His lackadaisical thoughts are interrupted by the voice of a rotund, whiny woman. “Nathan,” she pushes the door further ajar, bordering on open. “You have a phone call.” Her slippers scuff the floor as she waddles away from Nathan’s room, leaving the door near-open.

Nathan needs no internal debate as he saunters barefoot out of his room toward the phone. The cold linoleum gorges on the heat being sucked from his feet. His pace does not increase, yet he dare not linger. He reaches the phone area: a public Bell Atlantic payphone transplanted indoors and mounted on a support column. Grabbing a chair from a nearby table, he drags it, scraping, toward the phone area. Nathan notices, but consciously ignores the hard stares from the regulars. He butts the chair up to the column, facing the phone. The arms of the chair force him to climb over them and rearrange his gown to cover any spots which may cause him embarrassment. The receiver is grasped by his hand as he nods to the shrill lady behind the glass.

“Hello?” He phrases it as a question of unfeigned importance. There are certain people he would rather not talk to at the moment.

“Hi, sweetie.” It is his mother. She falls into the category of people he would prefer not to speak with. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine.” Small. Foreign. Distant. He was sounding exactly as he chose to.

“I just want you to know that me and Paul are here for you. We’ll fly out if you want us to.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Then there is silence. Not uncomfortable, every seven minutes, normal conversation silence. The kind of silence that ends relationships. After the incredible, stifling lack of sound, Peg manages to speak again, “How long are they going to keep you there?”

“I don’t know. I need to go.” Nathan doesn’t even bother to hear the inevitable “love you’s” which were to follow as he hangs up the phone. He gets up, puts the chair back in its place and begins the journey back to his room. Just one room into that journey, an odd sight beseeches his eyes witness. One of the patrons, a two hundred fifty pound black lady stands stark naked in her room. She’s staring outside, through the grated, security reinforced window. Nathan cocks his head slightly to the right as he passively stares at her. One of the nurses sees his musing and waltzes to his side. “Oh, Belinda!” and off she goes to enrobe the nude marvel. The oddity over, Nathan determines it is time to return to his room.

I didn’t have much of a hand in it. No, becoming the Drag King was not one of those conscious choices made only after much deliberation and soul-searching. Instead, it was a choice made for me, a twist of fate. Still, I’m happy I went along for the ride.

The spring morning presented itself in fine form. It was a poor day to have to go to school, I thought. I didn’t know that I would not have to attend school that day. No, destiny had other plans for me. There was no sense of foreboding that oftentimes accompanies a trial to come such as mine. No hairs standing upright on my nape. No bitter taste of adrenaline near the back of my mouth. Instead, the day began innocently enough with a simple question from Dara, my stepmother, “Would you like a ride to school?”

The offer was rare, to be sure. School was easier to bear if I didn’t have to walk a grueling mile just to get there. Getting a ride to school was a compromise. I would still have to go to school, yes, but I would be dropped off in style. And Dara’s car had style! My stepmother’s 1985 Mustang GT convertible presented a marvelous sight to behold. It was beautiful: burgundy, black stripes, white leather interior, and all of the options. The word “Mustang” still carried a holy aura about it. It was as if riding in that car made me cool, no matter how nerd-like I truly was.

I quickly agreed to Dara’s offer, finished my morning preparations, and dashed outside to greet the Mustang. My enthusiasm brought a smile to Dara’s lips, a rare enough feat back then. My family had experienced our share of problems. Most of them stemmed from Dara and her penchant for white powder, but I knew not of such things at that age. Nor was I likely to care on that fine spring day in her Mustang.

Although the time hadn’t yet crept up on eight in the morning, the weather already promised to be sweet. The temperature felt comfortable and the air crisp. Dara decided to drive with the top down. With my backpack snuggled between my legs, Dara muscled the convertible from the driveway. I clenched to my backpack tightly, lest my schoolwork fly away in a flock of math papers and history books. Dara embraced the opportunity to drive even faster than usual. I watched as the landscape became a blur. The speed and power of the Mustang brought a simple smile to brighten my face.

We said little. The joy of the ride was enough for us both.

Dara whipped into the school parking lot, and our journey ground to a halt. My smile changed from childlike elation to prideful satisfaction. I was smugly happy to watch my schoolmates watch me get out of the Mustang. Considering what happened next, perhaps fate took my pride as a sign that it was time to teach me a lesson.