Wearing Red

She had the reddest shoes since the new Wizard of Oz that flopped in our small town a few years back. No one really appreciated new things here, especially new things disguised as old things. I guess, being a teen, I was able to form my own opinion upon seeing her. I mean, only because my parents weren’t around to whisper snippets of judgement. 

I was a waiter at the cafe. As far as I know, the place had no name. It didn’t need one. It was the only place to eat for 15 miles. Getting a job here was pure luck, the only thing that really sealed the deal was that I could work from 5 am to 8 am before I walked five minutes to school starting at 8:15 am. 

She ruled the door when she entered, never had I seen a stranger burst into an eatery in a new town with such ease. Shoulders back and broad, shoes tall and wide, Her hair, I should say her wig the color of poppies and so was her shirt that was more like an oversized silk sock with the toes cut off and pulled as high as it would go.

She didn’t even glance at the farmers that were giving her disgusted looks in the three full tables where the only orders had been black coffee. She plopped her scarlet purse down, the chain strap clicking against the metal on the seat. I swallowed, remembering to blink and pick my jaw back up as she waved me over. She ordered more food for the a.m. than I had seen in the 6 months I had been working here. When I went to run the order back, resisting the urge to look her over again, the cook was staring too, red-face, a vein in his forehead throbbing. 

I knew that look, it was the same one he gave the local pot head when he came in looking for a job. The kid had been the only person over fourteen who didn’t have a car and this cafe was the only place anyone could work in the whole town besides the gas station that was steadily meeting its doom. Most people either farmed or drove 15 minutes to over an hour to various factories for work, but Nico had been merciless. Him and the kid came to blows before Nico threw him out the door and told him not to come back.

I could see the way he looked at this newcomer through the order counter window, he did not want to be friendly, and that was the thing about small towns: he didn’t have to. 

The last trangender person, to face discrimination here wound up moving. The rumors say the last straw was that some horribly mutilated animal carcasses were left on her front porch, so she and her partner left almost the next day. The town all but rejoiced in the streets when it had happened. There was no real thing that could be done, the cops were from another town who didn’t really like driving all the way over. The social workers weren’t much help: a family member of mine had a mandatory social worker that, in the end, put them away in jail for not being able to care for themselves. And the Judge, well, last year his son busted the window of his ex-girlfriends car and somehow, the arrest didn’t even make it to court. Two days later the girl wound up with a black eye and a broken arm, but said she fell down some stairs.

There were unwritten rules for living in a small town, all unwritten but very well spoken every time certain topics on the news came up. The most important rule being: Don’t ever be different.

Horrified, I watched as Nico stepped from behind his kitchen counter and marched right up to the table where the woman was playing with her long red nails. She knew nothing of the rules, and was clearly from some other place, maybe the nearest city over 2 hours from here. Not that that mattered to Nico. When all you ever do is stay in the same town and cook for the same 200 people each week, you forget that some people are different.

 “You need to leave.” he said before he had reached her. 

My stomach plummeted when she didn’t seem the least bit nervous or even surprised. She looked up from her menu, and gave a coy smile, “Good, you must be the cook, I needed to request no mayo on that breakfast sandwich, where I come from, we prefer cream cheese with our breakfast.”

Nico took a second, digesting her words before returning to his point, “We don’t serve people like you here.” My heart began to race, I mean, it already was, but it started to sprint. I felt as though I might pass out. The woman still didn’t say anything, and her smile didn’t waver. 

There was a clatter of chairs as some farmers stood up, in sinc like the goons in movies. They sauntered over and stood firm behind her, some as old as 80 seemed to think that they would be willing to frighten a woman out of town. A flash of a picture from my history book ran through my mind, yeah this was the same way they had stood behind black men in the 60s. Never in all my life had I felt a sense of deep deep sorrow. These were people I had served coffee to for six months nearly every morning, and these were people whose grandkids and kids I went to school with, who came to middle school graduation with bouquets of roses and walked their daughters down the isles of local weddings with tears in their eyes. Here they were, hovering over a strange woman with menacing intentions.

But she didn’t know them like that, all the more reason to be frightened of them, and yet, she still smiled. She took some time to smile at each of them in turn. “You men sure have some confidence, don’t you. Sorry boys, I’m taken.” she held up a ring on her left hand that shimmered brilliantly in the light from the dead-fly cluttered light fixture above. 

“Who would want to marry something like you.” The nearest man to her said with a sneer. 

She looked delighted. 

“You wouldn’t know him, he and I work from a company that travels a lot, this is our first time here actually.”

“Well, I suggest you keep moving, mister.”

For the first time, her eyes narrowed, but her smile remained firmly on her lips, her glossy red lips. “I’m no mister, and that kind of brings me to what I am doing here. Do you know a Rebecca Shatler? You might have known her as Dave Shatler.”

The room stilled and the men looked around at one another as she twiddled with the plastic covered menu in front of her. She seemed to be measuring the number of seconds, waiting for the perfect time to cut off their thinking. It was fair of her to wait that long. Finally, one of the men spoke, “Figured you’d be a friend of Shatler, you fucking tranny.”

As the farmers delightedly raised their voices in approval, something like satisfaction streaked across her face and she stared at them with such ease that they grew irate. “What are you staring at!” one of them shouted in her face, she barely flinched, the twitch of her eyelashes seemed more a protection to her eyes than fear of his loud speech.

The men moved in closer, I watched with my feet feeling as though they were sinking into the tile, the sweat of my forehead felt like a large trickle from a stream over my eyes and lips. They started using threats, some even got so close, their skin touched her skin. I felt like I was witnessing a crime scene. One man over the others, Bill Hanover, was quick to say what he did to Shatler, what he wished he had done and what he planned to do to the woman sitting in front of him. Many more of the men were now cheering, tossing their statements of guilt into the ruckus with glee. Some of them seemed to even forget that this woman was there as they cajoled each other and laughed like they were reminiscing about a good homecoming game 30 years before. 

All the while, the woman was docile and still smiling, though a hawk-like sharpness now consumed her expression. She was a hunter, they were nothing more than mice below and too blind to see her talons glinting in the brilliant light of day. 

 Suddenly, she clucked her tongue and smiled wider. “Thank you for the time gentlemen, I think I've got everything I need.” The men around her blinked in confusion, her signature move of staring straight at them and smiling paired with her words seemed to throw off the real meaning. She stood up from her chair with such elegance, I mistook her for a swan, a sexy red swan. Then she flexed a tiny little bead glinting on her shirt, a sole reflective bead. “This is a live feed camera, outside, there is a van with about ten men all who should be coming in the door to escort me out. I must let you know, everything said to me today in this room will be added to a lawsuit I am preparing. It’s voluntary, but if any of you boys feel like adding your name for the records, you might be eligible for some kind of deal. I’ll leave that to the lawyers to work out. Be warned, Rebecca has already given a majority of your names to us.” 

Just then, the door opened and 12 men came in tall as her and wearing all black. Muscles to the moon off their shoulders. Some had bellies as firm as they were outward and some had pockets that looked full with what could only be weapons of self defense. 

The Farmers, with their coffee cold and forgotten like their humanity stared, old and disbelieving as she laid a business card on the table and then stepped over towards the men who surrounded her like a pack of rhinos. Even Nico was slack jawed and looking defeated. I recalled he had input some admission of guilt into the conversation.  “We’ll be in touch.” she said over a huge shoulder. She turned to leave, then stopped and stared back again, her eyes were ice now, her smile gone, “One more thing,” She surveyed the men till they squirmed even more. “It’s not Mister, it’s Sister, you’ll do best to remember that the next time we meet.”

And then they left. The farmers and Nico stood for a long time looking unsure what to say or what to do. I had to head to school, so I excused myself and clocked out. Then I headed home. 

I stumbled into my room carefully, quiet even though no one was home but me, I closed my blinds and looked out the door one last time before locking it. And then I krept carefully  over to the corner of my room where there was a water stain on the carpet. I started shedding my clothes, my wrangler jeans and my white T. Out of the pocket, I slipped free the business card from the cafe. I laid it on the table next to my bed and then I removed the carpet and a floor board and there was my dress, red as the desert roses in summer. I picked it out carefully and slipped it over my head, silky and soft against my ears as it went down. I went and stood in front of the mirror and tried to mimic the way she had stared, not when she was smiling, that had been amazing too, but when she was not smiling, when she stared at them with disdain and yet full of confidence. I saw now why she wore red. It was her job to bring attention to herself, in order to get justice for others. Crimson, rouge, scarlett, when you put it on your body it relays the message: I’m here.

I breathed in steadily and watched as my eyes took the shape hers had, gleaming right back at me, daring me to deny it. Just then, my red dress caught the tiny shred of light coming through the blinds and I was a red beacon in that dark room. “I am here,” I said calmly. It was the first time I truly believed it.