CHAPTER ONE: OFFICER REEVES
Last Monday evening, I was on my way to do a show in Brooklyn. I hopped on the A train at Penn Station. It was just after six in the evening, so the subway was crowded.
I found myself standing extremely close to three NYPD officers. They were leaning near the doors and I was directly facing them, holding on to the overhead bar for balance.
Two of the cops were men: tall, muscular, grizzled--real textbook New York cops.
But the other one. . .man, she was the prettiest cop I had ever seen!
In fact, I don’t think until last Monday that I had ever seen an attractive female police officer aside from in the Police Academy movies. Remember that chick that made out with Bobcat Goldthwait’s character in Police Academy Four: Citizens On Patrol? Corinne Bohrer, that was her name.
Yeah, she was really cute. But most of the time when you see a female cop, they’re usually fat black women or angry looking dykes.
But this cop. . .she was a blonde, real petite. . .had a killer face. Must have been in her mid-twenties. Gorgeous. Absolutely stunning, I tell you. I looked at her badge to find out her name.
Officer Reeves. Mmmm.
She looked so adorable in her big police officer coat. It reminded me of high school when the preppy girls would wear their boyfriends’ letter jackets. I thought for a moment about why it is that female-to-male drag is so much more socially acceptable and generally more attractive than male-to-female drag. You know what I mean? Like Marlene Dietrich in the top hat and tails?
It’s because it makes the woman a present to be unwrapped. Here you have this big police officer’s jacket--not even tailored for a woman--and you know it’s all an illusion. Once you get that thing off, it’s pure uncut female underneath. Mmm.
But with male-to-female drag, the present doesn’t fit the box cause the clothes are tighter. So you already know what you’re getting before you open it. A man. And who needs one of those?
But when you take a cute little thing like Officer Reeves and put her in a big, bulky, policemen’s jacket, it’s almost exciting to imagine how many more layers you could pile on top of her. Wrap her up like a mummy. . .put a ski mask on her. . .and then let the excitement build to an erotic crescendo as you slowly unwrap her, revealing the femininity that she could never shed, no matter what her chosen occupation is. . .
Calling Officer Reeves. . .I know you’re in there. . .mmm. . .peek-a-boo!
And before I’m accused of sexism, let me just say that there was no need for me to probe her personality, for I already knew what type of girl Officer Reeves was simply from the uniform she was wearing. She’s a girl that believes in the law. She’s a girl that believes in right and wrong. She’s a girl that believes in honor and duty. Come on, she’s a fucking NYPD officer! She’s everything a man like me could want in a woman!
Once I figured that out, all that remained for me to deal with was my lust.
I checked her delicate little fingers for rings and found none. Then I wondered if cops were allowed to wear rings on the job or if they had to leave them in a locker. Is it okay to make eyes at a cop? Should I get her badge number? I gotta find out what precinct this chick belongs to.
Once the train took off, the two male cops began talking. It was obvious that they were picking up where they had left off from an earlier conversation.
One was telling the other about a dead body he saw in Washington Heights a few weeks earlier. I was listening intently.
“. . .guy’s got two fucking bullet holes in the back of the head. Pool of blood all over the fucking sidewalk. . .”
The other male cop smiled, “That guy on 181st, right?”
“That’s the one. Thirty minutes later, EMT pulls up, gets out the stretcher, plasma bags, all that shit--”
The lovely Officer Reeves didn’t seem to be listening. With her mystically beautiful blue eyes, she was staring at the advertisements lining the top of the subway car. Meanwhile, the cop listening to the story widened his grin, “Jesus, took EMT that long to get there?”
“They could have taken till next Christmas, it wouldn’t have mattered. This fucking guy wasn’t going anywhere. Half his fucking head was gone--looked like a rotten cantaloupe.”
Suddenly, I burst out laughing. The two male cops dropped their smiles and stared at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, stifling my own grin, “Please, keep going. It’s. . .funny.”
They stared at me for a second longer and then the narrator cop resumed his tale. “So the mother’s out there screaming, ‘somebody help my baby!’ you know, all that shit. EMT picks him up, puts him on the stretcher. Fucking half the guy’s brains fall out in the fucking process. So I’m like, ‘hey, you think this guy might be dead or something?’”
I laughed so hard at the punchline that I had to wipe tears from eyes. Then I looked over at Officer Reeves, hoping that she had seen me sharing a moment with the Boys in Blue. Oh, how I wanted her to know that even though I had long hair, I still loved dead bodies and guns. I’m not who you think I am, Officer Reeves, I love the police.
I'm all about the Establishment, honey. Cause the most anti-Establishment thing you can be nowadays is pro-Establishment. You get the best of both worlds with me, baby. . .mmm. . .Calling Officer Reeves!
Let me take off your man’s uniform, Officer Reeves. I want to make love to you standing up in this crowded train. Put your glock to my head and make believe I’m a bad guy and tell me, “Keep banging away, stud, or I’m going to blow your fucking head off!”
We made eye contact briefly. I winked at her, but she didn’t reciprocate. And then, at 23rd Street, the doors opened and Officer Reeves left the train with her fellow officers.
CHAPTER TWO: KIRSTEN DUNST
It was a small crowd that night at the show in Brooklyn. However, there were a couple of cute girls in the audience. One of them looked remarkably like Kirsten Dunst.
At the end of my set, I told the audience about what had happened earlier on the train with the two male cops talking about the dead body and my romantic and sexual attraction toward Officer Reeves.
As I told the story, I made one minor embellishment. I said that Officer Reeves had looked just like Kirsten Dunst. Officer Reeves was very beautiful, but she did not look like Kirsten Dunst. She had had her own individualistic beauty that I could not compare to any single actress. I simply added the Kirsten Dunst flourish because I wanted the chick in the audience who looked like Kirsten Dunst to know that I had a thing for chicks who looked like Kirsten Dunst.
When I finished my romantic story, I heard some girls going "Aaaaaw". My friend Steve who had come out to see the show told me that the girl who looked like Kirsten Dunst was the one who had gone “Aaaaaaw” and that Aaaaaaw might be a "good sign".
Steve and I went outside to smoke a cigarette. When we came back into the club, the Kirsten Dunst chick was in the hallway, bending over, with her shirt up over her head, showing off an elaborate tattoo on her back of flowers or dragons or some shit. I hate tattoos. Especially on a woman. For I know that one day she will grow old and what used to be a yin-yang will look like a liver spot.
Still, I couldn't help staring at her backside. After all, it’s not everyday that a woman bends over and lifts up her shirt so you can see her back. Particularly during the harsh winter months.
Her friend--who was also very cute--stopped examining the tattoo long enough to tell me that she enjoyed my set and especially liked the Kirsten Dunst story. I continued staring at the Kirsten Dunst chick’s back. After a few seconds, I snapped out of my reverie. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. She had her shirt up over her head.”
Both of the girls laughed, which made me feel comfortable enough to invite them to join Steve and myself for a drink.
I have not had a drink in five and a half months, so I ordered a Coca-Cola and Steve and I joined the girls at a corner table. The Kirsten Dunst chick was drinking bourbon. Her friend was drinking beer. I was sitting next to the Kirsten Dunst chick. Steve was sitting next to her friend.
I found out the Kirsten Dunst chick was from Texas. She told me about where she had gone to school and that she was currently an intern with a theatre company in Manhattan.
I told her that I have always liked Texas. I then told her that she looked like Kirsten Dunst and confessed that the police officer in my story didn’t really look like Kirsten Dunst, but that I must have been "subconsciously" thinking of her when I was on stage.
Then I said something about how I had been on the subway earlier that morning and had asked this guy wearing an iPod to move over so I could get past him and he didn’t hear me and I had raised my fist up to punch him before catching myself in the nick of time. I looked over at Steve and he gave a slight frown to discourage me from continuing with that line of conversation. Then I talked about how much I enjoyed guns and how much I missed having one. I then began to talk about the basic precepts of libertarianism and the notion of spontaneous order. I looked over at Steve again and he shook his head slightly with another gentle frown.
I started to feel like Paul Giamatti’s character in Sideways. I wanted to storm out of there and grab a bottle of Jim Beam, take it back to Queens, lock myself away with some old music and drink till I passed out. I felt miserable. I felt that I would never meet another woman again for the rest of my life. I wanted to hide from the world. I felt so repulsive and worthless.
Actually, I remember feeling two distinct emotions at the exact same time. I was simultaneously nervous and bored. I really wanted this girl to be attracted to me and to validate me as a male with some kind of a romantic or sexual sign. Yet I also wanted to put on my headphones so I didn’t have to hear any more small-talk rubbish about where she went to school and what improv classes she was taking.
I had already finished my Coca-Cola and was crunching away at the ice. What utter hell it all was turning into. Compounding matters, I noticed that the girl sitting next to Steve was touching him every now and then when she said something to him. That's one thing that I learned after years of asking my friends how they can tell if a girl is interested. If she touches you on your forearm or shoulder while you’re sitting and talking, it’s a good sign.
That was all well and good for Steve, but I wasn’t getting anything from the Kirsten Dunst chick. So on top of nervousness and boredom, I was now getting jealous.
So I did the only thing I could think of in a situation like that.
“I’m going to go have a cigarette,” I said, jumping up and putting on my coat.
Steve joined me outside and gave me a little manly pep talk. “Man, that Kirsten Dunst chick is really into you! See the way she keeps looking at you?”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I said, “but this kind of shit makes me absolutely fucking miserable. I don’t know what to say. I don’t how to act. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”
Just then, my friend Blane called. I excused myself to take the call and Steve went back inside. I told Blane that Steve and I were currently sitting with a couple of pretty girls inside a bar and that I was fighting the urge to leave and go home. Blane suggested instead that I go back in and practice talking with the women.
“I’m bored,” I said.
“You’re only bored because they’re not talking about you,” said Blane.
“Well, I’m fucking nervous, too,” I said.
“You’re only nervous because they’re not talking about you,” said Blane.
“Now you're talking some voodoo new age mumbo-jumbo, Blane. Jesus Christ, I’m never going to figure this shit out.”
After talking with Blane for a little while longer, I went back into the bar. The Kirsten Dunst chick was in the bathroom. I found myself sitting at the table with the other cute girl and Steve, feeling increasingly like the proverbial third wheel. As I stared at the melting ice in my glass I overheard the cute girl sitting next to Steve say the phrase “. . .dating a friend of mine. . .”
I wasn’t sure whether or not she meant that the Kirsten Dunst chick was dating somebody, but I decided that I didn't want to stay to find out. The way I saw it, I now had sufficient reason to leave. I gathered my coat, my bag and my headphones.
The Kirsten Dunst chick came out of the bathroom and sat down as I stood up.
“I’m taking off,” I sighed.
“I hope I didn’t break your headphones,” said the Kirsten Dunst chick.
“What?” I asked in a sudden panic.
“I accidentally stepped on them on the way to the bathroom. I guess they had fallen out of your bag or something,” she said.
With trembling hands, I examined my headphones. Sure enough, one of the ear pieces was out of whack. I put them on and winced when I noticed my left ear wasn’t being covered. Fucking clumsy bitch, I fumed to myself.
“I’m sorry,” she cooed in that sickeningly saccharine little girl way.
But what was I to do? I was angry, all right, but I still wanted to look cool and I know that it’s anything but cool to get pissed off at a Kirsten Dunst chick because of a pair of broken headphones. I might as well start talking about baseball cards or Dungeons and Dragons. Instead, I smiled painfully, “No, they’re not too bad.”
“They look like they’re messed up,” she said.
“Yeah, they do,” said her friend.
“It looks like the left one’s messed up,” said Steve.
I smiled at the entire table, “Oh, they’re all right. They're fine. They should still work. Yeah, they're okay." Then, in a mad rush to return to solitude so I could fume privately about my wounded headphones, I shook their hands goodbye.
“When are you playing again?” asked the friend.
“Somewhere on Sunday,” I sighed.
“Where?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I sighed again, turning to Steve, “You hanging?”
“Yeah, I’m hanging,” said Steve.
Like an autistic child, I rode the subway home cupping my left hand over the faulty ear piece, pushing it in, so I could maintain the full stereo effect of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. With my right hand, I played air-piano. Boy, did I feel like a zhlub. What could I have said to any girl in a situation like that?
These headphones are more important than your life!
It felt good for the moment to hate again. I had recently been experiencing periods of happiness and lightheartedness over the prior weeks, but this particular night was a return to form for me. For the rest of the night, I allocated myself a certain quota of self-pity and misogyny before awakening the next morning to face another day. We all of us hurt from time to time. We all of us feel the pangs of a primordial loneliness. I am nothing special. I am only one of God’s children striving to do right in this misguided world. . .
Calling Officer Reeves. . .come in, Officer Reeves.
