The Times They Are

By R.H. Drexel

Marty used to be my best buddy. Not that I subscribe to the line of thinking that says parents and kids should be friends. Parents should be parents, as far as I’m concerned. But we did a lot of fun stuff together. 

From the time he was maybe six or seven, we’d get donuts at a local shop in nearby Colton. That’s a town in Southern California. Every Saturday morning, without fail. Sometimes on Wednesdays before I dropped him off at school. Shit neighborhood, but the best donuts around. His mom – my wife, Susan – is a Starbucks fanatic, so we’d always swing by Starbucks on the way home and get her a green tea latte. 

Marty was short for his age. When he was seven, he looked five. When he was ten, he looked seven. We had annual passes to Disneyland back then, and would go frequently, me and him getting those huge turkey legs between rides. I swear, those legs looked bigger than him. 

My son went through a pretty intense Pokémon phase, followed by a Dungeons & Dragons phase, followed by an anime phase. It was easy to buy Christmas and birthday presents for Marty because he made his interests explicit. 

Marty’s sister, on the other hand, was harder to figure out. Chloe liked one kind of doll one week, and the next week she’d move on to being obsessed with horses. And then she couldn’t get enough of dogs. Then she was into Tamagotchis- little digital pets you had to “care” for. At first, she was so fixated with that little plastic toy that she stared at it constantly. Within two months’ time, I found it one day out in the backyard, flung behind a hedge, its once-red plastic exterior cracked and faded to pink. 

I was always a step behind with Chloe, gifting wise, until she discovered theater in junior high. After that, anything to do with sheet music, microphones, even special teas for singers, became suitable.

When they were little, Marty and Chloe were super close. It’s almost like they had their own language. My wife or I would say something, or one of our friends who was over would say something – nothing particularly interesting or funny – and they’d look at each other and giggle, rolling their eyes, like adults can be so silly. 

But by the time Marty was 16 and Chloe was 14 or so, they stopped communicating in that way. They might talk a little, about music or a show, but otherwise that special language they had just went away. They started growing up, I guess. 

When Marty was 17, I walked into his room one weekend – the door was ajar – and there he stood, in a red corset, a black jacket and a black mini skirt. He had on fishnet stockings. Lipstick. Blush. It wasn’t October.

That’s the first thing I thought: It’s not Halloween, why is he in a costume? 

All he said was, “I want you and Mom and everyone to call me Martina from now on.” 

Susan wasn’t going to be home for a while, so I took a long bike ride. I texted my friend John, and he joined me. We liked biking together along this one long trail in San Bernardino because it was a good workout, though the trail sucked. Lots of homeless people lived there – still do – and the place is just lined with garbage. Lots of tents on the side of the path. Hibachis. Old sleeping bags. Blankets. One whole stretch smells like pee, but once you get through the rough spots, it opens up into a great bike path along a riverbed. 

I rode hard that day. John, who’s much fitter, had a hard time keeping up. Afterwards, we went to the local pizza place and had a pitcher of beer and a pizza. I don’t drink much beer these days, not since I was in the Navy way back when. Nowadays, I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner, but that’s about it. Any more than that and it slows me down the next day, and I really like waking up with enough energy for a bike ride or at least a long walk. 

But that night, I allowed myself half a pitcher, and it went down easily. When Susan got home she could tell I’d had a lot of beer, but she wasn’t irritated, which is good because that would have been maybe too much for that day.

I told her about Martina. She started crying and looked super scared at first. Then she did what she always does, which bugs me, but what can you do? She went on Facebook and told the family that Marty now wanted to be called Martina. I was mad at her, and embarrassed, but the next day nobody called or anything. My sister, who’s gay, texted a few days later. Some nice emojis of hearts and smiles, and told me if I needed to talk, she’d be around. That made me feel a little better. 

Before Marty was Martina, he was into Warhammer, a miniature war game. For his birthday I took him to a store that sells a bunch of Warhammer stuff. I told him he could buy $200 worth of Warhammer. That got me a rare smile. He was wearing a frilly pink shirt his mom had bought him at Ross and some high-waisted jeans. Lots of makeup and a girly necklace.

I figured I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew at the Warhammer store, but of course, wouldn’t you know it, I ran into John there. I mean, that’s just the way life is sometimes. John took one look at Marty and then looked at me, and I could tell he was trying really hard to react normally. 

“You into Warhammer? Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, extending his hand to me and leaning in for one of those handshake hugs. ”I dabble,” he added, confidingly.

“Nah, my…um…you remember?” I stumbled with my words, trying to avoid saying “son”.

John was cool about it. He extended his hand and said, “I sure do. You’ve grown up!” 

Marty met his handshake with a limp, extended pale hand. Then he walked off – kind of rudely – and started shopping.

John said, “Teenagers. Am I right?” 

For whatever reason, this got me choked up.

John made like he didn’t notice anything, which is why I consider him to be my best friend. We walked up and down the aisles together for a long while. I swear Marty could have stayed in there all day, looking at all those little figures. Paints. Magazines. He was enthralled. 

John and I made a plan to go biking the next week and maybe get the wives together. We’d been talking for a while about taking a little road trip up to Morro Bay. A long weekend. Just the two couples. So we began cementing those plans and kicked a few dates around. 

It turned out to be a great trip in the end. Susan loves his wife, Christine. We rented a little motorized boat and tooled around the bay for two hours, drinking wine out of splits, otters swimming all around us. 

Part 2

When he turned 18, Marty told us he wanted us to start calling him Hannah. 

Remembering to use Martina was hard enough, and having to toggle over to Hannah seemed daunting, but we managed. My father-in-law was the only one who really pushed back. I mean, my mother did, too. She said we were indulging Marty and that it was just a phase, but at least she didn’t say that in front of him. 

But my father-in-law told Hannah the devil had gotten to him and that he’d never make it to heaven and stuff like that. 

It’s hard to read my son, but I could tell that hurt his feelings. I would have pulled my father-in-law aside, but, you know, that would have just created more stress in the family. Susan already can’t stand him, and he was pretty abusive when she was growing up, so to keep the peace, I just kind of walked away the first time he said that stuff, and now, when we gather, I keep my distance from him after we exchange initial hellos. 

When Hannah started taking hormones, things got tough at home. He was already moody, but things got much worse after that. He barely spoke to us. He stayed in his room for most of the day, only coming out to get food. He stopped eating dinner with the family. That’s around the same time Chloe started getting a lot of anxiety. 

Honestly, I don’t know what we would have done had she not been into theater and had all her theater buddies. Good kids, all of them. It’s nice to see.

Part 3

Chloe was always depressed back then, crying a lot. It was heartbreaking. Whenever she had a little victory – landed a new role, learned a new song, got kudos from her vocal coach – the three of us celebrated, probably a little too much. It was just good to see her happy. 

Susan and I would take her to dinner, anywhere she wanted, and buy her things that she’d been wanting. Marty rarely joined us. We really had to beg him to, and when he did, he didn’t talk much. 

When he met Ivy – who was a boy, too, and now dressed like a girl – his mood improved. Ivy is energetic and has a nice affect, though we wonder if they’re good for each other. They’ve since then announced that they’re polyamorous, but I’m not digesting that right now, nor is Susan. When Ivy visited, she’d stay in Marty’s room, and they’d make a lot of weird noises. It was uncomfortable, so we’d just turn up the volume on the television. I don’t know what Ivy’s name used to be. 

Susan and I just got back from visiting both of them in Seattle. Marty just up and told us one day he was moving there because it’s more trans-friendly. We helped him move. Lugged all his Warhammer belongings and clothing up there in our van. At least he talked during the trip. We stopped at a couple of places along the way, did some touristy stuff, and he talked quite a bit. It wasn’t quite like the old days, but it was nice to make eye contact with him and see him smile. 

Last Saturday morning, before we headed back home, we went to Pike Place Market and bought some donuts together. Just me and Marty. He actually elbowed me playfully when we could smell the donuts frying. That sweet doughy smell. Nothing like it. 

There was a long line ahead of us; lots of other people with the same idea, I guess. When we got up to order, they asked us for our names. I answered for both of us. Waylon and Hannah. The guy who took our order looked at Marty in a judging way, up and down, which I didn’t appreciate, as we’d been told by other people other than Marty that Seattle was much more open-minded. So his look made me worry for my son. 

I puffed my chest out some, leaned forward a bit threateningly and said, “that’s my daughter.” I can sound tough when I want to. Harkens back to my Navy days, I think. I’m a short guy, but broad around the shoulders and strong. My nickname in the Navy was Golly. When you get a bunch of bored guys on a Navy ship, they come up with some good nicknames, and those names can evolve over time. Mine started as Piledriver, because of how I’m built. Then it became Pyle. Then Gomer. Then finally Golly. I still have Navy buddies who call me Golly. 

The donut guy actually looked kind of confused. Taken aback. Maybe he wasn’t looking at Marty funny, but that’s how I took it. He looked away, awkwardly, while extending his hand, dropping the change into my open palm. 

On our way back to the apartment, I let Marty go first. I opened the door. “Thanks, Dad.” And then, just like that, my child ran up the staircase and disappeared around the corner.