Legion paced the railroad tracks near the West End, just east of the corner of Abernathy and Metropolitan. It was a world unto itself, shielded on both sides by thick bushes and trees of every green conceivable. The wig dangled from es right hand like a heavy mass of sadness. E’d wanted to replace it, but what was the point now? E’d been exposed to the world, humiliated before The Family, and couldn’t foresee the absolute restoration of es carefully guarded self. “Fuck it,” e murmured, and put it on anyway. “This is my life. I ain’t livin’ it for nobody else!” E had to admit, though, if only to emself, that es shame was rooted in how others saw em. Or how e believed others saw em. E’d thought e’d passed that milestone years ago, caring what other people think, but apparently not. Maybe we never do, e considered.
The last time e’d felt so debased was when es father barged into the bathroom and beheld es nakedness. Legion had just stepped from the shower. “What the hell?” the man declared, gawking at his son’s irregular form. “Is them titties?” Legion covered emself quickly with a white towel barely long enough to conceal es privates. “What you doin’ with titties, boy?” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, a declaration of es weirdness, es freakishness, es abnormality. It was es father’s way of announcing his son’s deformity, his spoiled masculinity, which, under no circumstances, the father would tolerate. Since age eleven, Legion had bound budding breasts with an elastic band so tight e could hardly breathe. Layers of T-shirts and button-downs, big enough for men thrice es size, further veiled unwanted lumps, which, in their exposure, contradicted the male self e’d promised. This was before es freedom, e’d told Lazarus and the family. Before e learned e could create emself all by emself.
Legion walked the tracks for miles, kicking stones and tossing twigs to the air. For some reason, e thought of Jesus and the woman at the well, the one people almost stoned for adultery. What had Jesus said? “Ye without sin cast the first stone”? Legion half-smiled and murmured, “Jesus read those muthafuckas! Goddamn hypocrites. She certainly wasn’t doin’ it alone!” E imagined the whole scene, faces of pity and self-righteous judgment, eyes of wonder and curiosity, guilty hearts begging, hoping she wouldn’t tell what she knew. All the while no one comforted her. Fearful of rejection by association, they left her to bear alone the weight of sexual indiscretion, although someone in the crowd must’ve been a participant. Jesus knew. That’s why he dared them to say a word. And they must’ve known Jesus knew. No one was stupid enough to try him.
What happened to the woman after that day? Legion pondered. She probably disappeared from Samaria or wherever the hell they were. E knew the feeling—of wanting to vanish, to just walk off and leave a place. To erase one’s entire being from record. Sure, e was bold now, but deep within e couldn’t quiet the child no one had wanted. E remembered being whispered about in public—“That boy looks mighty soft”—and hiding behind es mother’s flowing dress tail even though, upon discovery, es father would make em pay for not being boy enough. It didn’t matter years later that e wasn’t a man. E was beaten because e didn’t want to be one. This was why they were prepared to stone the woman at the well. She’d exercised privileges reserved for men. Now e understood es father’s rage. He’d had a son who’d been given the gift of maleness and rejected it. There could be no greater sin.
Legion sighed and mumbled, “Whatever.” Lazarus needed em now, so Legion shifted attention to the only man who’d ever embraced him. Those policemen would get their due. E’d make sure of it. And wig or no wig, e was still the baddest muthafucka on the street. No one could take that from em.
Descending the slope on which the railroad tracks rested, Legion pondered how to get a lawyer. E knew lawyers, lots of them. But most encounters found Legion upon his knees or bent over in BMWs and Mercedes in dark alleys throughout the city. A sexual favor in exchange for money was not beneath em. What was beneath em was the loathsome act of begging. That e couldn’t do. E didn’t have the humility for it, e believed, or perhaps e bore too much dignity. Whatever it was, e was never able to hold handwritten signs before automobiles at stoplights or busy intersections. Or to ask suspicious pedestrians, Got any spare change? E hated that shit. How it made one look helpless and pitiful and how, when people ignored them altogether, it left them feeling worthless. No, e’d earn every penny e got, even if e had to fall upon es knees to do it.
Passing the West End MARTA station, e remembered a guy who seemed different from the others. What was his name? He was a husky fellow, broad shouldered and thick hipped, but surprisingly kind and sensitive. More than anything, it was the man’s dimples Legion remembered, cratered in the center of his cheeks, shifting like dancing basins of flesh whenever he smiled. And his smile begat Legion’s smile, and in the man’s presence Legion felt safe, although in their unprotected exchange there was no safety. The first night they met, after handling business, the man asked Legion es name. Legion froze. No one had ever done that before. E’d never been a person, a human to be respected. E’d always been a thing, a source of people’s pleasure. Es name had never been relevant. Then, the man told Legion that e was beautiful.
“What?”
“Yes. You’re gorgeous. Anyone can see that.” He smiled.
Legion scrambled from the car. The man lowered the passenger window and said, “I’d like to see you again.”
Wanting desperately to believe what e was hearing, Legion paused and studied the man’s soft, pleading eyes. They were as sincere as a newborn kitten’s; still e didn’t trust him. Not with his quivering heart. “Just leave, man.”
He wasn’t dissuaded. “I mean it. You’re not just a good—”
“I ain’t got time for no bullshit. I got what I needed, you got what you needed, so let’s just leave it at that and go home.” Legion turned.
The man followed. “I’m serious. I’ll be back Saturday night, right here, same time, if you wanna see me.” Then he left.
Legion didn’t return. Es heart couldn’t bear the truth either way. What if the man meant what he’d said? Legion couldn’t love him. Not the way normal people love The man would discover Legion’s difference and retract his admiration and Legion would be devastated, right? That was the only possible outcome. Still Legion couldn’t forget having been called beautiful. Beautiful? Really? It was a song, the man’s declaration, that never stopped ringing in Legion’s head. What exactly had he meant? That es face was pleasant to behold? Or that es spirit felt kind and comforting? Suddenly Legion considered that it was all probably a game the man had played, a tactic to lure Legion into providing pro bono services to a slick-talking corporate lawyer. Yet in es heart e wanted to believe precisely what the man had said. E liked the feeling e got each time the man’s sweet baritone echoed in his brain. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. It became a mantra e sang aloud on difficult days. The man was the only person who’d ever wanted to touch Legion. And hold Legion. And smile into Legion’s eyes. And Legion had been too afraid to let him.
Perhaps the man would remember em, Legion thought, and be willing to help. If e could find him.