Saturday's Storyteller: "If I hadn't lost my job, I wouldn't be in this situation right now, trying to figure out how I ended up..."

by Belinda Roddie

If I hadn't lost my job, I wouldn't be in this situation right now, trying to figure out how I ended up working at the same drugstore I had dawdled at for so many years as a kid and beyond. The same drugstore that was owned by the same Schmidt Randall - or the guy with the reversed name, as my friends called - and he was still alive and grunting and dragging his leg behind him and letting his cane do the work.

I was a bagger, a shelver, a stocker, and a driver, depending on the week. This week was another bagging week, and I had to endure the constant bright smiles and questions from my former teachers, neighbors, and classmates' parents as they recognized me and welcomed me back to my hometown and wanted to know every single, solitary thing about me and how was it that I looked somewhat different these days. I just answered in brief sentences, shoved bottles of ibuprofen and giant jugs of Pepsi into paper bags, and waved halfheartedly as they walked out of the store before proceeding to scratch the many mosquito bites that had swollen up the knuckles and joints around my fingers. Even in October, it still felt like summer.

Schmidt Randall preferred to grunt instead of talk as he passed me, gesturing toward a cluttered card shelf for me to take a look at during my downtime. As I shuffled birthday cards for moms and anniversary cards for husbands with lewd jokes about beer bellies and football, I heard a whistle behind me.

"Jacob?" a simpering drawl followed. "Is that really you? Jacob Anders?"

I turned around slowly and deliberately, staring at the leather-jacketed, portly girl grinning at me. She was clearly chewing something minty, one hand stuffed into the pocket of her men's jeans.

"Leslie," I murmured, managing a smile.

"Back in Little Man? Jesus Christ, dude. You may as well ask for a ticket to purgatory."

She reached for the shelf behind me for a candy bar and tossed it from one hand to the other. I looked at her greased back short hair and sighed.

"You're still here," I pointed out.

"Eh," she muttered, and I could see a flash of sticky green on top of her left molars. "I don't mind limbo. Keeps me sane. I help my dad out these days. I thought you were some big shot CFO or something."

"Assistant to the CFO. And not anymore. I lost my job."

"Oh, yeah?" Leslie looked me up and down. She must have noticed how clean and devoid of stubble my face was, and how I seemed much slimmer than I used to be, and how my hair had grown long and was tied back in a braid. "Why's that?"

I exhaled again, forgot about the cards, and walked back to the register to sort the bags - no customers. Not yet, anyway.

"In case you haven't noticed," I said, but very quietly, "there's only one person in this town who doesn't call me Jacob. And that's Schmidt. He calls me Anders."

"Yeah, and...?"

"Because I asked him to," I continued, almost crumpling up a paper bag as I tried to fold it. "And because my name isn't Jacob anymore."

"Oh. Sorry, dude. What's your new moniker?"

I stared at Leslie and could feel my eyes water. "It's Jess. Jessica. But Jess for short."

I expected her to make a big scene. She didn't. She simply pulled the gum out of her mouth in one long, gooey ribbon. Then she held it in her hand and mashed it into a ball with her fingers. Finally, she put the candy bar down on the conveyor belt and stuck the gum on the wrapper.

"Haven't told anyone?" was what she asked me.

"I started hormone therapy three months ago," I said. "Trying to keep it on the down low for now. The changes aren't too pronounced, but they will be. I wanted my assistant job to pay for the surgery. But my boss was a real fucking transphobe, so he..."

I trailed off. I didn't mean to. I wasn't any good at being assertive or brave at this point. Leslie, luckily, filled in the blanks.

"Booted you."

"It's harder to afford the injections now," I breathed, "and it means surgery's on hold. So if people call me Jacob here, I let 'em. Mom and Dad know. They hate it, but they know. They can't do much long as I'm living with my brother. He doesn't mind."

"You seemed to think I wouldn't mind, either."

I stiffened. "Well, do you?"

"Fuck, no." Leslie laughed. "You be whoever the fuck you wanna be, Ja - sorry, Jess. I'll get used to it, I promise. But anyway, we were classmates, and you were cool. You always were a good tennis buddy in P.E."

"You always let me win."

"Nah. I just sucked." Leslie watched as I rang up the candy bar and handed me a five dollar bill. "Keep the change. Maybe it'll help."

"No."

"It's cool." Leslie laughed again. "And hey, if anyone gives you a hard time for being you? I'll beat the shit out of them. You just stay safe, okay?"

I stared silently, not knowing what to say, as she skipped out the door, whistling and opening up the candy with the wad of gum still glued to the wrapper. I watched as Schmidt rounded the corner again, grunting as he did so but not gesturing. I sighed and nodded. He allowed me to see a very rare smile.

"All good, Anders?"

"Good as I can be."

"You'll live, sweetheart." He winked, and I remembered the moment I saw him jam a needle of his own into his thigh a few weeks back. I hadn't meant to see him do it; I had just wanted to use the bathroom. Schmidt had been on hormone therapy for as long as I was a toddler.

"I'll live?"

"Sure," Schmidt said. "I did."

This week's prompt was provided by Kyle Oathout.