Isobel

a story about lesbians and trannies in the 1920s.

She was perfect, beautiful. Her legs were thin and she moved quickly, like she was trying to get some place. Only, she'd been crawling around my wall in circles for over half an hour, as if she were lost in some desert out west. She was acting like a blind drunkard (as I usually did), thinking she was going somewhere but only retracing her steps. Maybe my walls, decaying with the stains of a century worth of cigarette smoke, seemed like a desert to a little arachnid like her.

I smiled and threw my legs over the side of my bed as it creaked familiarly. My satin slippers were resting in their usual place next to my bed, but there was no time for them. I walked on my tip toes toward the door as too not startle Isobel (I decided to name her that - she reminded me of a sexy woman from Spain), as I knew too well that any change in scenery could spook a bug.

I skipped to the kitchen happily, hoping that Mommy wouldn't make too much of a production out of my awakening. 

Sure enough, with my unluck, she exclaimed, "Fauna! Sit down this instant, you're beyond late." My little brother, the stupid one that I didn't like, Maximilien, he tittered at my mother scolding me and I rolled my eyes at him. He was a little brat. A snotty little brainless freak that would grow up to be an even bigger crook than our father.

By the time Mommy could grip any more, though, I'd gotten a cup out of the cupboard and was halfway back to my bedroom.

I stood on my bed after fetching the same piece of sandpaper I'd gathered bugs with for years, and watched her crawl around my wall for awhile, my eyes following her like a cat watching string. I had to wait for the perfect moment to capture her or else I'd miss and scare her off or accidentally crush her with the rim of the cup.

Finally, I pressed the cup against the wall, capsulating the spider inside.

"Ee-so-bell!" I cried, sliding the sandpaper beneath the cup.

I didn't like to keep my bugs in the cup for too long. Not only because its easy for them to crawl out, but because I wouldn't really like to be confined to a dark, tiny space either. I tended to be more empathetic with my bugs than with people.

I smiled gently as I slid the top of my bug jar open, dumping her inside. I closed it quickly so that Cloud (the moth) or Dick (the other spider) couldn't get out. She crawled around vivaciously among the other insects, crawling down one of the sticks I'd placed inside there a few weeks before.

I'd been experimenting with bugs for years, since I was 5 or younger, collecting any spiders or ants or butterflies or roaches or even frogs I could find and putting them together in different confined environments. It was terribly interesting to see what they'd do to each other, or how they'd react to their new habitats.

After several moments of watching Isobel and Dick meet each other for the first time, I heard several soft taps at my door. It could only be Mommy. She forced herself to be as gentle - no, as weak - as possible, but everyone knew she was a big boned Jewish woman that could beat my tiny (French) father into next century.

Oh, how she tried so hard to conform to my father's high class circle of friends and their boring way of living.

"What?" I asked, my teeth almost clenched. I didn't want to deal with her or my brother - no, not at all. No, I didn't even want to think about it. But she would make me.

She opened my door, shutting it behind her, and this is when I knew that she had something more to say than just "You better get to the dining room table to eat some disgusting food that you don't like."

"Your father has a function tonight that he'd like us to go to," she said and I turned to look at her.

Function? You mean those things that make me turn into a suicidal maniac with sweaty hands and a fast heart?

"What sort?" I asked her, trying not to overreact.

"It's for his business. They're just going to toast one another and talk about who's getting a raise and those things. It won't be too long, I know you hate socializing. It'll be good to get out, though, and you get to dress up," she said to me.

I slunched my shoulders, feeling a bit guilty for thinking bad things about her. She was actually being somewhat considerate of my feelings for once.

"Alright."

♡

We were riding in our automobile, me, Mommy and Daddy and Maximilien, to the party at around 7 pm that night. I was wearing a sheer green dress that contrasted perfectly with my deep auburn hair, with a dirty silk slip underneath. I had on a long strand of pearls and what my father had referred to as "too many rings." He also called me a flapper for the millionth tim, which I had vehemently denied.

Flappers were stupid. They meant nothing. Sure, I liked the way that they looked, but that's all they were - looks. They didn't do anything or stand for anything, not most of them anyway. Some were sort of suffragettes, which I appreciated since I truly believe in women's rights. I was sort of a suffragette myself in secret. I didn't think my dad would let me be one so I never told anybody, though.

We arrived after awhile of my brother rambling about the war plane that he had drawn a diagram of. Daddy had pretended to be interested, but no one really cared about the war in New Orleans anymore, it seemed. My parents got out of the car first and we followed.

Maximilien acted very sociable and normal around us all, but when he was actually in public, he was perhaps even more uncomfortable than I.

I won't go into the boring details of the ceremony or even the location because it was just that - boring. I wasn't even completely aware of the situation myself, just the food. The food was absolutely wonderful. It wasn't all uppity like I had expected - there were cakes and pigs in a blanket and baked chicken and sweet tea. I was stuffing myself, naturally, and wasn't at all embarrassed until I noticed one of the waiters.

He was dressed finely, in black slacks and a white button-down shirt, a bowtie and black suit jacket. All the other waiters were dressed the same as him, but he somehow looked so much better, so pristine he looked. He was a dandy. Except, he was wearing makeup thicker than any w***e I'd ever seen. He had black around his eyes, and white powder all over his face.

He was the only person I'd ever really thought was truly beautiful. I'd never been attracted to anybody else, not really - though I had pretended to be so I wouldn't feel too odd for not having lusted over anyone.

Only, I had lusted over people, but they had been people I'd made up in my head. No one I'd ever met or seen in a picture had been perfect enough, no matter how pretentious that sounds, besides this waiter.

And yet, he seemed very familiar somehow. In appearance and in, well, in spirit. The aroma of [i]him[/i], it just seemed like I'd felt it before...

Forrest Baker, Forrest Baker.

I think I stepped over a thousand overpriced shoes on my way toward Forrest. He was my favorite poet, oh how was he so perfect? How didn't I recognize him sooner? I'd read his one and only book hundreds of times, and I'd stared at the tiny photograph of him in the back, looking shy and sullen, for hundreds of minutes. I would have done anything to have a word with him.

Finally, I caught up with him as he was pouring some tea from a pitcher into a few glasses, and by then I was embarrassingly out of breath.

"Forrest?" I inquired timidly.

It took a moment, but he turned around slowly and looked at me. He seemed almost astonished - I wasn't sure why, I figured that he probably had many fans and was often approached by them.

"Hello," he said, a fond smile creeping upon his face.

I found myself flushed. The photograph in the back of his book didn't show his dimples.

"I just love you and your poetry. It's absolutely beautiful. I've torn out pages of your book and plastered them all over my walls so I can read them when I wake up every morning. You're absolutely fantastic, I can't believe I'm meeting you," I couldn't believe how fast I was talking as I began to feel faint.

"But then you can't read the other sides of the pages, can you?" he pointed out, giggling a bit.

I'm not sure how I didn't notice how feminine he sounded. I was too much in a dream state, I suppose.

"Oh, oh thats true... I've just put up my favorites, you know, but I love all of them, really," I muttered.

He didn't say anything right away, but looked down at his shoes - so I did too. They were nice, shining by the light of the chandelier.

"You really... really like my poems?" he asked, seeming too genuine. And by 'too', I mean he didn't seem fake.

I gasped, "You're my favorite poet, and I'm an absolute poetry elitist. I mean, I've read all of Keats work, all of Wordsworth's, Emily Dickinson, Lord Byron, Yeats, Poe, you know, all them... and you're my favorite."

"That's absurd, you're lying," he said, his cheeks just as flushed as mine now, "Exaggerating anyway, but probably lying."

I kneeled before him and looked into his eyes, reciting his entire poem "Morning," and then I courageously took his hand in mine and laid a kiss upon it. Anyone could be looking at us, even my mom or my brother or one of my father's bosses, but I didn't care. This was the most important moment of my life and it was worth it.

He was smiling deeply, that sort of smile that people didn't do on purpose, the sort of smile that just sort of happened and you can't stop it.

I smiled back at him deeply, suddenly feeling self conscious at the realization that I wasn't nearly as beautiful as him and he probably thought I was just some ugly broad, some gold-digger or something... though, his book couldn't have gotten him too rich since he was still working as a waiter.

Before we could talk anymore, though, unfortunately, his supervisor came up to him and told him to get back to work. He agreed, of course, but before he left, told me, "Thank you."

It was more than manners, though. You could tell he really meant it.

Forrest Baker meant everything he said

Author's Note

I'm scared because I've never posted anything here before...

Reviews

[cilla]

I think you've gotten this story off to a very good and interesting start. Writing in First Person is difficult mainly because the reader only sees the story through the character's eye. That being said, you've created a nice flow and a voice that seems natural. Plus, interesting time period and interesting subject matter. So, hurry up and post more!

~cilla~

PS: I never comment on people's choices of usernames but yours hardly seems a appropriate. It is definitely not someone mentally impaired writing this story. Positive image and all that you know!

[Celestial Witch Child]

Don't be scared- this is a wonderful chapter. Such a unique plot that leaves me wanting to read more. And anyway, hardly anyone gives harsh reviews. This is fantastic. Amazing job. I can't wait to read the rest. (: