Free The Child by Sarah Schulman

two gay women will have to go. They’re a distraction from the real story. What in the hell do they have to do with that boy?’”
    “I like them,” Eva said, offering Mary a radish. “I like those two gay women.” She started putting flowers in a vase. “Did you explain?”
     
    Yes, Mary had explained. This was her third appointment with the dramaturge at the Federal Theater. The first time, she’d come all dressed up and waited in the lobby for two hours while the seen-itall tired queen at the switchboard kept ringing his line and getting no answer.
    “But he said two o’clock.”
    “He’s up there.” The receptionist fluttered, batted his eyelids, drooped his eyelids, raised his eyebrows, fully activated all faggoty gestures that could possibly emerge from the ocular area. “He just don’t answer.”
    The second round was three months later in a snowstorm. She’d braved blocks of no buses, no sidewalks, no paths. Arrived in the stone-cold lobby and waited for two hours. Then braved them all again empty-handed.
    This was strike three. The dramaturge was a sort of cruel, sarcastic young man. He had a respected actor for a boyfriend, and that gave him even more status. It made them an “It” couple. And therefore part of the infamous theatrical hierarchy. That was one thing
that had taken Mary years to figure out. The Hierarchy. If you were lower than someone, they were dismissive to you, and if you were higher, they were subservient. It had nothing to do with whether or not someone authentically liked her. It had nothing to do with her at all. If one day she could get some currency, then people who had been awful would be nice. And that would feel great—she knew it. But how to get from here to there?
    So finally she’d made it into his office, where he sat behind an important desk and she sat in a single chair. But she was ready. She’d come prepared to explain.
    “See,” Mary told this man with power. “I grew up in a small town called Del Sol, California, where the wind changes direction many times a day. It taught me that in life there is momentum on all paths at once.”
    He was still breathing.
    It was so warm, that wind. It pushed you forward, kissed your soul, stood in your way. One force in many directions, each with its own purpose.
    “So the two gay women in my play are actually interesting. But the audience doesn’t know how to watch them. They’re not used to them. They’re used to watching men.”
    He seemed to still have a pulse.
    “That’s what I have to offer an audience that’s special. That big news that we’re all in the same world, together. And that no one needs to see a boy in order to see himself. You know?”
    Something was going wrong. Mary started to panic. The man who was supposed to finally help her, the one who was supposed to be different and open the door. That man wasn’t coming through. He wasn’t getting it.

    “You know? The boy and the women are each other’s story. One story. The space between their experiences is the story. One story. Like the wind. One wind.”
    She sat back watching this lump of entitlement decide her fate. She’d brought him a gift, didn’t he see that?
    He smiled. Good.
    “Keep me posted.”
    Then he got back on the phone.
    “I’m going to have a glass of wine.”
    “No, thanks,” Eva said and kissed her on the mouth. “I believe in you.”
    As soon as she tasted the Chardonnay, Mary started strategizing for her meeting the following day with a really big producer. She had to change her method. Telling the truth did not work. This time, no matter what, she would be what he wanted her to be.
    If he’s a nice fag, she’ll be herself and flirt a little and be smart. If he’s an asshole fag, she’ll be really competent and smart, no flirting, but she won’t be smarter than him.
    If he’s straight, she’ll flirt as long as there are no straight women in the room, because they can do it better and she’ll look dumb. If