After trudging up the four flights to my apartment, I washed off the day's grime and checked my e-mail. I lived alone by choice. Most women or men wouldn't want to live in a cold flat, heated by a kerosene stove -- especially with a devout cross-dresser.

After I'd made the choice to live as a reverse George Sand, dating had all but evaporated. Many women found it difficult to date a man who out-dressed them and men couldn't bring themselves to drink or play cards with a man in a skirt.

Support groups had gone lacking as I tired of the incessant chatter about make-up and coming out angst. My thoughts had always been, "Make a decision and then live with the consequences." I'd made my choice some twenty-five years earlier and the results had been a life alone and fringe job employment. Living alone had its plusses, but at times I missed the softness of a real woman and the backslapping friendship of men.

The delete button got a workout as the endless stream of spam found its way to the trash bin. One particular e-mail caught my eye, as the state motorcycle training coordinator had sent it.

Dan,

I need you to teach a course this Sunday. Are you available? I'll cover the transportation and lodging, as it will be quite a trip for you. It's at the State Capital riding range in parking lot "B." If you respond in the affirmative, I'll reserve a room in your name at the Motel 6 on Center Drive Your key will work in the pad-locks and the combination to the center lock is the local area code.

Please respond by noon tomorrow.

Timothy T. Belmont, IV. Chief Trainer and Regional Site Coordinator

He must have been desperate to e-mail me to teach a motorcycle training course -- desperate enough to reimburse travel and accommodation expense; something that hadn't ever been done before. If I agreed, my trip would be in excess of 350 miles - round trip. He ran the state's southwestern region and scheduled the trainers. My name hovered below the bottom of the active trainers because in part of our common hatred of each other. We had different approaches to training students to ride motorcycles. He lived by the curriculum, while I thought of the curriculum as a guide.

I clicked on Reply:

I'm in.

Dan.

The day before the training day, I packed my training materials, riding gear, and an overnight bag, and then headed down to my car. I decided to drive versus ride due in part to the excessive amount of gear that I'd have to carry. Sport bikes weren't all that touring friendly.

As I made my way down the steps to the car, my twenty-something graduate school neighbor Annie popped her head out of her apartment door.

"Motorcycle trip, Dan?" she asked. Her elfin body contrasted with her booming man-like voice.

"No," I replied. "I'm off to teach a course and it's on the other end of the state so it will be an overnight trip. I guess the state coordinator guy got desperate - he's picking up the tab for the room and paying mileage.

"I thought you've given up teaching people to ride after that tirade you delivered when you returned last time."

"Like I said - they must be desperate."

"Well, have a good time and try to stay out of trouble."

"It won't be easy, but I'll try."

I tossed my gear into the trunk of the car and then began the over three-hour trip to the motel.

I dined on a packaged meal purchased at a local convenience store, watched an in-room movie, and then changed into my black satin waltz-length night-gown and called it a day.

***

I arrived at the training site one hour before the course start time of eight o'clock ready for the day's events.

As I set up the first exercise, a truck pulled in. It turned out to be Tim. "Damn," I muttered under my breath. I'd be spending the day with the anal retentive one. It would be a long by-the-book day.

"Hello, Tim," I said extending a hand and trying to be cordial. "This is a surprise, teaching with you."

"Dan, it's good to see you again. I see that you have the range set up." He offered a convenience store twelve-ounce cup of coffee.

"Do we have a full course?" I asked accepting his gesture of friendship and wondering why he appeared to be even more regimented than his normal self.

"It's a full registration; and it'll be a double-course day."

A double-course day; twelve students in the morning from eight to one and another twelve students in the afternoon from half past one until half past six. That much time on my feet with him sticking his nose in would be painful.

"Tim, do you have the morning roster? I'd like to take a look at it."

He'd been military - a marine and a child of the '80's. He reeked of it. I hadn't held it against him, but, for me, it was something without reference. Most of my time during the ‘60's had been dedicated to staying out of the draft. He marched while I shuffled along. His manner of speech and physical movements were compact as opposed to mine, which were random and lackadaisical. He wore the state's oxford cloth uniform shirt and multi-pocketed police styled slacks while I wore whatever male clothes happened to be clean. The few times that we had worked together our presentation rivaled that of Punch and Judy without the hitting.

He reached into his bag, removed the list of students, and then handed it to me. As much as I hated profiling, I profiled. Over the years the use of age, sex, physical movements, and command of one's body determined how I structured the approach to the day. Their profile directly translated to the way a student operated the motorcycle. In most cases students who didn't have control of their bodies had difficulty.

"Dan," Tim said carefully as if he'd rehearsed it. "While we train these riders I'll be assessing your performance. We've received a number of complaints from some trainers you've worked with accusing you of changing the curriculum. The assessment will be in accordance with the Code of Conduct and you'll receive a copy of my report once it's finalized."

"I don't change the curriculum," I said in defense. "My delivery might be different than what's outlined, but I don't change anything. I know the rules."

"My hands are tied."

"What happens if you write a negative report?

"You'll be suspended."

"Well thank you, Tim. I need that hanging over my head today."

In my own strange way, I'd gotten off on watching students who had never ridden before slowly acquire riding skills and watching the pre-course nervousness gradually convert to eager smiles. It all had become harder for me when the state took over the training from the independent schools. Government employee mentality made it nearly impossible to meet the needs of the students.

I'd also begun to fear for their lives. The new curriculum no longer included maneuvers that I deemed necessary to the skillful operation of a motorcycle. It de-emphasized step-by-step skills training and replaced it with whole skill training. The new buzzword was "they'll get the bits on their own." The students who finished the government's course willingly judged themselves "riders" due in part to not having crashed on the training range.

A review of the registrants revealed one woman in the morning class, Margaret Collins, forty-four. Two other students bore the surname Collins, Sean and Jason, eighteen and seventeen. ~Probably a mother and her two sons,~ I thought. ~What would possess a parent to join their kids in something like this? ~ If the opportunity presented itself I'd ask her.

The Collins arrived together. Sean, the older of the two sons, appeared distant and not sociable.

"I'm only here because my mother won't let me ride my bike unless I take this course."

Choosing to ignore his comment I extended a hand and a nametag. "I'm Dan and I'll be one of your trainers - enjoy your day." He ignored me and moved to one side with a scowl on his face.

Jason's handshake, though firm, hadn't yet become forceful. He also dipped his eyes when speaking. "Could you show me how to corner with my knee touching the ground?"

"I can't. It's not part of the course, and ‘Big Tim' over there would stroke out if I did. Tell you what, though.. When we practice cornering, I'll explain it." I spoke with what I hoped were bright eyes and a toothy smile. Someone was actually showing up to learn something. "I'm Dan, by the way."

The two boys reeked of prep school -- budding young All-American boys, squeaky clean and despite Sean's sulking, they were generally polite.

"Hi, I'm Margaret Collins." A diminutive well-dressed and well- preserved woman, she greeted me with a soft grip that spoke of openness. "I see that you've met my sons. Sean can be a bit of a challenge at times, but Jason is very much reserved. My ex-husband bought his sons motorcycles and they want to ride them, but I won't allow it until they are fully qualified."

As I shook her hand thoughts of the Lennon-McCartney lyrics buzzed behind my eyes. "...I've just seen a face I can't forget the time or place where we just met...." It had been another day and I would look the other way as dating students was not in my nature, but I would "...dream of her tonight...." A former trainer acquaintance of mine had dated a female student who turned out to be married. It got ugly when her husband found out about it and sued the state. My acquaintance, damned fool that he'd been, got dismissed. He hadn't been included in the state's defense and ended up paying a six- figure legal bill.

"Are you learning to ride so you can go along with them?" I asked.

"No," she replied. "I'm worried about them and concerned about the type of training that they'll receive. I want to take the course so I can remind them about being safe each time they ride."

Her voice, although melodic, had the sound of deep concern for her boys.

I handed her a nametag and said, "How thoughtful" before moving on to the remaining students.

The remainder of the twelve ranged in age from the mid twenties to late forties and displayed a degree of grace in their movement. I addressed them with Tim by my side.

"Welcome to the program," I said. "Tim and I will be your trainers and we hope your experience will be enjoyable and memorable. As a way to get to know you all a bit better we ask you to wear nametags so that we won't have to refer to you as ‘Hey dude' or ‘Yo -- you with the red helmet' or ‘You with the fringed jacket.' "

All of the students except Margaret uttered laughter from their stomachs and chests. Hers was a polite conversational laugh.

"What's your name?" I asked of a student dressed as if he stepped out of a Harley-Davidson Motor Clothes catalog.

"Hey Dude," he chuckled.

Everyone laughed again, and the banter seemed to be relaxing the group.

"Okay," I said, as I handed him a nametag with "Dude" printed on it. "We'll get your real name when we collect the permits before the skill test next week."

"Gather around again," I said calling to everyone to get their attention. "Those of you who have been riding around a bit think of today as an alternative to what you've already been doing. Somewhere between what you know and what you learn today will be your riding style, so let's all keep an open mind and have some fun."

Tim stood by with a stone face and greeted each student with a handshake and a forced smile. I wondered if his assessment of me had begun.

"It's not necessary that you befriend each student," Tim said, as we walked slightly ahead of the students toward the training bikes.

Obviously my "test" had started.

"They're more than asses in the seats and numbers on an annual report," I said in disgust. "They're people and we should respect them by at least attempting to learn their names. Didn't you notice that they relaxed a bit when I got them laughing?"

"We're trainers, not entertainers," he said as his rigid gait gained a stride on me.

Setting aside our differences for the sake of our duty, we assigned the students motorcycles. I took particular care to give Margaret one of the more rider-friendly bikes in the fleet -- fearing her "petite-ness" would hinder her operation of anything too large. She'd also be disadvantaged because she was the only participant who hadn't ridden prior to taking the course.

Tim took it upon himself to be the lead trainer, and then guided the students through the first exercise with military efficiency by barking out instructions. Margaret struggled with the location and operation of the motorcycle's controls. Unable to just stand by and watch her confusion, I moved to assist her.

At Tim's instructions, the students moved the bikes into position for the next riding exercise.

"Dan," Tim said as he dragged me aside by the chain that attached my wallet to my belt. "You have to let the students learn on their own. It's the new way of doing things."

"What, you're telling me I should've let that woman struggle?"

I felt my frustration growing and feared that no matter what I said or did Tim would find a reason to criticize.

"What I'm telling you is that she'll eventually get it."

"What if she doesn't?" I asked, knowing full well that I had him in a position where he had to think outside the curriculum box.

"Some do and some don't. Those that don't will have to leave"

Our conversation occurred away from the students, but they knew there was friction between the two of us. My hope was that it wouldn't interfere with their learning.

With the students huddled around Tim, he read instructions while I demonstrated the three parts of the next exercise. After dismounting and positioning myself, I observed my half of the divided class who had been spread out in twenty-foot intervals. It hadn't been by design, but Margaret and Jason became part of my group and were positioned next to each other.

As the exercise unfolded I noted that Jason, comfortably sitting astride an on/off road dual-purpose bike and the four other students mounted on cruiser-styled bikes, quickly grasped the operation of the throttle and clutch. Margaret grew frustrated as she repeatedly stalled. Mindful that the curriculum frowned on excessive one-on-one coaching, I approached her and asked if she wanted help. She nodded and from the look in her eyes, she welcomed it. A quick glance to where Tim had positioned himself approximately fifty feet away showed he was immersed in observing his six students, which buffered me from comments.

I took a moment or two to manipulate her smallish, gloved hands while they were on the controls to try to establish a muscle memory. She nodded; a warm thank you radiated from her eyes. Jason's eyes welcomed my attention to his mother's needs, and if he hadn't been wearing a full-faced helmet I might have seen a smile on his face.

With minimal stalling she made it through the second portion of the exercise. Her breathing had become rapid and shallow, which I knew from prior experience represented extreme nervousness. When we moved on to the third part of the exercise her tenseness interfered with the operation of the motorcycle. I approached her and reminded her to breathe slowly and to relax. She again nodded.

Her son and the other four students made the first pass with both feet on the motorcycle's foot pegs. Margaret managed to pick up her feet, but fell over as she attempted to stop. Anxiety had caused her to attack the controls and lock the motorcycle's brakes. I helped her to her feet, checked that she hadn't been hurt, picked up the bike, turned it around, and then asked her to re-mount and try it again.

Minimal attention and a word here and there corrected any significant flaws for Jason and the other four students leaving me more time to spend with Margaret. Her next two passes resulted in additional falls.

Each time she fell I waved off Jason's attempt to dismount his motorcycle and come to her aid.

"She'll be okay Jason. It's just a tip over -- happens all the time. It's all part of the learning process."

Tim signaled to me that the time allotted for the exercise had ended. I motioned back that two more passes should be made and ran them despite his signal.

"You didn't allow that woman to work it out on her own," Tim chastised during the mandatory break.

"Her name's Margaret, remember? She's wearing a nametag."

"You should have coached her the same way you did the others. I don't care if she is a strikingly good-looking woman."

The difference in our height made it appear that he was literally and figuratively talking down to me.

"Didn't you listen to the introductions? She's never ridden before. She needed additional coaching and her looks have nothing to do with it. If it had been her son or one of the other guys, I'd have done the same."

"Why did you run two more passes when I said to end the exercise?"

"They were necessary for her development and it didn't hurt the others either. Why don't you watch the students instead of your stopwatch? You might learn something about their development."

"You're not helping yourself."

Margaret continued to struggle and fell over a few more times. She never really managed to overcome her nervousness. Tim and I continued to struggle as well. Each attempt to further explain a minor muscle movement resulted in chiding and reminders that the students would acquire the skill on their own. I knew better than to argue despite knowing full well that they wouldn't understand why they did what they did -- or compensate for what they didn't know was missing.

During another break Paul, Dude, and "red helmet" called me aside.

Paul frowned. "He's really riding you, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't take that from anyone," Dude said, directing his anger toward Tim.

"He's okay," I quipped between sips of cold coffee. "He just has a funny way of showing affection."

There was no reason to share my possible suspension with the students. Nor did I want to put them into a position of choosing allegiance.

"Red helmet" shook his head. "It's nice to know that you care. I think that it's great that you're helping Margaret. Somehow, I know that if it were one of us you'd do the same."

Little did he know that the things they liked about my approach would be my downfall.

After the last exercise of their riding day the group headed for their cars. I grabbed a stack of marker cones to re-set the training site for the afternoon group.

"Dan," Margaret called as she headed toward me. Definitely "...I'll dream of her tonight...." "Thank you for spending additional time with me. I know that Tim scolded you about it."

"Don't worry. We've had a love/hate relationship since the day we met. He loves me because of my training skills, but I hate him because of his inflexibility. Come back next week and finish what you started. I want you to do me a favor though."

"Name it," she said with a smile.

"Relax, do this because you want to, and breathe every once in awhile."

"I'll try," she said while turning and heading toward a luxury SUV.

Her teardrop-shaped butt encased in designer jeans momentarily hypnotized me.

"Dan," Sean shouted as he left the portable toilet.

"Yes," I answered, rudely snapped back to consciousness.

"Stop hitting on my mother. You've done everything but sniff the bike's seat."

His attack took me by surprise.

"I'm not hitting on your mother. I'm trying to teach her to ride."

"You're hitting on her, and I want you to stop. If you do it again next week, I'll file a complaint."

I wondered if his anger had been toward me -- or toward his mother and her growing skills.

"File it now - wait - I'll help. Tim, could you come over here for a second? Sean wants to file a complaint. He's accusing me of hitting on his mother." A complaint of that kind could seal my fate and my suspension could be immediate. I left Tim and Sean and continued to re-set the riding range. I glanced back and watched as Tim wrote something in his ever-present notepad.

Sean stalked over to his mom's SUV, got in, and then the three of them drove off.

Before the afternoon group began Tim gave me an ass-ripping. "Dan, he's made a serious charge against you."

"I didn't hit on her. I worked with her a little more that the others because she needed it. The kid's got an attitude because he resents being here with her. Believe him if you want, but I know what I've done and it wasn't hitting."

"Suit yourself, but I have to report this."

"Do what you have to - I won't fight it. Plus, I think that you've already decided to suspend me regardless of what I do from here on."

"If I can line up someone else for next week, I'll do so."

"Knock yourself out," I said fully resigned that this would be my last group of trainees.

Everyone in the afternoon group had ridden for some time and the course, for them, was a licensing formality. After they finished we packed up the cones, put the bikes away, and then called it a day.

"I'll e-mail you about your status for next week," Tim said as he headed to his truck. "You were much better this afternoon."

I'd been "much better" because no one in the group needed special help.

I headed toward the toilet and walked out of it wearing a black calf length pleated skirt, pantyhose and two-inch wedge, knee-high boots, and then headed toward my car as fast as the skirt and heels would allow.

Thoughts of the day crowded my mind during the homeward trip. It bothered me that my teaching techniques had been questioned by both Tim and that jerkwater kid. I'd been teaching motorcycling for more years than that kid had been alive and my original certification date exceeded Tim's by five years. The kid didn't bother me as much as Tim's chastising and the threat of suspension. I wondered if he could've taught a person to ride without the curriculum. My thoughts would be for naught because I wouldn't change my methods, due to the fact that they were far superior to anything that the state could work out.

As my anger with Tim, the state, and the curriculum subsided, thoughts of Margaret filled me. Her tight body belied her age. Forty-four year old women didn't look like her. Under different circumstances I might have tried to date and bed her. Unfortunately she'd be "G/U" Geographically Unacceptable, but aside from the distance, I wondered -- could I fall for her, and she for me?

***

I spent the week performing my usual tasks at the dealership and toward the latter part of the workweek my schedule demanded that a car had to be delivered to a customer who lived in one of the mansions adjacent to the golf course. Upon approaching the gate a security guard greeted me and after identifying myself he opened the gate and granted passage. After driving the car into the customer's garage and handing the key to a uniformed chauffeur, he handed me a twenty-dollar bill and a cold glass of lemonade. I thanked him and walked down the drive to await my ride back to the dealership.

I recognized the name on one of the brick gate supports while entering the chase vehicle. "Collins." My three students came to mind. Margaret had been divorced and the name had probably been her husband's.

That evening seated at the kitchen table of my apartment eating dinner, I wondered if Mrs. Margaret Collins would date a motorcycle trainer, car humping guy wearing a charcoal gray three piece suit with a calf-length pleated skirt, white silk blouse, a navy and gold tie, knee-high three-inch heeled black boots, make-up, painted nails and a honey blonde wig. It would be for naught as she lived on the other side of the state and the name on the brick gatepost in front of the house that triggered the thought had probably been a fluke.

After dinner I switched on the computer to check my e-mail. Tim's screen name flashed.

Dan,

In light of everything that happened last week I would like to give you one last opportunity to redeem yourself. If you follow the curriculum to the letter I'll withdraw the threat of suspension and re-certify you for an additional three years.

Think this over very carefully, because the state does not want to lose a trainer of your caliber. The room will be reserved in your name at the Motel 6.

See you on Sunday morning.

Timothy T. Belmont, IV Chief Trainer and Regional Site Coordinator.

***

"Dan, we need you as a trainer. I spoke to my superiors and they agreed that last week wasn't a real threat because of the boy's bad attitude - Sean Collins."

"He's not a bad kid. . .," I started to say.

"There was nothing to his claim of harassment, you and I both know that. I called him two days later, after he'd cooled off, and he withdrew it."

A smile crossed my lips. "Kids - never know what they'll do."

"Dan, I've been authorized to give you a clean slate. If you stay reasonably within the curriculum today - none of this crazy stuff that isn't in the handbook - I'll recommend that you be given a five-year trainer's license.

"But, the state curriculum. . . ." Tim would never understand how important it was for us to teach them how to ride the right way.

"Dan - please don't push me. I'm on your side on this, but you don't sign my paycheck."

The students began to arrive and greet us. They expressed surprise that I remembered their names. Sean didn't acknowledge me, however Jason and his mother greeted me warmly as did the remaining students.

"I helped my mom a bit this week with her throttle/clutch control and her shifting and stopping," Jason said calling me aside. "She's really nervous and doesn't want to do badly in front of you. She feels that she's letting you down because she's not doing well."

"Tell your mom that. . . . No wait. . . . I'll tell her. Margaret. . . ." As she approached I notice that her gait caused her bottom to sway and her conservatively sized breasts to bounce. "Jason mentioned your concerns to me. Ride the motorcycle today and have fun. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Hello, Sean," I said, extending an un-accepted hand. "Did you take your bike out at all this past week?"

He ignored my greeting and question, choosing instead to mount the motorcycle he rode the previous week and wait for further instructions.

The remaining students mounted and started their motorcycles in anticipation of making a few warm up laps of the range. Some struggled to get their bike running, but all managed. Tim went through the instructions as I performed the demonstration lap on the motorcycle that Margaret rode.

"The bike knows the way Margaret, so just hold on and tag along."

"Yeah, right," she said while mounting the bike. She struggled through the remainder of the course; and after the mandatory riding exercises, Tim and I set up the licensing test.

"Dan," Margaret said. "It's not necessary for me to take the test. I have a fair idea of what to re-enforce when the boys ride."

"You've come this far, so give it a shot," I counseled.

Sean and his mom argued over something while Jason stood quietly by with his hand on his mom's shoulder. After a moment Sean stormed off and mounted his training motorcycle in anticipation of the licensing test. I was too far away to hear what they argued about, but guessed that Sean was upset that his mother had decided to give the test a shot and that Jason had supported the decision.

Tim gave the signal for all of the students to mount up and ride over to the testing zone.

"Yes," I said, with satisfaction, when Margaret joined the group.

The two boys did well, as did Paul, "Red helmet" and "Dude." Some of the others struggled, but were successful. The last to try would be Margaret. As tense as she seemed to be sitting on her bike, she would certainly fall over.

I went to her, sat on the front fender of the bike, and then looked her in the eyes. "You don't have to do this. Your sons won't think any less of you if you drop out. I can't speak for Sean, but the expression on Jason's face each time you fall over shows his fear for your safety"

"I have to do this," she said with scared determination.

Tim, standing with hands on hips, had noticed what had occurred and had an ever observant and non-too-happy expression on his face.

I smiled to gain Margaret's attention. "I'm not a psychiatrist, but you're apparently competing against your ex-husband. You want the boys to see that you can do anything he and they can."

She looked at me; and the beginnings of a smile formed.

I went on. "Do this because you want to - not because you think you have to."

She started the motorcycle and, riding with caution, she made her way through the zone. She lost points, but not enough to cause her to have an unsuccessful test.

Tim gave each student their individual score and then stamped and initialed each learner's permit. There would be twelve additional licensed motorcyclists on the highways and byways of the state.

I moved to set up the afternoon class and Margaret followed.

"I'd like to apologize for my son's behavior" she said. "In many ways he's picked up the habits and attitudes of his father."

"Don't worry about it. He's a good kid and he'll learn that there are times when a parent's love and concern are good things. At his age it's taboo to have mom tag along. He'll outgrow it. And don't be surprised if you do get an invitation to ride with them."

"I'm in no way ready to go out and ride on the street with other traffic. Thanks to you and Tim, my sons got the best training available. I won't stop worrying when they ride, but they now have a good foundation."

"Well you take care of yourself."

As I watched her walk toward her sons and the SUV, I wondered what it would be like to touch, date, and make love to her. "...falling, yes I'm falling..."and "...I'll dream of her tonight...."

The afternoon group would be an exercise in keeping the group's attention long enough to process them through the licensing test. Their goal had been to obtain the much-coveted stamp and the tester's initials on their permit. I loathed those groups.

After storing the training bikes and equipment, Tim motioned to me to join him at the tailgate of his truck.

"Dan," he said. "Let's talk a bit.

"Suspend me and get it over with," I said while untying my boots.

"You're a damn fine trainer. You ride picture perfect demonstrations and you have a unique way of relating to the students, but your attitude toward the curriculum and those who administer and monitor it is deplorable. You're a loose cannon and the program can't afford to have one. All of the trainers have to teach the program the same way. We need continuity."

"So that's it."

"For awhile today I thought you'd gotten it, but giving that woman special help to pass the test broke our deal. If we treat one person that way, we have to treat them all that way and we just don't have the resources.

I stared at him wondering how we could be the same species. "I'm done?"

"For the time being, yes. You're suspended indefinitely."

"Indefinitely? What exactly does that mean?"

"That means that anytime you want to write a letter to me stating that you will follow the state curriculum and not go off on your own little excursions I will reinstate you; until that time you will not be allowed to teach a class."

I nodded and then walked over to my car, gathered up the materials and put them on the tailgate of his truck along with my sweaty state-issued t-shirt and hat. He couldn't have been clearer.

"Later, Tim."

"‘Loose cannon' my ass," I grunted as I drove home.

***

"Let me get this straight," Annie said, showing a bit of amazement. "You taught two classes with twelve motorcycle riders in each one."

"Right, but I wouldn't call them ‘motorcycle riders' just yet." I munched on the bran muffin she'd brought as I recalled my disappointment in Tim's edict.

"Okay, let's call them ‘motorcycle rider wannabes' -- will that do?"

At times it seemed like Annie was the only one who took time to understand me.

I nodded.

"Out of the two dozen riders, only one of them really caused you to stray outside the state's curriculum -- and you lost your certification over that?"

Again, I nodded, my mouth full of muffin. She gave me a look, and asked, "did you ever think that maybe you could have helped a lot of others the way you helped her, if you just did it the way the state wanted you to ... once?"

I shrugged and swallowed. "Start crossing lines, and where do you stop?"

Annie just shook her head and looked away.

***

Summer became fall and legions of cars in need of winterization flowed through the dealership's service area. My afternoon delivery list noted that there would be a stop at the Collins mansion.

As in the past, I announced myself at the gate of the mansion and drove the vehicle to the garage area. The chauffer had been dusting one of the cars upon my approach and greeted me with currency and a drink.

While turning to walk down the drive I heard a familiar voice.

"Baker? I'll be using the SUV. Has it been delivered? Oh, it has? Great."

The SUV and I arrived at the front gate at the same time.

"Dan?"

"Yes," I said, turning to face the open window.

"It is you," she said with surprise. "Do you remember me? I was one of your motorcycle students."

"Vaguely," I said with a bit of a smile. How could I not remember her? "...A face I can't forget...." The body of a model -- and a voice that would make the dead swoon.

"How could you remember me? You must see dozens of students over the course of a summer."

"You look a little different - not wearing a helmet and the fear of god in your eyes," I joked.

She tried to hide her embarrassment. "Did I look that bad?"

"No - just teasing."

Intent on her reflection in the rear view mirror she asked, "What brings you here?"

"I delivered the SUV."

"Well it's in good hands if you care for customers cars the same as you care for your students," she said removing a speck of wayward lipstick.

"Thanks. I'll tell the service manager that you're pleased with the service."

She waved goodbye and drove away as I climbed into the chase vehicle for my ride back.

"What was that all about," the chase driver, a burn out from the sixties, and my sometimes riding partner said. "Do you know her?"

"Not really. We met by chance during the summer."

"High maintenance, that one, with a higher profile divorce - newspapers - magazines - television." Chuck said with a slight stutter. "She caught her ex-husband screwing her friend in one of the cabanas at the country club. The divorce dragged on for years. Her ex contested the pre-marital agreement, and there'd also been this big thing over custody of the kids and changing their names to Collins. Daddy's money paid for it and now she and the boys live with her parents. The father gets to see them for a week each summer at their lake house."

"Interesting, I guess - if you follow gossip," I mumbled.

My day ended with three additional deliveries and a trip to the convenience store to pick up my previously ordered dinner.

After a shower I submerged myself in taffeta and lace before eating a dinner of sausage, peppers and onions on a Portuguese roll - washed down with a glass Chianti. It'd been a long and enlightening day. The mansion was in fact the home of Margaret Collins and her boys. Despite her nearness and the opportunity to occasionally see her - there'd be little opportunity to talk to her -- let alone date her.

I'd once again "...dream of her tonight...."

***

We employees of the dealership decided to work in costume on Halloween. Everyone laughed when I showed up as the Wicked Witch of the West sporting a green face, stick on warts, big nose, pointed hat, broom, and a black dress five sizes too big for my size fourteen frame. The impromptu costume contest winner ended up being the service manager who dressed as a pregnant Mother Theresa.

With no deliveries I spent most of the afternoon as a valet. Margaret Collins drove her two-seat sport model up the drive.

"Dan is that you? You look hideously gorgeous," she said with laughter just short of tears.

"Yes, it's me," I said through a smile that included three blacked out teeth. "How may I help you?"

"My windshield washer fluid level light came on and I wondered if one of the technicians could top it off for me."

"I'll do it - pop the hood."

"No don't," she grinned, while checking her vanity mirror and tending to her disheveled hair. "I wouldn't want you to get your dress dirty."

"I'll be careful."

As I placed the top back on the reservoir, she accidentally sounded the car's horn. It startled me and caused me to bump my head and bend the top of my hat on the hood of the car.

"What the fu...? Dumb bitc...."

"I'm so sorry."

Her apology caused spirits to rise from the grave, just listening to her voice.

"I reached for my cell phone and my elbow touched it."

I closed the car's hood. "You're all set."

She pulled away, stopped, and then backed up. "Have dinner with me tonight?"

"No, not tonight. It's amateur night like New Years Eve and St. Patrick's Day. I don't want to be out on the street with a bunch of drunken fools and neither should you."

"Tomorrow then?" she asked in anticipation.

"Sure"

"Come to the house. The boys are still in school at the academy and my parents are in London on business. It'll be just the two of us." She threw me a smile. "Eight o'clock, then. And, one last thing -- dinner's formal."

After checking her hair in the mirror one more time she drove off. With my witches hat in one hand and an empty bottle of wash fluid in the other I mumbled, "A dinner date. That should be interesting - could turn out to be an awkward evening talking about learning to ride a motorcycle, but maybe...."

***

"What to wear - what to wear - what to wear," I said as I looked through my bedroom closet. A formal dinner -- just the two of us -- with probably a servant or three. The man tailored woman's tuxedo . . . the red silk empire waist gown with its crinolines . . . the hand painted Japanese styled dress . . . the mid thigh length black satin and velvet strapless cocktail dress . . . the blue sequins gown with its white chiffon boat neck . . . or jeans and a sweatshirt. Whatever I wore, I wanted to look and feel special.

With the exception of the witches costume she'd only seen me in the dealership's uniform of a blue oxford shirt with the logo and navy blue slacks or the state's motorcycle training long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. If I showed up wearing the cocktail dress the worst that could happen would be that she'd ask me to leave. The words weirdo, freak, faggot, sissy, and he-she had all been heard before. The battle to dress full time en femme had been won years ago. If it offended her, then so be it.

I descended the four flights of stairs wearing the black satin and velvet dress with fish net stockings, three-inch heeled black suede pumps, opal bracelet and rings over black satin elbow length gloves, earrings, necklace, black velvet clutch bag, honey-blonde shoulder length loosely curled wig, and a mink stole draped over my shoulders.

"Don't we look yummy tonight," Annie said. "I wish I could wear a dress like that."

"Be thankful you can't. It's a size fourteen."

"Where are you off to this evening?"

"I have a date with the woman I told you about. You know, the one from the course?"

"You're going on a date with a woman dressed like that?" she asked, her tone somewhere between shocked and astonished. "Does she know about this part of you?"

"You know me. This is who I am, take me or leave me."

"Aren't you asking a bit much of her on a first date?"

I shrugged and she returned it with one of her own.

As she closed her apartment door, she said, "Have a good time."

My stylish appearance contrasted greatly with the twenty-year old Monte Carlo I drove to the Collins's Mansion. A startled guard announced my arrival.

The doorman greeted me, opened the car door, escorted me to and through the front door to the foyer, and then departed, leaving me alone. A moment later Margaret entered the room swaddled in chiffon and dripping in diamonds.

"Dan?" she asked, her face registering shock and something else I couldn't quite read.

I was ready to leave the minute she raised an objection.

"Chambers, please serve the champagne," Margaret said regaining her composure. "I could use a drink."

"I could use one too," I said awaiting her verdict with some anxiety.

"Halloween was yesterday," she said taking a glass from the tray that Chambers held in his right hand. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"This is the way I dress during my non-working hours. I'm a cross- dresser," I said accepting a glass of champagne from the tray that had been placed before me by an openly distracted Chambers.

Between gulps she said, "I would've never expected this."

After draining the first glass she motioned Chambers to refill it. With the world set right with Moet and Chandon she seemed able to move on. "Chambers please take Dan's wrap and serve the hors de oeuvres and champagne in the study."

The crinolines beneath her pale blue, floor-length, chiffon gown coupled with the clatter of our heels against the tiled and then oak floor broke the decreasing un-easy silence that enveloped the foyer and study as we made our way arm in arm.

"Chambers," Margaret said. "Leave the bottle. Dan and I want to share a quiet conversation."

"Yes Ms. Collins," he responded as he backed out of the study, closing the two mahogany study doors in the process.

"Have you ridden a motorcycle since taking the course?" I asked while sipping my champagne.

"No, but the boys rode all summer. When their father arrived, the three of them rode the fire roads and trails that surround the vacation house."

As she spoke, she seated herself on one of the leather couches, and then gestured to me to take a seat by her side. I watched in envy as her gown engulfed it. One day my wardrobe would feature such a magnificent dress.

"Is that why you took the training course where you did?" I asked following her lead toward a "normal" conversation.

"That training site was only thirty minutes away from the vacation house."

"Do you stay at the house when he arrives?" I asked. ~ What was more exciting, sitting next to her dress --- or what was in it.~

She slid closer to me. "No, - I come back here for the week. I'm not at all interested in the women he drags up there when he's with the boys."

"Was the divorce amicable?" I asked, wondering if Chuck's story had been valid.

"It was horrid." She placed a hand on my cheek to position my face toward hers. "I felt bad for the boys, but they're getting used to the idea. At first they blamed me, but then realized that their dad had a string of women; and when they found out that he'd beaten me, they refused to see him at all. I had to force them to spend the annual week with him -- after all, he is their father."

"What about you? Do you have a string of well to do bankers, attorneys, and accountants beating down your door?"

"I date occasionally." She shrugged. "No one special."

There was a knock at the study door, and Chambers poked his head into the room. "Ms. Collins? Dinner is served."

We headed toward the dining room. In the center was a table that rivaled the flight deck of an aircraft carrier.

When Margaret had been seated, a napkin placed on her lap, and after filling our wine glasses with the first of a variety of different wines, Chambers took a statuesque position near the sideboard in anticipation of serving the first course of our dinner.

"So what possessed you to ask me to dinner?"

"It's my way," she paused to take a sip of wine "of saying thank you for helping the boys and me when we learned to ride."

"Where's Tim?" I chuckled.

"He's a bit over the top, isn't he? Your opal earrings are lovely."

There'd been more going on with her look than just earring envy.

"Thank you," I said simply. "Speaking of the boys, what was Sean's problem?"

"He was embarrassed by my presence. He's trying to be grown up, but at times he's still a boy."

After the appetizer of stuffed shrimp followed by Manhattan clam chowder, our main dish of filet mignon, potatoes, broccoli, and salad had been served. The desert of chocolate mouse brought the meal to a close.

Each course had its own special wine and by the time the aperitif and espresso had been served, I'd become quite light-headed.

Even though my appearance bothered him, Chambers performed his duties and demonstrated the courteousness of his station.

"At about this time, my father would invite the men to accompany him to the game room for cigars and brandy. Would you like to do the same?"

"I'll pass on the cigar and say ‘yes' to the brandy. I would like to get some air. - Care to join me?" I folded my napkin and placed it on the table while attempting to rise from the table without falling off my heels.

"Chambers, please get Dan's mink and bring mine as well - we'll be going out to the patio. Serve the brandy in the study and please draw the patio drapery."

He returned with the furs and helped Margaret with hers, while leaving me to fend for myself.

As we stood amongst the moon shadows she turned and kissed me. I kissed her back. She submerged her tongue into my mouth. We held each other tight. I hadn't been kissed in such a manner - or even kissed - in a long, long time.

"Mmm," I moaned as we broke our embrace.

"That was delightful. I never kissed a man who wore lipstick. For that matter I've never met a man who could look better in a dress than me. It's funny, after the initial shock of seeing you as you are; I haven't given it a second thought. Shall we go to the powder room to repair our faces?"

Arm in arm, we re-entered the dining room and made our way to the study where a bottle of brandy and two snifters awaited us.

"The powder room is through there," she said, pointing to a door behind a teak desk and high backed leather chair.

I repaired my face, returned to the study, and then took a seat on one of the couches that faced the gas-burning fireplace. She joined me shortly thereafter.

"Where'd you head off to?"

"I went to my private bath to repair my face. It would be awfully cramped in there with the both of us jockeying for mirror time."

"Yeah, right."

"This is nice," she cooed as her head rested upon my false breast and her arms around my waist.

"I'd better be going. It's getting late," I said, freeing myself reluctantly from the welcomed capture.

"Stay the night. You've had a fair share to drink and I don't want you to get stopped or risk an accident. The motorcycle course classroom trainer said that we should know our limitations and I'm quite sure that you know yours. Chambers...."

"Yes, Ms. Collins," he said, re-entering the study.

"Please prepare a guest room for Dan. He's staying the night."

"Yes Ms. Collins." Chambers' professionalism had been in high gear as he responded to his employer's request.

I poured us one more brandy and then re-took a seat.

"Dan," she said. "I have to admit that I thought about you quite often after the class. In fact I was tempted to have one of Father's investigators hunt you down."

"Why didn't you?"

"I didn't want Father to interfere. He's grown quite protective since the divorce. When I saw you in the drive the other day I believed that we were destined to get together."

"So fate dealt us a hand?"

She gently stroked my cheek with her hand. "Fate can be so kind."

When we finished our brandy she led me to the guest room and then headed off to her room.

I undressed and retired to the bath to remove my make-up. With the ritual complete I turned out the light and crawled into the down- turned bed. Pajamas that appeared to be unisex had been placed at the foot of the bed, but I chose not to wear them, electing instead to sleep in my Haines briefs. "...falling, yes I'm falling...."

Bathed in the glow of the light from the room's fireplace, I stared at the ceiling wondering about the difficulties involved in dating a wealthy divorcee. Her kisses told me that this had been more than a thank-you dinner. Her parents' reaction to her dating an employee of a car dealership, coupled with the openness of my cross- dressing, would surely be a cause for heated discussion.

The door opened and Margaret entered the room dressed in a navy blue cathedral-length nightgown. Its plunging neckline revealed a sufficient amount of breast to excite.

She crossed the room and crawled into my bed -- placing her body upon mine amidst a barrage of kisses.

"You're attractive dressed in a t-shirt and jeans," she moaned as she searched my body. "You're absolutely erotic cross-dressed.

We spent the remainder of the evening taking turns as the aggressor until exhaustion took its toll.

I awoke alone. A note had been taped to the bath mirror.

Dan,

I'm off to see the boys. Wear this warm up suit and this pair of pool shoes for your drive home. Use the tote bag by the foot of the bed to pack up your dress, etc.

Speak to you soon.

Margaret.

"What the hell happened?" I asked my reflection in the mirror.

Once home and after showering, shaving, applying light make-up, and then dressing in a cable knit off white sweater, gray "A" line calf length wool skirt, one-inch heeled boots, and a gray fedora, I took a seat at my kitchen table, and then prepared a shopping list.

As I wandered the aisles of the grocery store looking for food and other necessities, thoughts of the dinner filled me. She had magnetism. A relationship with her would be an absolute joy, but the baggage could be troubling.

***

After reporting to work the following Monday and beating back the morning attack of vehicles requiring service, I'd been asked to report to the service manager's office.

"What's up?" I asked after knocking on his office door before entering.

"Dan," he said. "I need you to go up to the Collins's house and pick up their sports car."

"Okay."

"Mr. Collins called me this morning and said that his daughter is having trouble with it. Take Chuck with you."

We headed to the house and at the gate I announced myself and then walked up the drive.

I arrived at the garages where Baker greeted me and handed me the keys. "Ms. Collins said that there's a hesitation when she attempts to accelerate." His voice would have dried the ocean.

"I'll tell the service manager. We'll try to get it fixed and bring it back to Ms. Collins by tomorrow."

Seating myself in the smallish car, I started it, backed it out of the garage, and then headed down the drive. Margaret appeared at the front door and gestured to me to stop with a big wave.

"I have to apologize to you for leaving so suddenly. I'd forgotten that I had to work the refreshment booth at the boy's academy. Soccer and football games you know."

"Oh. I thought that it'd been a one night stand."

"You weren't a one-night stand. I have to run, but I'll call you."

I watched her butt wrapped in pencil skirt sway as she headed up the three steps that led to the front porch and the front door. The sight of it caused me to re-adjust my seating position.

***

Margaret's car had been serviced and returned. I dropped it off with Baker and headed back to the dealership. It'd been a long week and I'd looked forward to a quiet evening alone with a favorite dress.

While sipping wine and seated in my recliner in the un-lit room thinking about Margaret's comments about our evening, a knock at the apartment door startled me. I flipped on the kitchen light, unlocked, and then opened the apartment door.

"Margaret! What are you doing here?"

"I came to apologize again and offer you a peace offering," she said handing me a bottle of Australian Merlot.

She wore a little black dress that I wouldn't dare wear.

"Thank you, but it's not necessary. Care to have a glass with me?"

Her smile and the little black dress told me that she expected to share it.

"I love your dress. Where did you get it," she said while taking a seat at my kitchen table in anticipation of sipping her first glass of wine.

"The church thrift shop at Waverly and Green."

"Really. I wouldn't have thought that such elegant things found their way there."

"Who knows, it might have belonged to one of your friends."

"It could have. It looks like something one of my mother's bridge partners would wear."

"Thank you -- I think."

"Seriously, their bridge games are events. I think they're veiled fashion shows."

"So I look like an old woman about to play cards."

"No silly. I'm saying that you look deliciously feminine and...."

"And what?"

"I'd better stop."

"Stop what?"

She grew pensive as she momentarily stared at the table's placemat and then faced me.

"This is a first for me. I never met a cross-dresser and it's confusing me. I don't know if...." She paused for a moment and picked at the edge of the partly frayed placemat. "I don't know if I'm turned by it -- or you."

"Would we have ended up in bed if I wore a tuxedo to dinner?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Do you want to find out?"

"Right now all I want to do is kiss you."

She moved to my lap, put her arms around my neck, and then began kissing me. Kissing led to foreplay which led to love making which led to exhaustion, and then sleep.

I awoke to the touch of her hand upon my penis. When erect she mounted me.

"I think that you like being on top," I said placing my hands upon her breasts.

"It seems I do, too -- more so with you than with my ex or with others. Does it bother you?"

"Not really," I said trying to discover what she was thinking through her facial expressions.

"Can I ask you something?" She cooed.

I felt her muscles tighten against my penis. ~ I thought of Jim Morrison's words "...Wrap your arms around my neck...your hands around my feet...your hair around my flesh...."~

"If I were to ask you to Thanksgiving Day dinner, would you come?"

"Sure."

"What would you wear if I said it would be formal?"

"I don't know. If something strikes my eye that's hanging in my closet, I'll wear it. If not I'll comb the thrift shops and come up with something special."

"Could I ask you to come up with a man's tuxedo?"

"Whatever for?"

"It would be easier to explain."

Despite my fantasy and the pull of her muscles my erection subsided as we spoke.

"If I come as I am I'm not welcomed, but if I come as you want me to then I'm welcomed." I lifted her off me, rose from the bed, and then stood over her. "Why should I compromise myself to accommodate you? You already told me that you're confused by me. Why should I succumb to your current whim when I've spent a lifetime evolving to where I am today?"

"It's not a whim," she said pulling the sheets up over her firm breasts. "I care for you and would like to spend the holiday with you, but...."

"But what? You only want to spend it with me if I wear a pair of pants with a satin stripe down the side?"

"Could you compromise just once? I want to know if I'm attracted to the man or the man in the dress."

"They're one and the same," I mumbled while stepping into a pair of briefs.

"No they're not," she demanded. "Your manner of speech is much different when you're wearing men's clothing. I noticed it when you delivered the cars. It's overly structured, stiff, and formal. I think that the real you is somewhere in between; and I want to get to know the real you.

The real me. No one ever wanted that. Maybe there was something to her after all.

"I don't know. I'll let you know."

She rose from the bed and hugged me. The touch of her breasts aroused me. We returned to the bed and made love once again. ~ "...Wrap your arms around my neck...your hands around my feet...your hair around my flesh...."~

***

We saw each other weekly and talked on the telephone daily. When we'd be together it was either at my apartment or in her parents' house when they'd be away.

"You're afraid to be seen with me in public aren't you?" I asked as we took a break from our lovemaking one Friday evening. "It would all be different if I'd wear slacks instead of a skirt, wouldn't it."

"Why do you always throw the cross-dressing in my face?" she asked. "It's like this big defense mechanism. Whenever I try to get close to you...you seem to use it to drive me away. You did it when we first had dinner - thinking that it would scare me off. You're using it to get out of joining my family and me for Thanksgiving dinner. You probably used it to lose your motorcycle training job."

"What do you know about that?"

"How unobservant do you think I am? A blind person would realize that you and Tim were at each other's throats during that course. What did you say? ‘Tim - I cross dress - what are you going to do about it?' Or was it some other stupid holier-than-thou stance?

I stood silent before her. ~Was this her way to get to know me better, or did she see through me? ~

"Tim and I have fundamental differences and I chose not to follow his mandate."

"So I'm correct - it was a holier-than-thou stance."

"Says you."

"So what's it going to be -- Thanksgiving dinner with me, or sitting at home alone with your alleged principles?"

***

I watched parts of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade while dressing for the dinner at the Collins's house. She'd said that there would be in excess of twenty-five people consisting of friends and family. I chuckled as Santa ended the parade, thinking that my opportunity to smoke a cigar and sip brandy in the game room with her father and friends would end the parade that would be my day.

Uneasiness grew as I drove to the house. My experiences with the rich had been limited to brief encounters at the dealership and many of those discussions had bordered on hostile. Their frustrations with the overly computerized micro-processed cars brought out hidden traits. On many occasions I empathized with them. Cars costing in excess of six figures shouldn't spend as much time in the shop as they'd experienced.

The guard at the gatehouse recognized me and granted passage. The doorman greeted me while the valet drove off with my car. Upon entering the foyer Margaret greeted me. Chambers took my coat while she gasped. I chose to wear a men's tuxedo with patent leather men's shoes.

"Don't you look handsome," she exclaimed.

"I'm here."

"Come with me," she said after a playful slap upon the cheek. "I want to introduce you to my parents."

As we walked arm-in-arm through the foyer and into the great room she pulled me close and said, "Thank you."

The great room had been decorated for the occasion and the house staff wore first Thanksgiving pilgrim garb. A tray steeped with champagne glasses had been presented to Margaret and me. We took our drinks and headed toward her parents.

As we made our way across the room I took note of the string quartet as they performed some form of chamber music. I wondered if the violin player would have felt better scorching her instrument with a Charlie Daniels or a Stephan Grapelli tune.

"Dan I'd like you to meet my father, Horace, and my mother, Grace. Dan taught the boys and me how to ride motorcycles this past summer."

I couldn't determine if the sparkle in Margaret's eyes was from standing next to me, the champagne, or from pride in her parents.

Horace Collins was one of the riches men in the country, the son of a sole practitioner small town lawyer who set out to build a major, influential, law firm. Not satisfied with the law, he branched out into accounting and consulting. Using the law and accounting as a base, he ventured into investment and merchant banking with offices in New York, London, Tokyo, Paris, and Berlin.

"A pleasure to meet you, sir," I said, mustering a firm handshake to match his. "Your daughter and grandsons were excellent students."

I shook the offered hand of his wife as well. She too had a firm handshake. I held back laughter as I recalled Margaret's comment about her mother's bridge playing friends.

"My daughter can be a challenge at times. There had been no logical reason for her to learn to ride those wretched motorcycles with the boys, but she put it in her head that she had to do it," he said, giving me one of those pat on the elbow approval gestures.

"She did a good job," I responded. "A little cautious a times, but that's a good thing."

Margaret chimed in. "I was awful."

"It was silly," Mrs. Collins said. "You competing with that wretched ex-husband of yours for the affection of the children."

"Mother, please ... not now. Dan doesn't need to hear about that. Come, Dan. I'd like you to meet some of the other guests."

"Where are the boys? I'd like to say hello."

"They're in the home theatre watching football. I'll get them."

"Leave them alone -- I'll say hello later on."

We again joined arms and headed toward the French doors that opened to the patio. The weather didn't permit they be opened, but the loss hadn't caused overcrowding. I felt her leg against mine and it started to arouse me. The un-comfortable-ness of the tuxedo coupled with an erection became hellacious.

"I'd like to introduce you to Preston Donaldson. He manages Father's New York office."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Donaldson," I said once again mustering a strong handshake.

I'd met the Ivy League second son years ago while employed at Drexel, Burnham, and Lambert as an arbitrager. He'd been a recent Wharton graduate and his dad got him the job as a budding young trainee in exchange for transferring seven figures into an investment account. Preston immediately established himself as a consummate ass kisser. After landing himself in the position of the last man on a deal team, he worked his way up the ladder with his dad and brother's political help. He jumped ship when the Securities and Exchange Commission closed in, as cracks appeared in the junk bond market and insider-trading scandals began popping up. Once again his dad's money saved him, but he had dirt on his shoes and cuffs.

I went down with the Drexel ship. Despite being clean -- arbitrage was unethical, but not illegal -- my Wall Street days ended. The mere mention of the name Drexel raised doubt.

He bungled his way around the industry and then, after his dad died, used his brother's influence with Horace Collins to land a job. Hoping that he wouldn't recognize me, I didn't relish a trip down a not-so-pleasant memory lane.

"Call me Preston. Aren't you the car jockey that Horace was telling me about?" he asked trying to belittle me.

"Yes... ah... Preston," I responded trying not to show that his question disturbed me. "I work at the car dealership."

"Be nice Preston -- I'll leave you two to talk. I want to say hello to Stewart Long," Margaret said excusing herself.

"Nice piece of ass," he said as she walked across the room. "By the way, where did you rent your tuxedo?"

I ignored his question and comment choosing instead to sip some champagne and hold myself back from spitting it in his face.

"I'll bet her lips feel like velvet when she sucks your Johnson."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, using my eyes to drill a hole through his heart.

Sensing my anger, he excused himself.

"Dopey bastard," I mumbled as he took his leave.

The quartet played Bach as I eavesdropped on the conversations that swirled about me.

The BMW owners Bitch, Moaned, and Whined away about their precious cars while the Lexus, Acura, and Infinity owners regaled listeners with tales of quality and fit. The Mercedes owners mourned the merger with Chrysler as two Rich Urban Bikers quoted passages from the text of the Harley-Davidson biker creed.

When the testosterone level rose to boiling point, I made my way to the freestanding bar to escape it. I exchanged my champagne for Jack Daniels.

Once standing at the quiet safety of the bar I surveyed the grounds through a nearby window. Swimming pool, tennis, basketball, racquet, and squash courts, caretaker's cottage and a guesthouse dotted the landscape. It all seemed vaguely wasteful. Toys without playmates ... playmates without toys. It seemed they were toys for the sake of toys, there because someone could afford them, nothing more. A perfect example of wealth without purpose.

Margaret joined me.

"Having a good time?"

"So far," I mumbled. "This is new and strange to me."

"Relax," she said, kissing my cheek and nibbling my ear. "Father thinks you're nice and Mother thinks you're cute."

"And what do you think?"

"I think you're hot." She kissed me with the passion that had been shown when we our lips first met. I could grow comfortable with her kisses as they frightened and excited me.

After our kiss I'd noticed that Preston had observed our actions. His look expressed disgust and envy. Envy that she hadn't kissed him and disgust because she'd kissed me.

It appeared that he hadn't changed over the years. The buzz on him had been that he'd been prone to temper tantrums if a deal hadn't closed or if things had gone wrong with his latest conquest. I controlled my emotions when he'd made those comments about Margaret and my suit in fear of a physical confrontation. My tolerance for sophomoric language would probably crumble should he voice an additional comment.

Chambers announced the start of dinner causing the family and guests to make their way to the dining room. Margaret and I took our seats at the right hand of the Father while Sean and Jason took seats at the left hand of their grandmother.

"Hi, Dan," Jason exclaimed. "That foot pivot thing you showed me during training really works. Thanks."

"Good for you," I answered quite pleased with my performance as a trainer. "It's a road racing technique. Keep in mind it's not always used in street riding."

"Oh I know, but it really looks cool."

I smiled at him as I sipped some of my refreshed Jack Daniels.

"Hello, Sean," I said trying to get some kind of response from the morose teenager.

"Well I see that you did get to sniff my mother's seat."

"Sean," his mother and grandmother exclaimed.

"Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Sean," I said after downing the remainder of my drink and reaching for the now filled wine glass.

The meal could have been considered the traditional Thanksgiving dinner: turkey, goose, ham, pheasant, venison, and a variety of vegetables coupled with various types of potatoes.

The dinner would be quite different from the ones of my youth. The Collins's guests remained seated as each course had been served. The holiday meals of my past resembled barnyard feeding frenzies. Platters of food would be placed on a kitchen counter or an auxiliary table and family members would rush to them with plates in hand and scoop gobs of food upon them. In polite circles it would be called buffet style, but in my family it would be a race to the trough. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, the one who eats the fastest gets the most. Over the teeth and through the gums, look out stomach -- here it comes."

Guests at the Collins's house chewed their food with utensils placed on their plate while my relatives used them to point in weapon like fashion and talked with their mouths full or with food falling out along with the words they spoke. Dare to put a utensil on a plate during the meals of my childhood and risk losing one's plate, as it had been the signal that one had completed the feeding process.

They called the soup "wedding soup," but from my childhood it had been called escarole soup, holiday soup, or tiny meatball soup. Despite longing for a bowl of freshly made pasta buried in tomato sauce and fresh grated parmesan cheese with hot and sweat sausages, meatballs, and a chunk of fresh baked Italian bread, I enjoyed the meal.

There was a break in the meal between dinner and desert as the guests rested and digested.

As I sipped the remainder of my dinner wine in the relative quiet of the home theatre room, Preston approached.

"Dan, you look familiar," he stated as his eyes examined me from head to toe.

"That's not likely Preston," I said, turning my face away from him hoping that he wouldn't recognize me.

"You know Dan -- when you get tired of Margaret - I'll take your sloppy seconds," he said with randy eyes.

"Excuse me," I said as I placed the thumb of my right hand under his chin. I lifted, and his head arched back. "Make one more comment like that about Margaret, and I'll render you dickless like your hero Milkin."

I released him and watched as he staggered back into the great room. I'd made a mistake with the Milkin comment as it would probably aid him in identifying me.

The diners reconvened to savor dessert. Pumpkin, pecan, apple, peach, and cherry pies covered the table along with an assortment of fresh fruits and nuts. The dessert wine flowed, as did the espresso, anisette, amaretto, and ouzo.

After dessert, the moment that I'd been waiting for arrived -- brandy and cigars with father. The men made their way to the game room to enjoy smuggled in Cuban cigars and snifters of Courvoisier, Grand Marnier, and Remy Martin. The congregation had gathered around the pool table to further discuss business, sports, cars, and politics.

Preston made his way across the room shaking hands and backslapping anyone close enough not to take exception.

"I figured it out, Dan," he said taking hold of my elbow.

Trying not to show boredom I asked, "Figured out what?"

"Where I know you from. It must have been twenty - twenty-five years ago. You were an arbitrager at Drexel, Burnham, and Lambert. Weren't you the guy who wore women's clothing to work one day and got dismissed because of it?" He nodded. "Uh huh. Right before the boat went down, wasn't it?"

"Some of us tried to keep things going for the sake of our clients, but you're right -- that was me." I chuckled, trying to diffuse his comment with humor.

"I could keep it quiet, if you know what I mean."

"Let me see if I understand you," I said in a tone just above a whisper. "You'll keep quiet the fact that I cross-dress. What's the quid quo pro?"

"Margaret," he said with a devilish grin.

"Hmm," I grumbled and thought for a minute. "Tell you what. Let's gather everyone around so you can announce to all that I'm a cross- dresser. Then I'll announce to everyone here that you called her sloppy seconds and a nice piece of ass -- oh, and you thought the touch of her mouth and lips on your Johnson would feel like velvet. Then after the announcement, I'll reach down your throat and rip out what passes for your heart."

Preston became dead in the water.

"What's it going to take to keep you quiet?"

"Nothing at all, Preston. The ball is in your hand," I said handing him the nine-ball that sat alone on the pool table. "You talk -- I talk. You dummy up -- I dummy up. You see Preston, I could give a rat's ass who knows what I wear, or when - but for the sake of today's festivities, I'd just as soon not go there."

"What's going on in here?" Margaret said in questioning tones as she entered the room and looking upon Preston's drawn face.

"Oh nothing," I said putting my arm around his shoulders. "Preston and I were discussing which BMW motorcycle would go with his BMW car. Isn't that right Preston, old buddy?"

"Excuse me I have to talk to Stewart Long about sharing in a possible loan transaction," Preston said lifting my arm from his shoulder and stepping away.

"That didn't look like any kind of friendly chat. Are you going to tell me or do I have to tickle it out of you?" she said while reaching under my jacket to stroke my ribs. "Come with me, there's dancing in the great room."

"No, not yet. I've waited all day to smoke this cigar. It's loaded with testosterone and I need all I can get. I have to catch up with Preston and the others."

"Give me that thing," she demanded while wrestling the cigar from my hand. After taking a few puffs from it and then a sip from my brandy snifter, "If I have to kiss a mouth that tastes like a sewer - you'll have to as well."

She crushed out the cigar, put the snifter on the pool table, linked her arm in mine, and then pulled us into the great room.

The musicians had switched to danceable music and many of the guests had begun to stumble through a waltz. We joined them. I reveled in holding her as we danced.

"This is nice," I whispered.

"What really went on between you and Preston?"

"Preston was going to tell everyone that I cross-dress." I felt her body tense. "His intent was to humiliate me in front of you, your parents, the boys, and the guests. He wants to date you so he figured if you knew the truth about me, it would cause a break up, and then he could step in."

"And what did you do?"

"He's not an altar boy. I reminded him of a few things from his past."

"Do you know him?"

"We'd met in a former life."

"Really? Where from?"

"He and I spent some time at Drexel, Burnham and Lambert before it collapsed. Family ties kept him relatively clean while I stayed to turn out the lights and close the door when it ended. I'd almost made it to the end when it all seemed so false to me. To add a bit of integrity, I went to work cross-dressed."

"How did that work out for you?"

"I don't work on Wall Street, do I?"

She placed her head on my shoulder as we danced. We didn't speak all that much and her grip on me softened.

It killed me to have her worried about someone exposing me. I'd gotten by that years ago and had expected more from her.

Between tunes Preston approached.

"Margaret," he asked. "Care to switch partners for the next dance?"

She agreed and I chuckled thinking about the double meaning of his invitation while taking my leave.

From the safety of the potted palm I watched as they danced. They talked, smiled, and then laughed. I hoped that I would have another opportunity to dance and hold her. Jason and Sean took turns dancing with her, as did her father. Beneath the trappings of wealth beat the heart of a family. ~ Could this motorcycle riding, car humping cross-dresser find a spot in a well-to-do family? ~

Later, Preston took up a position next to me.

"She is a beauty isn't she?" he asked, as we both watched her dance with Stewart Long.

"Uh huh - that she is," I answered, wondering why he suddenly switched from passing off-color remarks to compliments. I didn't trust him and feared that his history of unpredictability would in some way cause her harm.

"Dan ... we could be friends."

"At what cost?" I asked with suspicion.

"No cost at all." He looked me square in the eye. "I know that you know what I did with -- and for -- Milken. I was a half step away from an indictment by the SEC and a huge fine or jail time. Everyone on the street knew the deal my lawyers worked out."

"Uh huh. You sang and Milken took a mini-bath."

He nodded. "What's in the past, is in the past." He extended his hand again. "Let's try to be friends, okay?"

Margaret joined us before I could answer.

"Are you two at it again?" she asked.

"It's just ended. Right, Preston?" I shook his hand.

"Right you are. My lips are sealed."

Something about the way he said that left me uneasy. My cross- dressing wasn't on a par with bilking widows out of their retirement. He'd managed to make me feel like a co-criminal. ~Further, why should I trust someone who had blatantly broke his fiduciary responsibility to so many by selling them junk bonds that were worthless? ~

"You know what, Preston . . . Margaret," I flatly stated, "I'm no damn good operating with a sword hanging over my head." I raised my voice. "Everyone, could I have your attention." Every eye in the room swung to me. All those Collins who had become important to me smiled.

"Honesty is important to me. I don't know any other way to live. Preston here was going to tell you all that I'm a cross-dresser."

Several of the men laughed.

"And he'd be right."

All the smiles faded.

"That's my lifestyle and no one is going to make me feel inferior for living it."

I set down my glass on a tray provided by the quick thinking Chambers, and then walked toward the door.

"How could you," Margaret called after me. "There's a time and place, and this was neither."

***

Annie popped her head out from behind her apartment door as I made my way up the flights of stairs.

"That's a different look," she said gazing upon my tuxedo-encased body.

"Yeah, I guess."

"What's wrong? You look like someone just took a dump in your soup. Come on in and tell me about it over a cup of tea."

"Do you remember the woman who comes over here every once in a while - the one who I went to dinner with?"

"No, but go ahead."

"She invited me to Thanksgiving dinner and the whole thing blew up."

"Wait - don't tell me - you stood up over the after dinner drinks and told one and all that you're a cross dresser."

"Yeah, something like that."

She sipped her tea and then began to laugh. "Well at least you're consistent. You ruined your motorcycle training career because you thought everyone was doing it wrong and your way was the only way, then you did the same thing with this woman. She probably likes you, but you figured out a way to put an end to it by demanding everyone look at life from the same side that you do."

***

Fall became winter, and New Years Eve followed Christmas. There'd been parties, but I'd decided against attending any. The holiday spirit hadn't arrived.

On New Years day, dressed in a red cashmere sweater, black calf length pleated wool skirt, two-inch heeled black knee high boots, my ever faithful fedora, and a toggle coat, I walked along the snow lined hiking paths in the town park. Snow threatened, but it had yet to break the silence of the day.

As I walked along, thoughts of Margaret entered my mind. She'd never understand why I believed motorcycle training had become dangerous. Nor would she understand why I detested the quid-quo-pro game and those who lived by it. She called it a defense mechanism to drive people away. I called it morality.

The deeper I walked into the park, the quieter it became. The sound of residual leaves crashing to the ground, the footsteps of a wayward squirrel, and the puffing of the down of the chickadees occasionally broke the silence. At times I could hear myself breathing.

The silence had been broken by faint human moans. I followed the sound to a partly covered body making slight leg movements. Carefully lifting the tarp from the body laying face down in the snow, I knelt down to further examine it. She was clothed in a black taffeta half slip, bra, and torn pantyhose and might have been a hooker who stole from her pimp. After rolling her over, a chill went down my spine. I was looking at the face of Margaret's son, Sean.

I struggled to get him to his feet, and then carried him to my car. With the heat turned to full warm thoughts of what to do next filled me. When we arrived at my apartment building it took all of my now depleted strength to carry him up the four flights of steps to the apartment and to place him on my bed.

I slowly began to undress him. With my Dutch oven filled with warm water, I began to wipe his face and body with a washrag. Track marks were on his right arm, but no other forms of physical harm could be detected.

He fell into and out of consciousness as I bathed him. In anticipation of him awakening, I warmed a can of chicken broth for him to at least attempt to sip.

With the little first aid training I possessed, it appeared that the drugs hadn't overly affected his breathing and heart rate. While half watching his condition, I telephoned the Collins's mansion.

"Collins's residence. May I help you," Chambers's voice echoed.

"Chambers, it's Dan Hudson," I said trying not to sound anxious or excited. "May I speak with Ms. Collins?"

"Ms. Collins and the family are in the midst of dinner," his frosty voice answered.

"It's rather important. Could you interrupt? I'll not take too much of her time."

While waiting for Margaret to pick up the telephone my complete attention focused on the now awake, but groggy Sean.

"What could you possibly want Dan?"

"Sean is here in my apartment."

"Sean? Why is. . . ?"

"I found him partly covered with a tarp in Nichols Park."

"What! I'll. . . ."

"Some one shot him up with drugs. He's barely awake now, but I'm not sure for how much longer."

"I'll be right over."

"If you know a friendly doctor, bring him along."

Just hearing her voice took me back, despite the circumstances. "...and she keeps calling me back again...."

As I hung up the telephone's receiver, Sean tried to rise from my bed.

"Hold on buddy, you're not fit to move just yet."

"Where am I?" he asked in panic.

"Remember me?" I whispered. "Dan Hudson. You're in my apartment. I found you in the park."

He laid back down, too weak to struggle or sit up.

"Have some soup," I said still whispering. "It'll help to warm you up. Be careful, it's hot."

I spoon-fed him some of the soup before he gagged.

"Can you take some more?"

He shook his head.

"How did you end up in Nichols Park; and why were you wearing women's undergarments?"

He turned his head away from me as tears formed. I re-arranged his blankets, and then left him to have his cry.

I took a chair from my kitchen, placed it next to the bed, and then took a seat closer to him to better observe his condition. He'd stopped fading in and out of consciousness so any immediate danger had passed, but he continued to cry. Not uncontrollable sobs - quiet, barely audible moans.

Between the time I called and when Margaret knocked at the door, it had grown dark. I switched on the kitchen light, unlocked the apartment door, and then let my guests enter.

She burst through the door.

"Where is he?"

"In there," I mumbled, motioning to the bedroom.

She stood over her son for a moment and then took a seat in the chair that I'd placed next to the bed. She picked up his hand, kissed it, and then held it to her forehead. Tears flowed uncontrollably.

"Dr. Helen Vickers," Margaret's companion said extending a hand while examining my manner of dress. "You were at the Collins's for Thanksgiving Dinner, weren't you?"

"I found him while walking through the park earlier today," I said ignoring her loaded question. "The only physical marks on his body had been some track marks. I fed him some broth and...."

"Let me take a look. I'm Margaret's therapist as well as her doctor."

I stepped aside as she entered the room. She sent Margaret out to join me in the kitchen while she examined Sean.

"Care for some tea?" I asked as she threw herself down on one of the kitchen chairs.

"He told me that he and Jason went skiing."

"I thought about bringing him to a hospital, but thought better of it."

"You did the right thing."

"You can leave him here until he's strong enough to be moved. He's in pretty bad shape."

I tried to relax her a bit by massaging her shoulders and neck. Both were tense.

"I'm not sure what he's taken without a blood test," Dr. Vickers said re-entering the kitchen. "I'll call my assistant to bring over some instruments to draw blood. In the meantime, I think that it's best to leave him here."

The doctor went back in the bedroom to further tend to Sean while Margaret and I sipped tea.

"How much has he been able to tell you?" I asked.

"Nothing," she sobbed. "He's asleep."

"I found him wearing these," I said while handing her the slip, bra, and torn pantyhose.

She dropped her head and once again began an uncontrollable cry.

The doctor's assistant arrived and joined the doctor in the bedroom. After drawing four vials of blood, a swab of urine and a sample from his rectum, the assistant left.

"I should have an idea of what he took by early tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime we'll monitor his condition," Dr. Vickers said.

We three took turns sitting by his side and wiping perspiration from his body. When Margaret took her turn, Dr. Vickers joined me at my kitchen table for cup with tea.

"At what age did you start cross-dressing?" she asked.

"Quite frankly it's none of your business," I huffed. "The patient is in the other room and not at this table."

"I'm not trying to treat or understand you, but Margaret showed me what he'd been wearing when you found him."

"I doubt that there might be any similarities between him and me. Don't you think that you're jumping the gun? We should let Sean tell us what happened before you start thinking of a manner of treatment."

Sean had a restless night and the three of us took turns taking whore showers to freshen up until the light of dawn shown through my kitchen window. A knock at the door announced the arrival of Jason.

"Where's Sean," he shouted as he entered the room.

"He's in there," I said gesturing to the bedroom.

He slowly approached the room and entered. I watched as he greeted his mom with a kiss. He looked down at his sleeping brother and started to cry.

"Mom," he said through tears and sobs. "We lied. We didn't want to ski. We wanted to hang out with friends."

The room grew silent. I watched from the kitchen with Dr. Vickers as a mother and brother quietly tried to cope with the situation that lay before them.

"He appears stable so I'll be leaving," Dr. Vickers said. "We'll know more when we receive the test results. In the meantime, give him these when he awakens. They'll aid in what appears to be withdrawal."

She handed me a package of tablets.

"Take my car," Margaret said as she handed her keys to Dr. Vickers, leaving Jason in the bedroom with his brother. "I'll not be needing it."

Margaret tended the sleeping Sean while Jason joined me at the kitchen table.

"Can you show me where you found him?" Jason asked.

"Perhaps later. Let's make sure that Sean is resting quietly before we go wandering around."

We joined his mother in the bedroom as Sean began to stir.

"Hey you three. What's going on?" he asked through the haze of legal and illegal drugs and sleep.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Like hell."

Margaret tried to speak, but couldn't form words through her tears. Jason stood motionless.

"Would you mind if I spoke to him alone?" I asked.

She nodded and left the room with Jason in tow as I took a seat in the chair close to the bed.

"She's a bit un-done by what's happened. When you're ready, we'll talk, okay."

While waiting for him to speak, I wiped his brow with a damp cloth from the oft-replenished Dutch oven, and then re-arranging the blankets and comforter.

"We were supposed to be skiing at the vacation house," he said with hoarse tones. "We stayed behind and spent Christmas week at my roommate's house. We'd been partying, drinking beer, smoking some pot, and doing a little coke. We went to his friend's place to party and get more stuff. I was pretty wasted when this girl asked me if I really want to fly. I said okay, and then she took out this stuff and a syringe. She put a candle under some aluminum foil, put some liquid in the syringe, whacked on the vein in my arm, and then injected me. I got all warm and just laid there. I woke up a bit and asked for more."

"How long did this go on?"

"I don't know," he struggled. "Couple of days maybe. It could have been all week."

I gently lifted his right arm and attempted to count the needle marks. I counted four including the one that caused the bruise.

"How did you end up in the park and how did you end up wearing women's lingerie?" I carefully asked.

"I don't remember."

He turned away and fell silent.

"We'll talk some more when you feel up to it."

I wiped his brow, tended to his blankets, and then left the room.

I re-joined his mother and brother who'd been seated in the kitchen and informed them about the partying. She bowed her head, and then composed herself.

Margaret placed her hand under Jason's chin and lifted his head to look in his eyes and asked, "Did you know that Sean drank and took drugs?"

"Yes Mom," he muttered. "We both drink and take drugs. We stayed in town with his roommate to party at some guy's apartment with him and his girlfriend."

"Who's Sean's roommate?" Margaret asked while taking hold of his hand. "Do you mean Andy?"

"No, Andy's out of town. I don't know this one. He just started at the school. His first day was after the Thanksgiving recess. I met him when we went to his house."

Margaret buckled at the knees and collapsed onto the floor. I helped her to her feet, and then back into the chair.

"Margaret," I said lifting her chin with my hand. "It's not your fault. Kids experiment. This could have happened at the vacation house. For that matter, it could have happened in his bedroom at the mansion, or in the garage. It's in their nature to try things."

"I hope that he's not addicted," she sobbed.

"The junk will be out of his system in three or four days," I cautioned. "That's the easy part. If he's become psychologically addicted the three of you will have a long road to travel."

She began uncontrollable sobs. Jason and I did our best to comfort her, but to no avail. The parental demons that lurked within her would be beyond our expertise.

Margaret's cell phone sounded.

I heard one side of the conversation, but managed to piece it together. Dr. Vickers confirmed what Sean had told me. It also confirmed that there had been traces of semen in his rectum.

He'd had sex and took drugs, but it hadn't answered the question of how he ended up in the park or the clothes. When Sean was ready to talk we'd know the answers.

When I re-entered the bedroom Sean had awakened.

"It's time for a pill. Do you want it with the soup or with some juice? I asked.

"Juice," he said with a stronger voice.

After feeding him, wiping his brow, and straightening his hair, I removed the blankets and then handed him my floral print velour cloth robe.

"Come on get up. Let's walk around the apartment and get that body moving. It'll do you good."

After helping him with the robe, we at first walked around the bed and then headed out to the kitchen. His brother joined us and the three of us made our way around the apartment. I signaled Jason to allow him to attempt walking alone. He managed a few steps before his left knee buckled. He saved himself from the fall and managed to continue to walk.

"That's enough for now," I said, while guiding him back to the bed. "We'll walk some more later on."

His mother, brother, and I took seats in the chairs that paralleled each side of the bed.

"We were all sitting around really stoned," Sean said. "The girl started to kiss me and jerk me off." Margaret dropped her head and held it with her left hand. "I remember her saying that I had a nice body -- a girl's body. She laughed and said she wanted to have a look. The last thing I remember before losing it was my roommate saying something about screwing the new bitch."

His mother left the room and closed the door, no longer able to control her emotions.

Jason left the room to comfort her.

Sean continued. "The next thing that I remember is waking up here."

"Get some sleep. I'll go see to your mother."

"Could you ask her to come back in?"

I motioned for her. Jason followed.

"Do you want me to leave?" I asked.

"No stay," all three said in unison.

"Mom," he said. "I'm sorry that I lied to you. I'm sorry for the taunting, the yelling, my behavior toward Dan, and the accusations about your love life ... everything."

"I deserved some of it," she said while bending down to hold him in her arms and kiss his cheek and brow while Jason held his left hand. "After the divorce, I forgot how to be a parent. I tried to become one again when we went to the motorcycle training, but by that time it was too late."

"It's not too late, Mom," he said. "Maybe Dan and Dr. Vickers and Jason can help."

Mother and her two sons looked at me with hopeful tear filled eyes.

"We'll see about me," I said. "What's important is that the three of you work it out with Dr. Vickers help.

I left them to be alone -- wanting to bathe -- as I'd grown quite ripe. While showering, I couldn't get the vision of the three of them out of my mind. So rich ... so helpless. And looking to me to help them.

After my shower, I dressed in a black sweater dress and stiletto boots, then sat at the table to sip yet another cup of tea.

Jason joined me leaving his mother with his brother. "Do you feel like showing me where you found Sean? I vaguely remember the party location had been near a park."

"Let's tell your mother that we're going out." We walked into the bedroom and found a sobbing mother and a sleeping teenaged boy. "Will you be okay by yourself?"

"I'll be fine."

***

Jason and I got into my car and headed off to the park.

We walked along the path in search of a possible clue as to how Sean got there. Approaching the spot where I'd found him, the tarp lay untouched. We looked around not knowing what to look for.

"Dan," he said. "Take a look at this."

"What?"

"This," he said pointing at the snow near the tarp. "What does this look like?"

"Looks like someone dragged something."

"Let's follow it and see where it goes."

We followed the marks through the calf deep snow. Jason moved through the snow much faster than I due in part to his youth and to him not wearing a calf length sweater dress and stiletto boots. The marks led us to an aging garden apartment complex and its parking lot.

Jason paused for a moment to get his bearings while I attempted to catch my breath.

"This place looks familiar," he said while surveying his surroundings. "Let's walk around."

We made our way around to the front of the building and walked along the sidewalk that ran parallel to the apartment doors.

"That one," he said, pointing toward the door of apartment twelve.

"You knock on the door and when they open it we'll crash it," I said.

With fear in his voice he said, "Okay"

He knocked on the door and we both heard numerous locks un-latch.

When the door opened we rushed it and knocked the resident to the floor. I stuck my stiletto-heeled boot onto his chest to keep him down while Jason grabbed the now advancing girl by the arm. A third person lay on the couch too wasted to be a problem.

I picked the guy up off the floor and threw him against the wall. He seemed to be about twenty years old.

"Did you shoot up Sean Collins?" I demanded.

"Who?" he asked, still half-asleep.

"The kid that you left for dead under the tarp in the park."

"I told you not to shoot him up," he shouted at the girl across the room, where Jason held her at bay.

"Answer me, you little shit," I shouted, banging his head against the wall.

"Yeah, we gave him some stuff, what of it?"

"Who dressed him in the women's clothing?" I demanded.

"She did. She gets off on it. Her pants are probably wet from looking at you."

Torn between beating my captive senseless and doing nothing, I lowered him to the floor and left him in a seated position.

"See if you can find your brother's clothes, and then let's get out of here before the police get wind of this."

***

We headed back through the park and to my car. We drove in silence for a bit.

"You were with Sean when this all happened, weren't you?" I asked.

"Sean's roommate, the guy laying on the couch, said that his friend could fix us up. We went to the apartment to buy stuff, party a little, and then we were going to leave. That girl started to come on to Sean. That's when he asked me to leave because he wanted to get laid."

"What did you do then?"

"I took off. Sean told me to come back in an hour or so to pick him up. When I came back no one was around."

"What did you do then?"

He started to cry as he spoke.

"I went to his friend's house thinking that they'd come back on their own."

"Where were you when your mom called?"

"At his friend's house," he mumbled.

We drove on for a time in silence.

"You didn't leave when Sean was having sex, did you?" I asked.

"No," he mumbled. "I was there. I saw what the girl did to Sean and what his roommate and the other guy did. I got scared and ran away. I didn't want them to do it to me."

"You feel like you let your brother down -- not defending him or fighting for him."

"Yeah."

***

Jason and I returned to the apartment and found Sean sitting up in bed with his mother feeding him.

"Where did you two head off to?" she asked.

"We had to take care of something," I answered. "Jason, why don't you take your mom to get something to eat. She needs a break and some fresh air. I'll stay with Sean."

"That's a good idea," Margaret said sounding much more composed than when we'd left her.

Jason and his mother left the apartment while Sean and I sat together.

"Were you and Jason trading sex for drugs?" I whispered my question.

"I was. Jason wasn't."

"You have all the money in the world; why would you do something like that?"

"It's not about the money," he said turning his face away from me. "Sex for drugs took care of everything without money."

"How did you end up in the women's clothing?"

I fought back my anger with him. A kid with everything going for him. Money, brains, good looks, a family of sorts and he throws it away on drugs.

"She'd only do me if I wore them," he said while trying to restrain tears.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Couple of months."

"When did you start the main lining?"

"This was the first time -- it was mostly pot and coke before."

Hoping that Jason's drug use hadn't reached the level of Sean's I asked, "How dirty is Jason?"

"Pot, but that's about it. What are you going to tell my mom?"

"Nothing. That's up to you and Jason."

"Could I ask you something?" he asked, as his throat grew thick.

"Go ahead."

"Could you please help me?"

I patted him on his head and rearranged his blankets. "Try and get some sleep. Your mother and brother should be back soon."

Dr. Vickers, Margaret, and Jason returned to the apartment shortly after Sean and I finished our conversation. Dr. Vickers examined Sean, deemed him strong enough to be moved, and then called for a private ambulance to transport him to a de-tox and family counseling clinic.

I declined the offer to accompany them choosing to clean up the carnage that had been left behind by the Collins's family tornado. Thoughts that I should've left the kid to die crossed my mind along with Margaret's words that fate brought us together. ~Would I get swallowed up in the Collins's malaise of a family if I agreed to help with Sean's recovery? ~ My worry caused me to pour myself a glass of wine.

***

One blustery evening, as I sat sipping wine in the darkness of my apartment reviewing the events of New Years Day and the day after, my thoughts became broken by a knock at the door. I hadn't been expecting anyone. For that matter there'd hardly ever been knocks at the door.

"Margaret," I said as I opened the door. "What brings you here?"

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Sure."

I stepped aside to allow her entrance to the apartment.

"I never had the opportunity to properly thank you for helping us."

I nodded, but didn't encourage.

"The boys are asking for you, especially Sean. He wants to see you, and you and I have some unfinished business."

"Unfinished business? Not likely."

"Boy, you're dense."

"Dense? Me, dense? What about you?"

"The boys and I, especially me, want to have a relationship with you. We want your participation in helping Sean. He likes and trusts you and I think I love you."

"You'll love me only if I change."

"You really are pig-headed. You hide behind the smoke and mirrors, thinking everyone wants you to change, but it's you who won't give anyone else a break. You think that you're so superior."

She left.

~Who the hell did she think she'd been speaking to? I'd managed to live this long without her sage advice and I'll manage to eek out a few more years before they nail the lid shut. ~

***

I walked the snow lined paths of the park that led to the partly frozen lake feeding bits of stale bread to the wayward birds and squirrels along the way. The silence had been broken by the sound of Jason's voice.

"Dan," he called. "May I talk to you?"

"What do you want?" I growled.

"Sean's out of the hospital and is back in school. We go to sessions with Dr. Vickers as a family and as individuals. Mom cries a lot when the three of us are together. She keeps saying its all her fault for what's happened despite us telling her that it isn't. Sean asks for you all of the time."

"You don't need me there. It's a family matter and I'm not family."

"You saved my brother's life, so to me that makes you family."

"We have different definitions of family."

He stood in front of me hands on hips and leaning forward to invade my space. "You know, I thought you were really cool. I loved the way that you helped my mom learn to ride, the way you goofed on Tim without him knowing it, the way you took care of Sean, and the way you took it upon yourself to go to those drug guys, but by choosing to ignore us when we could use your help the most, you proved to us that you're nothing but a fool."

"Are you done?"

"No. My mom told me about when she came to visit with you. As smart as you think you are, you're really dumb. She can't stop thinking about you. She's got a real thing about you, and what do you do? You blow her off like she's nothing, and then hide behind the fact that everyone who doesn't think like you is stupid. You're the stupid one."

***

After my encounter with Jason, I made my way home with five gallons of kerosene in hand. The cold flat had grown colder when the fire had gone out in the stove. With the fire going and the cast iron warming, the chill of the room subsided.

~All screwed up with every place to go. ~ The Collins family would have to learn that money, fame, power, and fringe friends don't make a life. I pitied them because they couldn't see through the fog that the only thing that mattered was contentment -- just being who you are.

As I sat at my kitchen table circling the rim of my teacup with my finger, my daydream ended with a knock at the door. I hoped that it wouldn't be another Collins.

"It's open," I said.

"Hey Dan," Annie said as she entered the apartment with a notebook in one hand and half of an apple pie in the other. "I wrote a play for my theatre class and I'd like you take a look at it. The last time you helped out with one of my projects I received an ‘A.'"

"Sure what's it about."

"The assignment was to write a play using Greek Tragedy as a basis. The hero's hubris pulls him down time after time."

"Hubris?"

"Excessive pride. In the Greek myths it usually results in harsh punishment."

"I'll give it a shot, but I don't know much about literature. That paper I helped you with was for Economics."

"It doesn't matter. Just read it and tell me if it makes sense."

"Okay, I'll read it later."

"No, read it now, please? If you have any edits or suggestions I can fix them right away." I gave her a look, and she gave me puppy eyes. "It's due tomorrow. Please?"

If Sean hadn't been so screwed up, I might have introduced him to her. Innocent, yet at times so wise. That was Annie. I sighed.

"All right, let's have a look."

I read the six-page play, as she poured a cup of tea for herself and cut a slice of pie for each of us.

"Sad story," I said when I was done. "The poor old fool has a chance at everything. He walks away from a good job, spends his life alone thinking that the world is against him, can't seem to have a friendship or a relationship ... I feel sorry for him."

"Really?" Annie smiled. "Does he remind you of anyone you know?" I shook my head. She just looked at me as if she was waiting for other shoe to drop.

Then it did.

I suddenly realized the man in the play had a lot in common with the guy I saw in the mirror every morning. Hubris? Yeah, I had that covered, in spades. All I had wanted was to just be who I was, and to hell with everyone else. I spent so much time on my high iron horse that I damn near rode away from a bunch of folks who needed me ... and a woman who could love me for who I am. Maybe.

Annie watched me figure it out, and didn't say a word.

"Do you have an end in mind for this play?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"Yup, but you know how that goes. Anything can happen." She grinned, stood up, and handed me my kitchen phone. "Anything at all."



Done Deal

Thank you to Angela Rasch for her early on editing efforts. Additional thanks to Randalynn for her help and to Kristina L.S. for constantly reminding me to "...wreck a train...."