The Invisible Tomboy

Just Missed Me--The Invisible Tomboy--4 KNUCKLING DOWN!

Zuiderzee — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 17:08:14 +0000

I could have killed that guy.

Yes, KILLED him. Oh, wow!

Bare knuckle fighting is a mean, merciless, low-down style of delivering high-yield sadism to your opponent. But...it beats giving up without a struggle and going along quietly.

Over the years, I have learned more than a girl is expected to know about causing brain-damage, tooth loss and organ failure.

To me, bare knuckle fighting is less a sport than a means to save my own invisible neck. Even with the element of surprise, I have one serious disadvantage when I'm not wearing clothes.

I can't see my own fucking fists!

One of the goals in bare-knuckling is to avoid hitting hard spots and concentrate on punishing soft ones: solar plexus, tip of the nose, ear, soft ribs, flanks, right in the eyes.
A guy's nuts aren't off my list, but since they're such a
common target, the average man is already thinking along the lines of saving them and adjusts his angle accordingly.

That's what Mr. Head did. What he didn't do was cover all the bases. I held off until he stood unmoving in what I was sure was the range of my right arm.

BIFF! I got Mr. Head squarely on the nose with the first jab and followed that conservative move up with a blow to his flank, looking to fuck up his liver---WHAP!

While he was coping with those two bursts of pain, I got a solid, straight-on punch to his lips. SMACK!

And why not? His face was a great target---a bobbing sphere of muted pink on an otherwise glass-like body. That coloration made the impact far more obvious.

"Gesshhhhh!" He hissed inarticulately.

His teeth---I felt his front teeth. They seemed crooked already. And translucent or not, I swear I saw Mr. Head blink. Now he was trying to land one on me, but I blocked the useless punch and slugged him deep in the armpit.
Then I got him in the soft ribs, deeper this time---and stronger. The long walk I had taken to get to this house hadn't tired me out after all; it had just been a warm-up for this. I could go the distance. And if I had to run, I figured I could do that too.

I loosened my fists, ready to tighten them again into hard blocks of knuckle-bones. My firm, but unsupported jugs
jiggled around and slapped against my skin when they bounced; there was nothing to do about that but ride out the motion.

"Hold it! Hold it!" Mr. Head raised his hands palm outward. No good in my book; he was still blocking my exit. And while he was fending just so, I could get in another slug to his belly.

BAM! Right on the money. How do you like me now?

Those hits had knocked him out of reach. I was no longer cornered. I had some real fighting room; I took advantage of every square centimeter (or inch, if you like) I had.

My next jab missed completely.

He reached for me, letting his guard down for the meager chance of catching me in some sort of lame, faggy take-down move he had seen on TV, but had no idea how to pull off in real life. Too bad for him. The hollow of his midsection came near and I ducked to put another punch to his gut that would make him blow air like a popped tire. Not good enough. He turned as I hit; my knuckles ran into the lower ribs and bounced, not doing the damage I had hoped for.

Back Mr. Head went. The veneer of makeup painting his face let me see every wince.

Right about then, the little Yorkie who had been content to growl the whole time, started barking in earnest, fucking up my concentration, getting underfoot. Yorkie got a bare-toed kick for his troubles and let out a strident yap as he retreated from the bathroom, howling in pain.

I could tell Mr. Head looked in my direction. He could see enough of me to plan an attack.
For a few seconds, he showed some sense in bringing up his own fists in a classic defense posture. Too bad for Mr. Head, he didn't keep his guard up---in fact, he got everything wrong. His punches, inspired by video games or maybe cartoons, should have come with sound effects. They were telegraphed so badly it was shit simple to duck them.

If he had a super-move in his program, he didn't use it.

Time for another combination, but to do that, I had to close with him on a slick floor.

The water on my skin and in my hair would give away my
position.

My hair, worst of all. Oh, wow. I had thought about shaving it off, but never did it.

The beads of water on my skin would give me a telltale sheen--until, that is, it dripped away or I shook it off.

I also had to remember what a really dangerous place (statistically speaking) a bathroom is: Smooth, wet surfaces. Sharp corners, metal bars, hard porcelain. Horsing around in a bathroom is as dangerous as playing on steep steps.

Combined with the dye already splattered on me, I
had to be as visible to Mr. Head as he had been to me.

The pain from the first few shots would build in time.

Stiffened fingers from my left hand spiked his larynx, but not brutally.

Doubled up, protecting himself, Mr. Head finally backed off another pace. But I hadn't won yet. This was his turf. If he got somewhere else in the house, he might have had a nasty surprise prepared. How many times did I wish for an invisible knife or gun? I quickly lost count. I have used plain objects as weapons, but I have to hold the damn things still until my target lets his guard down or looks the other way--â€”then, WHAM! Sneak attack.

Mr. Head, the latest asshole I had to dead with had given a lot to worry about-â€”maybe too much. True, he wasn't invisible as much as I was, but still enough to worry me into thinking there were more of him in the house.

And the attack dog. A bluff, I figured.

But there was no time to think about that.
So far, the fight was mine, but I wasn't beating him down without a real risk. Bones can break, and invisible body parts are hard to treat medically.

The fight traveled from the bathroom to the bedroom. Some of the water from the shower had dripped off me. Not enough. And the colorful splatter of dye on my back gave me away like a fluorescent orange vest complete with reflective stripes.

Mr. Head made it an all-or-nothing affair when he lowered his body and charged, taking a gliding sock to the shoulder. He drove straight into me and we collided with the wall, making a framed picture drop. The thin glass broke. His feet dug into the carpet, getting lots of purchase, holding his ground.

Visible signs of a struggle. No way I could hide that.

Oh, wow. He wanted to wrestle. Fine, I know some of that shtick, too. Mr. Head had a light build. We came to grips, but my wet skin fouled things up right away. His pink-painted face showed off his exertion.

Time for a head-butt. Overdue, in fact. I crashed my noggin into his with an audible crack. A good one, but I missed his nose. The next one was better, getting his forehead.

Now, there was some space.

I used a foot to push away from the wall and throw him onto his back on the bed. My little toe caught on something under the bed and twisted outward. Mr. Head was trying to get up. I sprang, sore toe and all and landed on him, knocking the wind out of him for the second time. Mr. Head was not only skinny, he was hairy. At least he didn't have a hard-on, but I felt his fear-slackened dilly all the same against my leg. YUCK.

I felt him gathering strength to throw me off.

Right about then, I Burked him, using the old body-snatcher's smother---you know, clamping the mouth and nose shut with both my hands, using my weight to pin him. He tried to throw me off, but my desperation was stronger than his, more focused, more real. Mr. Head let out some snake-hisses and did some wild things with his body, trying to get away, but it was no good.

If I knew anything, he would try to fake a blackout to avoid being strangled to death. Reading his painted face, I could see his eyelids flutter and close. I couldn't be so generous. Thirty seconds was more than enough to kill. I gave him twenty one, clamping his nostrils and his lips shut to prevent him from snatching a breath.

"I'll make you sorry if you fake it," I told him. "Stay down."

There's a street-fighting rule that says when the fight's over, don't forget to tell your opponent.

"It's over, Mr. Head. Just for the record."

I straddled his diaphragm, waiting for it to bulge with a sudden breath, but it didn't. His body was warm; I got a reminder that I hadn't gotten down in a long while. My nipples were hard---from the cold water or the fear of the sensation of being in bed with a warm body. I couldn't be sure. I still don't know. Playing with my tits felt great at that strange moment; I almost couldn't pull my fingers away. And my pussy liked the feel of man-flesh pressing against it. Too bad I couldn't follow the advice of an old song and love the one I was with.

I dismounted and got to work with the broken glass from the picture, cutting and ripping up the bed sheets to tie him down. My toe throbbed. Not sprained, but bad enough, thanks all the same.

A chair he might be able to tip over. There was one seat nearby he wouldn't find so easy to upset. I dragged him back into the bathroom, threw up the toilet lid and seat and lashed him to the toilet. If he had to use the john, I wouldn't have to untie him.

* * *

I didn't kill Mr. Head. I didn't want to.

Hungry, I went downstairs. Yorkie was already there, making little growls between whimpers.

I took the time to scope out the framed pictures in the living room. Lots of handsome young men. And standing with them with arms around their shoulders was a balding, always smiling fatso with frameless glasses. The rest of the house was fastidious. Nothing out of place.

The cutlery drawer had the order of a surgeon's tray in an operating room. I helped myself to some choice knives.

Raiding the refrigerator, I whipped up twenty sandwiches, wrapped them for traveling and went back upstairs. Taking my time, I put the grub away and got dressed.

Somehow, I had to bring myself to eat. To think things I didn't want to. To make plans to escape again. I didn't want any of that. What a world. Men on the moon, Mars probes, nanotechnology, genetic mapping, nuclear fusion around the corner. I, and Mr. Head, despite the differences in our bodies, were worthy of inclusion in that list of miracles. We were now living in a world where science could turn living tissue invisible. And I wasn't a baby anymore. What about in five years? In ten? Twenty? If we were flukes, and the experiments that produced us couldn't be repeated, I could live with that reality. Mr. Head had found a niche in this place. I didn't expect another invisible person to be here.

How did Rory have this address? Conspiracy nightmares whirled in my mind. How long could I safely stay here? A day, an hour? Another ten minutes? It all smelled like a trap. Two invisibles here. Maybe "they" were waiting until three or four were under this roof before "they" sprang the trap.

Mr. Head? His body likely had a pricetag of at least 100 million dollars U.S. Shit, the cost a Hollywood movie!

Mine? Since my invisibility was far better, I had to be worth five or fifteen times as much as him. He was awake when I stepped in the door.

"What's your name?" I started in on one of the sandwiches.
"Miller," he said with sloppy, after-a-bruising diction. "Glenn Miller."

"You're not as good at vanishing as your namesake."

"Hunh?"

"Never mind. That was just bullshit."

"I thought we Irish called it blarney," Miller said.

"I'm Canadian. The name's Peer. Daisy Peer."

"Daisy Peer! That's fucking funny, eh? Disappear...."

"Piss off. You're in the right place for it."

"They investigated my ancestry," Miller went on. "They were looking for a certain genetic strain that would work with their experiments. Immigrant families from a certain region of Northern Ireland; Derry. I guess they traced your folks, too."

"Now who's cranking out the blarney?" His arms were tied under the toilet tank. I gave him a slap. Not too hard, but hard. "And who's this doctor guy? Toby Grimes?"
"He's a fairy. Moved here from America. Divorced. Rich wife caught him in the house getting a blow-job from a college boy. Grimes is going to be in tonight. He isn't a problem."

"Already I don't trust him!"

And why should I? Sixty years ago, even thirty, a houseful of queens would have been a godsend for a fugitive like me. No one would have breathed a word---I would have gotten some sympathy. I would have been kept a dead secret. Not now.

This character Grimes had already blown it. Or someone had blown it for him.

"There's a conspiracy," Miller said.

"Shut up!" I whacked him one.

"You could have choked me to death back there---"

"Rough, aren't I? I didn't ask to be invisible. And I don't think you did. I live like a criminal out of sheer necessity. I can't live a normal life...

"Conspiracy, Mr. Head? Well, I'm way ahead of you. Somewhere, my mother is locked up. One of these days, I might get locked up. And then vivisected. But if they're going to do that to me, it's going to be because I did a lot of shit to deserve it...not just for being hard to see. Someday, when I'm better set up, I'll make people pay."

"Then you know about Epimetheus Laboratory---"

"Until you blurted it out just now, I never heard of it. But I think I'll leave government-funded fuckery to you and leave myself out of the loop. I'm moving on."

"Wait, you completely invisible. You could help."

"Not with the big spot of dye on my ass. This had better come out soon."

"It will fade in a week. Maybe less than a week."

I made up a convincing lie on the spot. More blarney. "I have family in New Brunswick." (Like hell I did.) I'll hide out with an uncle who can take me in."

Somewhere in the house, a phone rang.

"Grimes is coming home. He always phones ahead to be safe."

"He's the chub in those pictures in the living room?"

Miller nodded.

"What the fuck does he drive, Mr. Head?"

No answer. I gave him another slap---a good one this time.

Miller spilled, "New model SUV. Gray. American job..."

He gave me the details. Grimes was at a coffee shop four blocks away. He had just arrived. If things were hinky, Grimes might change his plans. But he had wheels.

* * *

I had a lot to think about on the jog over to the coffee shop. Four blocks passed like four big steps. Sore foot and all, I made it there on time. Grimes was in the parking lot, looking around, still trying his mobile phone, wearing a fretful look while trying to look friendly and nonchalant.

When, with a tired sigh he opened the door to his huge SUV, I made my move, snatching his keys before he could close the door. With threatening body language and a minimum of words, I got in on the opposite side with my gear, flung a single ignition key to him and told him to drive. I pulled my jacket hood down to show him what he was dealing with.

He was so shaken it was if it was his first time behind the wheel and he didn't know what did what.

"That key---THERE!" I pointed to the ignition slot.

The doctor had a long trickle of sweat traveling down his face. While he dithered, I dug into his freshly-dry-cleaned coat pocket for his phone. The big SUV started up.

"Wh-who are you?" A high voice with an oddly musical tone broke the silence.

"Glass. Claire Glass. Start the engine and run the Goddamned heater, it's cold in here. And when you've fired up, drive carefully to this place...."

I showed him a hand-drawn map. The location I wanted was unremarkable, misleading. I was only wanting to get rid of Grimes and drive this thing on another errand.

"What's all that crap in the back? Welding something?"

"Sc-scuba gear."

"Looks new," I said, not wanting to hint that I was planning to use it, only sell it. "Worth a lot. You have a nice house, by the way. There's a jerk upstairs in the john and a dog that might appreciate a trip to the vet. You're down a loaf of bread and other groceries. And a few knives."

At the next stop, I demanded his wallet.

"Now listen. Just listen," Grimes said. "I could hide you. Hide you in my house."

"No good, Queenie. You're not good at keeping your own life secret. What about mine, eh?" I clapped him a couple of times on his bald head, Benny Hill style. That was great.
Grimes had credit cards galore. He could keep them. But not the phone cards. And he had the good old fashioned stuff.
Yank money. Lots of it. And some multicolored Canadian dollars. The good, high-denomination bills. The queen maybe liked to cross the border regularly. I looked at his collection of business cards.

Eateries, bars, nightclubs. All gay by the look of them. And then: SNORKLEDORF--â€”Ottawa's Premiere Scuba shop.

An idea, but for another time.

"Parking garage." A pointed a finger at a dark, foreboding concrete hive. "Pull in there."

Grimes, trembling, put on his blinkers and joined a line of cars lined up at the entrance to the garage. I got out of the passenger's seat and hid in the darkness behind the driver's seat.
Something white and ominous rolled our way, going slow, prowling, looking for something. The sleek, white, Detroit-made four door emblazoned with the markings of the QPP slowed, but passed us on the other side of the road.

"You just keep looking at the garage entrance, Fat Boy," I said to Grimes. Finding a handkerchief in his coat pocket, I wiped the sweat off his face. "Play it cool. Play it cool and everything will go smoothly."

Oh yeah. I was cranking out the blarney. Cranking hard.

I suspected the QPP car had gone on, but I knew better.

Something in my stomach felt rotten. I had an urge to puke and had to fight it.

I took the opportunity to look over Grimes' shoulder at the rearview mirror. Well before the traffic light at the end of the street, the police car made a sweeping U-turn, going slow enough and close enough for me to see the black and gold racing stripes along the side and the gold seal with the white French fleur in a blue circle---the image always looked to me like a white hand giving the "FUCK YOU" middle finger.

The QPP straightened, giving me a view of the wide, dark windshield. It pulled into the line of cars behind us.
In another second, the light bar on its roof began to flash.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Hopefully, this chapter was more satisfying than Part 3. In any case, some feedback would be helpful. Thanks!

(Repost of) Just Missed Me--The Invisible Tomboy--3 (Doc's Orders)

Zuiderzee — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 19:54:19 +0000

The INVISIBLE TOMBOY 3: Doctor's Orders (Repost)

Sirens. I had to listen to them, no matter how close or how distant. The whole world came to a halt as I strained to follow the wail of a siren across the river. The sound reminded me how tentative my freedom is.

On my own again, walking in the rain, trudging the wet streets---and pissed off.

This wasn't how life for the invisible was supposed to be.

The new surroundings helped ease the tension, but added the same amount right back again. I didn't know my way around Gatineau and I didn't want to ask strangers for directions or go around with a map---advertising myself as an out-of-towner.

When I stopped to rest in a garbage-cluttered alley between stores, I got company. A hook-nosed fatso bundled up against the cold burst out of a doorway and stumbled past me, yanking down his zipper with one bare hand and one glo ved. Urine trickled before he got his dick in the clear, but he looked like the sort that didn't give a shit. The stain didn't show up on his pants.

A phone rang in his pocket and he ignored it.

He whizzed and farted loudly not two feet from where I was standing then shook off his dick, zipped up and shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack.

Liesurely, he lit up and enjoyed several puffs, blowing the smoke more or less at me. Fortunately, he didn't notice the curls of smoke traveling over my contours.

His phone rang again, but he let it go on.

He glanced in my direction, squinting at the latest billow of smoke, maybe making out my shape. He leaned in closer to me. His phone rang again, sounding more insistent.

"Uh-huh," he answered upon finally answering the phone. "Sure. Half of it taken care of. An hour. Yeah. Yeah to that, too. Twenty-two. No, I haven't seen any of them.
Nope. Nope. None of those either. Nope. No luck. Bye."

Fatso propped his foot up on an old tire in the alley and bore down with a grunt. Whatever he was trying to force didn't come.

Smoking until half the cancer stick was gone, he whistled and went back where he came from, oblivious to me.

I felt like knocking people's hats off in the street.

My tightened fists brought up an old memory about the years I had owned a pair of boxing gloves.

Christmas. The boy next door (let's call him Charlie) had gotten that pair of kid-sized boxing gloves. After a few months, Charlie's present, hardly used, wound up in the trash. Charlie probably got too punchy for his own good and the boxing gloves had to go. They ended up in my care, and I couldn't get enough of those things.

Yeah, I was a kid, but those gloves were about the best present I ever had. And I picked the damned things out of the trash. Picked them out and put them on. Dad laughed at me. What else could he do. The kind of punch a trained boxer throws is a strong, aimed, controlled reflex that takes a long time to perfect.

According to Dad, I was just waving my arms in the air in front of me. I was being pathetic-â€”imitating what I had seen on TV instead of having the feel for what real combat was about.

Dad took the pipe out of his mouth long enough to say, "You get into a real fight with moves like that, and you'll be flattened. Now, you ought to learn how to throw a punch that will go straight. Remember, this is for self-defense."

I learned about taping up my "dukes" like a ring fighter, got a pair of athletic shoes similar to a boxer's and spent hours in the garage beating up a bag hung from the rafters.

To hell with TV, I thought. After school, provided I had someone to lace my gloves, I walloped the bag for hours until supper time. My hands were so beat up, I couldn't hold a pen. I couldn't write. My schoolwork suffered.

I took on some of the guys at school. I don't know if they were afraid of hitting a girl or making my dad mad, but almost nobody wanted to fight me. It was back to the old bag.

Jabs, hooks, crosses, feints, combos. I could do them all. And all the illegal ones. Hell, maybe I would get into a street fight somewhere. A rabbit punch, a sucker punch, a kidney punch or hitting below the belt were things I perfected also. Once or twice I even tried loading my gloves.

I was getting strong arms-â€”strong all over. And quick. I watched every boxing movie I could think of and every one the guy at the video store could think of.

Trouble was, I wasn't learning much if the bag wasn't punching me back.

But that was the least of my worries.

When I began to turn translucent, all my old habits and hobbies stopped. But I never forgot how to throw a solid punch. I'd give a lot to be visible for a few hours a day to visit a gym. Now, even with the fur-lined leather gloves on, my hands felt cold. I should have worn mitts, I suppose, but I needed the dexterity of my fingers. The left glove had a sizeable rip in the palm through which I could see---nothing.

There was a gap between my jacket cuff and the glove, and there too, I saw---nothing.

I was used to the phenomenon of not being able to see myself, but others weren't. They never would be, I guessed.

A long, blaring car horn broke me out of my brown study and back into the cold reality of the streets. I got to thinking every loud noise is directed at me.

A harsh voice yelled: "HEY! GET MOVING! GET MOVING!"

No collar this time; it was just a truck blocking an intersection. It took minutes for my nerves to calm down.

I lived (and still live) in an ongoing state of adjustment and insecurity. Girls my age are concerned with their appearance, but in my case, its my lack of appearance.
To simplify, I always worry that I come across as unusual. So unusual, I might be reported, photographed, detained or something else I don't need.

The walk from the neighborhood where I left the VW and Rory stranded to the doctor's house was long and lonely, giving me plenty of time to think about my present.

It's a bitch, all right.

This was real life for me, and it was turning out a lot like those movies and books where the invisible character is distrusted, feared and hunted to death. Yes, I was an outcast because of my state---a state no one else could ever get used to or appreciate.

However, I had to contemplate the fact that I was now walking around in a world where invisibility was now a human trait. In another five years, maybe there would be more. In another ten or fifteen, if steps weren't taken to wipe us all out, there might just be a fugitive community of unseen people where I could be at home.

Grimes was the doctor's nameâ€”short, easy to remember. Made me think of a fat, English country doctor out of a Jane Austen or a Charles Dickens book. His first name, Toby, stamped him permanently in my mind as a relic from the 19th century complete with waistcoat and a silk top hat.

Toby Grimes.

I half-expected him to have a dirt carriage drive leading up to his house, but that wasn't the case. He was just another modern, well-to-do Canadian with a house I could hide in. And in a place I could reasonably hide and live a few comfortable days if I was very smart.

Gatineau.

Not a bad town in the right time of year. It wasn't exactly picturesque, but not an eyesore, either. For someone like me, Gatineau was a risky place to hole up, given that Ottawa was right across the river.

Yeah, I could see the capital.

That sight alone kept me on my toes.

Ottawa with its government buildings had me thinking of cops morning, noon and night.

My French wasn't good---oh, I could read road signs, menus and theater marquees, but don't ask me to speak French or understand it when it's spoken. Shit, even listening to people with strong French accents trying to manage English annoys me.

With no other place to go, I trudged uphill and downhill over wet pavement, jaywalking and ducking down side streets when I saw cop cars.

Grimes' house was at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac. Cars no more than three years old were parked along the curb. I didn't know how Rory knew someone as successful as an M.D., and that fact made me worry. Maybe Grimes was a bum of a doc who'd had to run from some other country and hide out here, unable to practice medicine in his homeland. I was only guessing.

The Doctor's neighborhood was so quiet and isolated it could have been in any small town in Canada. The two-story, gable-roofed house practically yelled comfort. Of course, it belonged to a doctor, so I imagined it had an alarm system.

I had so much stuff with me---if I had to run from this place, I would have to ditch a lot of it right then and there. My stomach didn't feel good.

Grimes' house was landscaped, which to me means don't step on the grass. Keep to the pavement.

Dogs at the neighboring house barked at me behind a closed gate. In the driveway, a huge pickup truck with a shell stood like a giant blue alien beetle. Its doors were open. Shopping bags from the local supermarket huddled inside.

Shit!

I saw two bags of dog-biscuits in with the groceries. Unless the dude was eating them himself, there had to be a dog in the house, the garage or outside.

In another moment, a dark-haired young man, his clothes wet from the rain, hurried out of the open front door of the house and resumed his back and forth trips to the pickup truck.

Mr. Pickup was in no particular hurry.

I knew this set-up by heart.

Naked, I could have scurried into the place while he was distracted.

The idea that this young guy, Mr. Pickup was Toby Grimes seemed so doubtful, I decided to find out not from asking on the driveway, but from the inside of the house.

My quick entrance was pulled off with the same panache I use when I'm unclothed. In a flash, I was inside, and without being noticed.

Crap!

Thick, deep carpeting; the exact kind that betrays footprints. But only downstairs.

The steps to the second floor were bare. I climbed into darkness, smelling medicine from the open bathroom.

The second floor was a warren of bedrooms. Empty bedrooms.

Wonderful!

The carpet up here was thin and didn't show footprints easily. And it was warm.

That dude downstairs wasn't Doc Grimes; I guessed he was just a hospital employee renting a room here. I checked out Mr. Pickup's room (not even locked) and then laid out my stuff in another room down the hall. After all the hell I'd suffered with Rory, I needed a hot shower and a long sleep in a bed.

Mr. Pickup answered a phone after a few warbles.

"I'll be right there. Yeah. Yeah. Right. I'll be right there."

With the groceries still in the bags, Mr. Pickup got things in order, went out and locked the front door.

I got naked and hung up my wet things to dry off.

A shower too quick to relax me had to do. Then I sacked out underneath the big wooden bed. Rory told me I don't snore, and I had to believe that.

With my head still crammed of old memories about the boxing gloves, I dreamed about when I was younger and still living with my folks in the old suburb.

Now, what the fuck?

In Canada, you might think every dog we own is a big Newfoundland, Labrador, Husky, Wolfhound or Saint Bernard. Not so. The little twerp of a pooch that came scampering up to where I lay hidden was a miserable little Yorkie, sniffing and barking.
Flushed out of hiding just when I was getting comfortable, I crawled from under the bed, grabbed up little Yorkie and went downstairs to shut him in a place that wouldn't look too strange. The dog made a racket the whole time and finally, I had to push him outside in the cold even when I didn't know if he was supposed to be outside under such conditions.

I heard something slosh.

Suddenly, something cold and wet hit me in the back and ran down my butt and my legs. It had been deliberately squirted.

I turned.

A disembodied head addressed me. "Right on target!"

It was the weirdest face I had ever seen, but I figured it out pretty quick, especially when I saw the translucent body underneath it. The head and neck were coated in foundation makeup, the eyebrows penciled in. The mustache and beard were fake. Likely, tinted glasses (removed for the nonce) hid the eyes.

"Yeah," he said, "I figured there had to be completely invisible people. By the way, that stuff on you isn't food coloring. It's dye. It takes days to come out. I wouldn't have used it on you, but you're fucking up."

A pause.

"Chick," he said with a sniff.

"You don't know me," I told him.

"Whew!" he said, "You oughta do a better job at covering up that pussy odor. I can smell it from here.

While I said that, he stripped off the fake brown facial hair and whisked the appliances aside. He must have been young. He looked strong, from what I could see.

I could see. But he couldn't see me. I figured a hard shove would be better than a punch; not being able to see my fists is a disadvantage. Contact. A good, solid shove.

Mr. Head reeled. But not as far as I had hoped.

"Hey!" he said.

I was close enough, so I gave another shove, almost grappling with him. The squirt-gun he had used to spray me had done its workâ€”there was little sense in wrestling the gizmo away from him.

We whirled on the floor. I let go and ducked. My footprints showed on the carpet, giving away my position. Swinging for his head (his most obvious feature) I clipped his jaw and maybe gave his nose a buffet at the same time.

That would teach him to be careful.

My welcome worn out, I had to escape. But not without my stuff. All upstairs.

"Knock it off!" Mr. Head spouted. "I can get a real guard dog in this house in a minute. And he won't have to see you to take you down."

That got my attention.

A bluff? I didn't know. There were those dog biscuits. A lot for just one little Yorkie.

There was a chance, I thought, that I could wash the dye off if I didn't stand there like an idiot. I faked left and ran right around him and up the stairs, locking myself in the bathroom. I turned on the shower and jumped in, using a washcloth instead of my hand to try to get the dye off my skin.

The threat Mr. Head had made downstairs was founded; the dye was strong stuff. As good as tattoo ink. It wasn't coming out with soap, water and scrubbing.

Leaving the water on, I got out of the shower just as Mr. Head jimmied the lock and stepped into the bathroom with me.

Mr. Head saw me; or rather, he saw the layers of water on my skin. Looking at my tits, I figured, judging by the angle of his face.

The funny mask of makeup gave me a target. I could knock him out or daze him if I connected a hard one on his chin.

And I was ready.

The water dripped down my upraised arms and gathered between my clenched knuckles. I could see my skin. That would help. Until the water dripped off.

I had no other choice other than to fight.

TO BE CONTINUED

Just Missed Me---The INVISIBLE TOMBOY Part Three (Doctor's Orders)

Zuiderzee — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 18:51:45 +0000

A siren. I had to listen for them, no matter how near or how far. The wail of a cop car across the river reminded me of how tentative my freedom was.

On my own again, walking in the rain, trudging the wet streets---and pissed off.

This wasn't how life for the invisible was supposed to be.

A phone rang in his pocket and he ignored it.

He whizzed and farted loudly not two feet from where I was standing then shook off his dick, zipped up and shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack.

Liesurely, he lit up and enjoyed several puffs, blowing the smoke more or less at me. Fortunately, he didn't notice the curls of smoke traveling over my contours.

His phone rang again, but he let it go on.

He glanced in my direction, squinting at the latest billow of smoke, maybe making out my shape. He leaned in closer to me. His phone rang again, sounding more insistent.

Fatso propped his foot up on an old tire in the alley and bore down with a grunt. Whatever he was trying to force didn't come.

Smoking until half the cancer stick was gone, he whistled and went back where he came from, oblivious to me.

I felt like knocking people's hats off in the street.

My tightened fists brought up an old memory about the years I had owned a pair of boxing gloves.

According to Dad, I was just waving my arms in the air in front of me. I was being pathetic-â€”imitating what I had seen on TV instead of having the feel for what real combat was about.

I learned about taping up my "dukes" like a ring fighter, got a pair of athletic shoes similar to a boxer's and spent hours in the garage beating up a bag hung from the rafters.

But that was the least of my worries.

There was a gap between my jacket cuff and the glove, and there too, I saw---nothing.

I was used to the phenomenon of not being able to see myself, but others weren't. They never would be, I guessed.

A long, blaring car horn broke me out of my brown study and back into the cold reality of the streets. I got to thinking every loud noise is directed at me.

A harsh voice yelled: "HEY! GET MOVING! GET MOVING!"

No collar this time; it was just a truck blocking an intersection. It took minutes for my nerves to calm down.

The walk from the neighborhood where I left the VW and Rory stranded to the doctor's house was long and lonely, giving me plenty of time to think about my present.

It's a bitch, all right.

Toby Grimes.

Gatineau.

Yeah, I could see the capital.

That sight alone kept me on my toes.

Ottawa with its government buildings had me thinking of cops morning, noon and night.

With no other place to go, I trudged uphill and downhill over wet pavement, jaywalking and ducking down side streets when I saw cop cars.

I had so much stuff with me---if I had to run from this place, I would have to ditch a lot of it right then and there. My stomach didn't feel good.

Grimes' house was landscaped, which to me means don't step on the grass. Keep to the pavement.

Shit!

I saw two bags of dog-biscuits in with the groceries. Unless the dude was eating them himself, there had to be a dog in the house, the garage or outside.

In another moment, a dark-haired young man, his clothes wet from the rain, hurried out of the open front door of the house and resumed his back and forth trips to the pickup truck.

Mr. Pickup was in no particular hurry.

I knew this set-up by heart.

Naked, I could have scurried into the place while he was distracted.

The idea that this young guy, Mr. Pickup was Toby Grimes seemed so doubtful, I decided to find out not from asking on the driveway, but from the inside of the house.

My quick entrance was pulled off with the same panache I use when I'm unclothed. In a flash, I was inside, and without being noticed.

Crap!

Thick, deep carpeting; the exact kind that betrays footprints. But only downstairs.

The steps to the second floor were bare. I climbed into darkness, smelling medicine from the open bathroom.

The second floor was a warren of bedrooms. Empty bedrooms.

Wonderful!

The carpet up here was thin and didn't show footprints easily. And it was warm.

Mr. Pickup answered a phone after a few warbles.

"I'll be right there. Yeah. Yeah. Right. I'll be right there."

With the groceries still in the bags, Mr. Pickup got things in order, went out and locked the front door.

I got naked and hung up my wet things to dry off.

A shower too quick to relax me had to do. Then I sacked out underneath the big wooden bed. Rory told me I don't snore, and I had to believe that.

With my head still crammed of old memories about the boxing gloves, I dreamed about when I was younger and still living with my folks in the old suburb.

Now, what the fuck?

Suddenly, something cold and wet hit me in the back and ran down my butt and my legs. It had been deliberately squirted.

I turned.

A disembodied head addressed me. "Right on target!"

A pause.

"Chick," he said with a sniff.

"You don't know me," I told him.

"Whew!" he said, "You oughta do a better job at covering up that pussy odor. I can smell it from here.

While I said that, he stripped off the fake brown facial hair and whisked the appliances aside. He must have been young. He looked strong, from what I could see.

I could see. But he couldn't see me. I figured a hard shove would be better than a punch; not being able to see my fists is a disadvantage. Contact. A good, solid shove.

Mr. Head reeled. But not as far as I had hoped.

"Hey!" he said.

I was close enough, so I gave another shove, almost grappling with him. The squirt-gun he had used to spray me had done its workâ€”there was little sense in wrestling the gizmo away from him.

That would teach him to be careful.

My welcome worn out, I had to escape. But not without my stuff. All upstairs.

"Knock it off!" Mr. Head spouted. "I can get a real guard dog in this house in a minute. And he won't have to see you to take you down."

A bluff? I didn't know. There were those dog biscuits. A lot for just one little Yorkie.

The threat Mr. Head had made downstairs was founded; the dye was strong stuff. As good as tattoo ink. It wasn't coming out with soap, water and scrubbing.

Leaving the water on, I got out of the shower just as Mr. Head jimmied the lock and stepped into the bathroom with me.

I had no other choice other than to fight.

TO BE CONTINUED

Just Missed Me--The INVISIBLE TOMBOY--Part Two (ROAD RAGE!)

Zuiderzee — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 22:15:51 +0000

Rain, wind, cold. The car doors were shut, but I heard the
loud whistle of the wet breeze over the windows. The
weather was getting in, and I was still naked, unwilling to
get dressed in the car with so many people standing around
the gas pumps.

There was a heavy woolen blanket on the floor. That at
least kept my feet warm.
I had been walking on cold, hard floors, bare ground, and
pavement all morning---and in addition to being sore, I was
suffering from a stubbed toe, all the while wishing I could
just go ahead and wear shoes if nothing else.

Rory, my â€œpartnerâ€ was being a real turd.

Probably because I told him I was in charge.

Him and his dreams of moving to America, becoming a fireman
and whatever else he had planned had gone into the toilet.
Heâ€™d scrubbed out, blown it, fucked up. And here he now was
back in Ontario with only a few dollars to his name being
led around by a tomboy with way bigger problems than he
ever could have guessed.

Heâ€™d gotten careless. I couldnâ€™t. Not for a minute.

Hell, I was feeling real shitty myself. My period was
coming on and with that added to all the other crap,
I was being a grouch. Rory and me had gone through our
tough times before, but not like this---not with so much
cash involved. I made him go into the convenience store and
had him buy me all kinds of feminine stuff that he doesnâ€™t
like to touch and talk about.

He came out of the little fluorescent-lit store with a
brown paper bag all folded over so no one else could see
what was inside it. Through the window, I saw him buying
beer. Before he came out, he shoved the beer bottles in
his jacket pockets and zipped them up.

He wrestled the driverâ€™s side door open.

â€œHere,â€ Rory grumbled, dropping the bag in the car, â€œyour
damn...stuff. So quit being a bitch, okay?â€

I donâ€™t know what my life would have been like if I was
a boy instead of a girl, but I do know I would have loved
not having periods. They are a pain, I guess.

Rory had forgotten his good gloves somewhere and his hands
were as red as his face.

All I could see of myself was my breath turning into little
vapor clouds as I huffed impatiently, waiting for him.

Damn, he was slow!

While he thumbed through the cash at the gas station, I
looked at road maps and quickly ducked down out of sight
to shimmy into what Rory calls my â€œBumfuck outfitâ€. He
tells me thereâ€™s this place called â€œBumfuckâ€ Egypt where
chicks dress like this. So what? There are enough Iranian
chicks down in Toronto who dress pretty much the same.
Iâ€™m not into Islam or anything, but there was something
nicely practical about dressing up like an Eastern woman
with cloth draping me from head to ankles. I can see out
the front through a little opening, but no one else can
see in...and thereâ€™s nothing for them to see.

Yeah, I stole it. What the hell.

I tried the windshield wipers while Rory gassed up. The
rubber strips were torn and falling apart, but they
could keep the rain off.

Since the old VW faced a window, I tried the lights.
Only one headlight. Looking behind, I saw there was only
one taillight.

â€œHey!â€ Rory thumped the car. â€œQuit messing with shit in there.â€

â€œYou could get pulled over for having bad lights. The back
one is easy to fix, why donâ€™t you take care of it, eh?â€

â€œAh Jeez, you sure are bitching a lot, you know.â€

â€œSome fireman you would have been...Bozo.â€

There have come times when Iâ€™ve really wanted to fight him,
just to see how good I could hit him. Right in the jaw,
right in the nose, right in the eye, right in the gut.
Hard. I wanted to know how much I could dish out in a fair
fight and how much I could take, but I had only wrestled
him into doing things, and he hadnâ€™t fought back.

Ever.

The real rain started during the argument and sure enough,
it leaked into the car between the dented, pitted metal
roof and the doors. The weather stripping was rotten and
in a few places, completely torn out. Cheap-ass Rory had
tried to fix it up with ordinary window putty, but it
didnâ€™t do the trick. Rain dripped in the back onto our
stuff, but since it was all in plastic bags, it would
come through.

I can smell police, and sure enough, two cars went by
while we were parked. Watching them disappear into
traffic, I counted my blessings.

Fuck, it was getting cold. The heater didnâ€™t work, of
course and neither did the defroster. I held a towel
the whole trip and swabbed the inside of the windshield
whenever it got too cloudy.
But itâ€™s great to be able to keep warm without worrying
about looking like Iâ€™m missing my whole head or just my
mouth. Ski masks are great, but they cling too much and
they have big holes that people can look into.
Underneath the dark costume I wore a sports bra and
sweatpants and some cheap cotton underwear to keep my damned panty-liner more or less in place. It freaks me
out to look down through my abdomen and see my tampon
inside me as if itâ€™s floating in midair.
Not that Rory gets off on it, but judging by his reaction,
itâ€™s pretty raw for him to look at tampons and pads and
stuff moving around without skin and clothes to hide them.

Adjusting his favorite team toque, he snuggled in
behind the wheel looking like a jackass elf in a long
green jacket with white trim. He roared away from the
gas station, tires screeching and slipping on the wet
street. He immediately switched on the radio and dialed
around until he hit a hockey game and that seemed to
pep him up, but I still didnâ€™t like his eyes.

The VW let out an ominous groan as he shifted gears and
battled gravity going up the onramp. Ottawa. The road
sign spelled out how many kilometers, but in the rain,
the distance was magnified.

Looking back, I should have cooked up something smart and
tried to take care of the driving chores myself. Instead,
I settled back into my seat, shivering and adjusting the
woolen blanket.

Rory looked tired. And then he yawned.

I clapped his shoulder good and hard. â€œDonâ€™t fucking fall
asleep, Bozo....â€

That dumb fucker, I tell you. Rory had sneaked those beers
while I had drifted off to sleep, but I woke up first.
Not even the blaring hockey game on the radio could keep
his eyes open or the honking of horns on the highway.
I grabbed the steering wheel out his hands. An empty beer
bottle rolled off the ledge under the windshield into my
lap. I was steering the VW, but Roryâ€™s foot was down on
the accelerator, holding it close to the floor, pushing the
needle up to (what counted for the old VW) breakneck
speed.
I couldnâ€™t do much else except reach over and knock his leg
away from the gas pedal and hope that both woke him up and
inspired him to step on the brake instead.

â€œASSHOLE! Wake up!â€ I screamed under the veil. â€œSHIT!â€

â€œWha-what? Hmmmmmmm?â€

He opened his eyes, but it took him a long time to register
that we were moving. How we ever got over to the shoulder
of the road without hitting two trucks on the way there I
wonâ€™t ever guess.

The VW spun in the mud when it left the pavement and tore
up grass and splashed brownish water on the windows.
70 Km to go. And weâ€™d just about crashed and died.

Thatâ€™s when I hit him. Both bottles were empty. I hit him
in the side of the head with one of them, finding myself
with not enough space to bring it down on his damned skull.

â€œGet out of the car--â€”GET THE FUCK OUT!â€

â€œAwww, jeez...settle down, will you---â€œ

Moving several times faster than Rory for being panicked,
I kicked my door open, almost forgetting to undo
my seatbelt. Still looking like a retarded elf with his red
stocking cap crumpled on his head from where I had hit him,
Rory stumbled half-asleep into a solid punch.
My knuckles slid on his rain-wet face and I threw another
punch with that same hand, all the while dressed in the
baggy Eastern costume which was now getting drenched.

He wasnâ€™t hitting back. I guess he was real scared.
Rory turned his shoulders to me, taking a few biffs and
bumps and socks. If theyâ€™d thrown him out of the fire
department training program, I guess it was for being
too weak.

At the same time, he wasnâ€™t giving up and I still felt
like I should knock him down. Good and hard.

Then he went berserk and ran into me, maybe thinking he
was part of the hockey game heâ€™d been listening to. He
didnâ€™t slam hard enough before he grappled and it didnâ€™t
get him anywhere. He threw a lot of mud around and got
himself dirty and swampy and wet.

I came back with an elbow strike and a pop to his chin.

Oh, wow!

Reeling from two well-placed blows, my â€œpartnerâ€ collapsed
into the mud and grass. I should have remembered I needed
him to drive the car, but all that was forgotten. I kicked
that loser again and again, stomping him, grinding my heel
into him, aggravating my stubbed toe until all the piss
in my system had boiled over and was back to where I could
handle it. I was getting my wish, beating the shit out of
him like a good invisible tomboy, but it didnâ€™t feel the
way I hoped it would feel.

On the highway, cars and trucks roared passed without
slowing down. I guess the police had other things to worry
about other than us.

Lightning flashed in the distance.

The cool, fresh air helped, but not much.

â€œI oughta get some rope and drag you behind this damned
car for a while,â€ I told him. â€œDo you know how stupid you
are putting away beers---â€œ

â€œYou fucking canâ€™t do anything...without me,â€ Rory said,
trying to get his wind back. â€œYou canâ€™t kill me now. I made
a call...from the gas station. I told a friend of mine in
Gatineau I was traveling with someone. I told him I was
coming from down south to his place, driving someone...
someone dangerous. Weâ€™re going to his place first of all
and check in before anything else.â€

â€œThatâ€™s a bluff...youâ€™ve been watching too many TV shows,
eh? Whatâ€™s his address? Heâ€™d better not be with the cops.â€

Sore, Rory rattled off the address and phone number. They
sounded like Gatineau names and numbers, but for all I
could verify right then and there, it could have been a
doughnut shop or an aluminum siding warehouse.

But it was a plausible bluff. Rory could have done just
that. He had taken a few steps to insure himself, I guess.

â€œIâ€™m going to drive this damned car to a phone. Iâ€™m going
to call that number you just gave me...and if itâ€™s bogus,
Iâ€™m going to pound you down again...Iâ€™m going to really
beat on you. And no, you donâ€™t get to â€˜nailâ€™ me. You
screwed me enough already, Bozo.â€

While he lay there, I rigged up the car for a long, long
push into a place where we couldnâ€™t be seen from the
highway and threw all the junk from the back seat into the
passenger seat and piled it as high as it would go. With
a roll of yellow duct tape, I trussed Rory up good and
tight and taped up his mouth too and then stuffed him into
the backseat where all the junk had been a few minutes
before.

I smelled cops.

In the back of my mind, I could picture Rory on the phone
back at the gas station, tipping off the local police.

It was either drive or walk. And with the storm the way it
was, walking wasnâ€™t a choice.

Well, like I told Rory, I was in charge.

Regardless of how it would look, I got into the driverâ€™s
seat, Eastern costume and all and started her up, putting
the transmission through hell. I never went to driving
school. Yeah, I knew which pedals to push, but I didnâ€™t
have the feel for them, yet.

Shuddering, the VW climbed up from the grassy field and
merged with northbound traffic, fighting a mean, wet
headwind to the next town. My knuckles ached holding the
hard ring of the steering wheel. They ached when I
shifted gears and they ached when I tuned the radio to
something other than hockey and easy listening.
Oh, wow. That had been a good punch-up back there...I
couldnâ€™t wait for my next one.

Even in Canada, payphones are on their way out in favor of
the portable, handheld variety, so it took a while to find
the old fashioned kind outside a motel.
A handful of coins later, I got through to a calm, easy-
sounding voice using the number that Rory had spilled.
I gave an alias, confirmed the address and apologized that
there would be a change in plans. Just that. And I got a
name. And a profession. A doctor. A male doctor.

Just enough gas in the VW to make Gatineau. And if not,
close enough to walk or sneak a ride on an open-bed truck.

I sat there behind the wheel, thinking. Thinking hard. Then
I leaned over the seat and looked down at Rory lying there
under the blanket, but still tied up with strong tape.

â€œThat phone number was for a hospital. A good place for
you, Bozo. But not for me. Iâ€™m driving this heap till it
runs out of gas. Then itâ€™s au revoir.â€

That big, comfortable van would have to stay in the
impound yard. There were other desperate guys with wheels
and I knew where to look for them.
I left the VW conked out in a NO PARKING zone with Rory
in the back seat. Owning only a few things, I took them
with me in a big backpack. I had changed clothes into a
winter outfit which covered pretty much all of me except
my nose and I fixed that with a scarf. An umbrella topped
off what wasnâ€™t really a disguise and I hit the streets.

A quick peep in a telephone directory told me where
â€œMr. Doctorâ€ actually lived. Since he was working that
night, he wouldnâ€™t be at his cozy little house when I
came calling. Even then, I would never use the front
door.

(to be continued)

Just Missed Me--The INVISIBLE TOMBOY--Part One

Zuiderzee — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 18:52:32 +0000

Other than some wild details that Iâ€™ll get to in a minute, Iâ€™m a typical young tomboy with some pretty typical young tomboy urges. But not typical tomboy problems.

For one damned thing, Iâ€™m now invisible.

No shit, invisible. Just like in the books and movies and in your daydreams and erotic fantasies. THAT kind of invisible.

No one can see me. I canâ€™t even see myself.

I donâ€™t have a shadow, a reflection, and I donâ€™t show up on infrared or ultraviolet. Those wacky night-vision goggles theyâ€™ve got canâ€™t pick me up. Iâ€™m plain in-visible.

That can be a whole lot of no good, especially when a
tomboy is lonely and needs to take care of things.

I knew I was special though, so special that a lot of people with millions in resources would be after me. And I knew I was vulnerable. I had to go around naked. My clothes didnâ€™t turn invisible with me. Neither do the items I touch, you know...food, money, keys, all that kind of crap. I had to do everything without being observed and somehow avoid exposure. No chance to see a doctor if I got hurt or sick. I was in a fix. A real fix, I guessed.

Yeah, but Iâ€™m solid for all that. I trip electric eye beams, register on scales, affect air currents, leave footprints. I could get into a whole lot of trouble even when no one sees me. Iâ€™ve had to attack and even kill people to, you know...avoid capture, but thatâ€™s the hand I was dealt, I guess.
Hate me if you want to, but Iâ€™m not a mean bitch,
at least, I donâ€™t think I am. My morals ainâ€™t exactly the
same as my Great-grandparents, but he lived way back in a
different world than I do now. Than WE do now. Iâ€™m one of
you, after all. Just with a few significant differences.

And isnâ€™t everybody these days bitching about CHANGE?

Sure, Iâ€™ve had to do some low-down sneaky things, but
only when Iâ€™ve...had to. Me, I donâ€™t believe in hell.

That helps.

Iâ€™m a survivor.

My name?

Sorry, I canâ€™t give it out, but Iâ€™ve come up with some pretty awful nicknames, monikers and aliases: Cleery, Ms. Glass, Ms. Pane, U.N. Owen, Van Eesh, Daisy Peer, Yu
Nosimi, I.M. Ware.

How old am I? Good question. Iâ€™ve got no baby teeth left. Iâ€™ve got a big rack, some grown-up body hair-â€”not much, which is really cool because I canâ€™t shave regularly, and I canâ€™t even see what Iâ€™m trying to shave off of places I canâ€™t see in the first place. Iâ€™m not big-boned, and Iâ€™ve got some good muscles which I mostly use for climbing.
People who are hunting for me rarely look straight up, so Iâ€™ve learned some gymnastics to get off the ground in a hurry and hang on tight until itâ€™s safe to walk again. I probably already said I leave footprints.

Once, I walked over a newly-waxed floor in my bare feet and that stuff was hard as hell to clean off. Oh yeah, and Iâ€™ve accidentally brushed up against wet paint, varnish.
There have been times I didnâ€™t rinse soap off me or brush away pet hair and leaves and burrs and other crap that would tend to give me away...itâ€™s not easy being invisible, let me tell you.

I go through periods and have mood swings and chocolate cravings and masturbate a lot. The last time I tried on clothes, I wore sweat pants and a jersey. I feel trim, maybe kind of athletic. Iâ€™ve walked over some fragile things without breaking them and stowed away in small cars without the driver getting suspicious about extra weight. I stepped on a scale recently---without saying too much, Iâ€™m more or less fit. Thatâ€™s good news. Good news because I canâ€™t, you know...go to a doctor. I donâ€™t dare get seriously hurt.

Oh wow! Whoâ€™da thought a nobody like me would turn into what I am now? Not me, I can tell you. Trouble is, my big boobs flop and dangle and bounce and you know...hang out without anything to cover up-â€”usually. In really cold weather, I can dress up in a â€œpanoplyâ€ of ripped-off winter clothes with a scarf and snow-goggles to cover my face.
When Iâ€™m dressed up like that, I look pretty weird, I guess, and nice kinds of people donâ€™t come near me.

Other than that, my whole body is exposed to the cold a lot and my nipples are almost always hard. When I can sneak into and stay overnight in a department store with no motion sensors, I can feel my nipples, you know...relax at room temperature. Convention centers and sports stadiums are good places to stay warm and dry, provided I can make a
hidey-hole in an out of the way place.

People donâ€™t like to open up to a chick who with big problems, so for a long time I got no action of my own...but I got a front row seat to lot of fucking that went on when people didnâ€™t know I was a yard away. That changed. Because if it hadnâ€™t changed, I wouldnâ€™t be around to tell this story.

I remember my twelth birthday party-â€”the last one I actually celebrated. Months after that, I began to show
vague signs of translucence. The change was very slow. I woke up alone one day wondering where my mom was. She didnâ€™t show, but lots of other people did, oh, wow!
Smart me, I picked a good place to hide. While â€œtheyâ€ searched the house for hours, I hid on the roof naked without moving. I couldnâ€™t go back inside. That was September; the warm weather would last a few more weeks and then the real cold would set in.

Huntsville, you know...was no place to be naked in winter.

I might as well tell you about the time I had to get tough and low-down to survive.

It was a breezy day and that made all the difference.
A late summer tourist, likely an American on his first (and last) trip north of the line, was trying to carry on a spirited conversation on his cell phone and count a handful
of multi-colored bills and put away his shiny new passport. Fumbling with the unfamiliar money, the bank receipt and the passport he walked from the outside of the bank, making for a nearby coffee shop with me behind and off to the side, completely unseen.

Whoops! Puddle. Little detour and back on track.

â€œYeah,â€ the tourist growled into the phone, squashing it between his shoulder and his ear to speak hands-free.
â€œAwwwww, I dunno...some damn street...Iâ€™m not near a corner...No, I donâ€™t know where I am! I just said that! No, I donâ€™t see one. I donâ€™t see one of those, either. The fucking thing is in French, you know I canâ€™t read shit in French! Oh. Oh, thatâ€™s funny. I just exchanged $500.00 at some fucking bank...how much did I get? Well, it came out like this....â€

With the wind gusting, his jacket didnâ€™t stay put and he bungled a dip into the pocket for his wallet.
He ducked into an alley to get off the sidewalk and thatâ€™s when I struck.

I brought a hand up underneath his own, good and hard. That surprised him enough to relax his grip and the wind did the rest. Some of the bills fluttered and fell along with the passport and in another moment, his phone.

â€œShit!â€

Ignoring the blue bills, I went after the ones printed in light red and tan. Oh, wow.

The tourist was too paranoid to ask anyone near him to help and he all but threw himself on the little pile of blue and green currency, scooping and clawing, unable to get it all within reach.

Pantomiming the wind, I lofted the high denomination bills, twirling them in the air in my invisible fingers.

I hid the money and waited.

More than enough to get my â€œpartnerâ€™sâ€ van out of police impound in Ottawa. Rory drove his grandpaâ€™s battered VW around town while he worked up the cash to take care of the impound. The VW was overdue for repairs. The roof leaked and the heater didnâ€™t work. Pretty raw for living in. I wanted Roryâ€™s van. We could live in that thing if we wanted to, and I wanted to. Of course, the cops werenâ€™t going to release his wheels without being paid up first. Since Rory didnâ€™t work regularly, I had to come up with the money. Any way I could. Even stealing.

Swearing, the tourist stomped into the alley, knocking over everything he could move to recover the bills...all the while wondering exactly how much he had lost and if he was looking in the right spot.

When he didnâ€™t move on, I threw a good-sized cardboard box at him, waiting for a wind gust to â€œsellâ€ the illusion.

The box hit him squarely in the face and rolled on, flaps waggling in the breeze.

Spooked, he ran for the street.

Well, forget him.

What I had to do next was convince Rory, an accomplice who maybe didnâ€™t want to get into trouble. We had wind. Tonight, the news channel assured, we would have rain and temperatures would plunge. I had no hiding place picked out and I was hungry. I had a headache, too.

The VW bug was heavy, being loaded with all of Roryâ€™s worldly possessions. The fuel tank was dry. His CPR dummy was in the driverâ€™s seat where I had positioned it, looking like a human being with the addition of some heavy clothes.
Meanwhile, I was outside, walking along with my arm in the window, holding the steering wheel, pushing the car meter by meter to the waterâ€™s edge.
Rory had moved to Buffalo with the idea of being a fireman, but he was too wimpy and had a weed habit. He â€œflunked outâ€ and came back to Ontario like a sore loser.

Our argument that afternoon through a chain-link fence was a short one. I was on the street by the drainage canal. Rory was in the fenced off yard of a hostel, flaking out until supper.

â€œAwww, jeez,â€ Rory said. â€œOttawaâ€™s a good drive. I dontâ€™ feel like going all the way up there in the rain.â€

â€œCheck out of this place...or Iâ€™ll push your grandpaâ€™s car in the canal.â€

He saw his grandpaâ€™s VW right where I said it was. I told him about the money, but he still balked. I left him to go back to the VW and roll it a little closer to the drop-off.

â€œShit, you! Thatâ€™s not cool at all,â€ Rory said. â€œIâ€™d never do a thing like that to you, eh?â€

â€œLetâ€™s hit the road before it starts raining. Bum some gas off of somebody and drive downtown. NOW!â€

I pushed the fence hard, letting the crisscrossing metal mesh hit him in the chin.

Unable to get through the fence, Rory had to run into the hostel where he was staying and come around the front and then down a long street. When he got there, he was more or less ready to cooperate.

Rory â€œbummedâ€ some gas, but it wasnâ€™t enough to get us downtown. I ended up pushing the VW again. This time, Rory was at the wheel. We, or rather, he alone got some stares as the VW rolled along narrow streets without any engine noise. Fortunately, it was only two blocks to the gas station and he pulled up sharp.

The road, slick with the beginning of rain, hurt my feet and I slipped more than twice, banging my knees on the bumper. But I was strong. My muscles were good. No need to get exhausted, though. I couldnâ€™t chance falling asleep.
Our trust in each other was just about at the breaking point.

â€œHey, why are we stopping here, eh?â€

â€œThis is good enough,â€ I said. I told him where to find the money. But something told me Iâ€™d better shadow him all the same. The first little drops of rain were starting and it was getting cold.

â€œStay in the car,â€ Rory said. â€œIâ€™ll be right back.â€

â€œHurry up!â€

Rory found the money, all right, but with a small fortune (to us) now in his pockets, wheels in his head started turning. With so much cash in hand, he could go places and do things without me.

I couldnâ€™t let him do that. I had worked too hard to carve out a niche. I needed a visible half to function.

â€œDonâ€™t get any ideas,â€ I said, startling him. â€œNow gas up that heap of yours and letâ€™s get on the road for Ottawa. Itâ€™s getting dark, itâ€™s starting to rain, you know.â€

â€œNow listen,â€ he began.

â€œIâ€™m in charge,â€ I said, taking his arm, squeezing it.
â€œYouâ€™re dumb if you thought I would stay in the car. Iâ€™m around even if you canâ€™t see me.â€

There were people around us now.

Trying to look nonchalant, Rory hunched his shoulders and stepped out of the alley and back onto the sidewalk.

â€œThis isnâ€™t enough money,â€ Rory said out the side of his mouth. â€œI want enough at the end of the week to start over again. And I get to nail you, too. You hear that?
$50,000. You need to hit a motel...and I know just the one.
So, youâ€™re not in charge. When the van is released from the impound yard, we donâ€™t have much left. Unless we buy food and gas...and then weâ€™re completely broke, eh? Did you think of that?â€

I let go of him. â€œOnce weâ€™re in Ottawa, Iâ€™ll come up with some more money. And maybe then Iâ€™ll think about letting you â€˜nailâ€™ me.â€

I had the advantage, but being invisible didnâ€™t make me invulnerable. I had to fall asleep the same as him, maybe not in the car, but somewhere. I wanted to sleep in a nice, warm, soft bed again, preferably without Rory, but if it had to be with him, I could stand it for a single encounter.

Damn, I had to find another traveling companion, and soon.

But where?

(To be continued)