Free Cross Dressing by Bill Fitzhugh Page A

eighteen-year-old’s hard body. His dark hair was short. He wore baggy pants and a T-shirt stained with a rainbow of paints. His torso was a landscape of green ink on nut brown skin. He was hunched over a sketch pad, pencil in hand. He didn’t look up when Sister Peg and Father Michael came in. “That’s Ruben,” Sister Peg said. “Our in-house artist.”
    “Hi, Ruben,” Michael said, his hand in the air. Ruben didn’t look up from the sketch pad. Father Michael waited a moment. “Must be mid-inspiration.”
    Sister Peg shook her head. “He’s deaf. He came here a few years ago to get out of a gang. Now he’s one of my underpaid employees. He’s the one who does any heavy lifting that needs to be done, so he’ll be glad you’re here.” Sister Peg stamped a foot on the floor and Ruben looked up. He smiled and showed her what he was working on. It wasn’t a drawing. He’d been filling out a lottery form. The jackpot was up to thirty-two million dollars. He put his hands together in mock prayer.
    Using sign language, Sister Peg slowly, if gracefully, introduced Father Michael. Ruben responded with fingernails raking up his neck and off his chin. Despite the fact that it looked like an Italian threat, Ruben’s generous smile conveyed the sense that he was happy to have a fellow underpaid employee. He acknowledged Father Michael with a short upward nod of the head, then returned his attention to picking numbers for Saturday’s Lotto drawing—the state’s version of hope and salvation.
    “What sort of painting does he do?”
    “He’s a wizard with a can of spray paint,” Sister Peg said. “He does some sculpting too. I think he’s got talent, but I’m not a judge of that sort of thing.” She turned and headed for the hallway.
    Father Michael stopped abruptly. He felt another sharp spasm in his abdomen. He bent slightly at the waist and sent two fingers to probe under his ribs, easing the discomfort. This was the worst one yet. If this didn’t clear up on its own, he’d definitely have to see a doctor.
    Father Michael caught up with Sister Peg who had stopped to watch the end of the high-speed chase on thenews. They stood there long enough to see the next story. The desk anchor threw it to a reporter who was standing inside a huge warehouse somewhere in Los Angeles. “Thanks, Bob,” the reporter said. “You know, they used to say the moon was made of green cheese. Well, if you’ve ever wondered how much cheese it would take to do that, the contents of this warehouse ought to give you a pretty good idea!” The camera pulled back to a long, wide shot of an enormous warehouse. The reporter explained that the 600,000-square-foot warehouse was filled to the rafters with cheese and other dairy products. “And all of this is anything
but
hard cheese for California’s dairy farmers. This warehouse is just a small part of the government’s complex overall strategy to keep the state’s dairy industry immune to the price fluctuations that can be caused by cheaper imported products. Oh, and one more thing,” the reporter said. “I think if I were to come back in another life, I’d like to come back here … as a mouse!” The reporter chuckled. “Back to you in the studio, Bob.”
    “Christ, that pisses me off!” Sister Peg turned to walk away.
    Father Michael followed her. “The waste or the inane chatter?”
    “I’m sorry, Father. I don’t mean to make a bad first impression. But that sort of … crap makes me crazy.”
    “Believe me, I understand.” He thought of all the absurd church and government policies he’d encountered in Africa, policies that prevented tons of food and medicine from reaching the sick and starving refugees. “But what can you do?” he asked rhetorically.
    “Give me a minute,” Sister Peg said. “I’ll think of something.” She looked at her watch. “All right, I’ve got to take off. But I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
    “First thing.” Father Michael