Fake House by Linh Dinh Read Free Book Online

made a decision that could not be reversed. I had taken charge of my destiny. I was a man.
    You know how they always say, “It takes balls to do that!” It was literally true in this case: The second before my index finger hit the band saw, I felt a pinch in my testicles. They were blinking, so to speak. Gritting their teeth before their moment of truth.
    But there was a logistical problem: I had made no provision for what to do after my amputation. With my bleeding stump pressed against the front of my flannel shirt, I walked back into the store and found a piece of cheesecloth, which I wrapped around my entire right hand. There was blood all over the floor and I thought,
Great, now I’ll have to clean all of that shit up
. But the pain was starting to kick in, throbbing, increasing by the second and making me dizzy, and the cheesecloth had turned completely red. For a moment I thought I was going to bleed to death and die, right here, in Walla Walla.
    Confronted with a novel crisis, the mind comes up with a novel solution. It was snowing outside. I went out, made sure Iwas not seen, knelt down on the ground, unwrapped my improvised bandage, and thrust my right hand into a mound of fresh snow. My blood coagulated.
    My father never forgave me. He went to his grave thinking I had humiliated him.
    I’ve never talked to Val about my index finger, and he has never asked me about it. I do not know if Trish ever said anything. Considering what he has done to his own body, it would not be appropriate to bring it up now.
    Now that you’ve heard my little confession, tell me: What is the connection between a man cutting his trigger finger off because he did not want to get his balls blown off in a war he did not care about and a man hacking his penis off for no apparent reason during peacetime?
22. Lovers
    I saw Patricia last month while waiting for the train in Trenton. It has been three years since we were lovers, two since my self-surgery.
    I saw her out of the corner of my eye. She was leaning against a wall, standing about five feet away from me. Of course it was Patricia: still in her shades, black leather vest over white T-shirt, black leather pants, and black boots. I know this woman, I know her breasts and her vagina. I know her stump. Of course it was Patricia, with those thin lips. But I made no move to acknowledge her. I was in disguise. I was wearing a wig and a dress.
    I stood still, looking up the track, while seeing Patricia out of the corner of my eye.
    But I was not acting naturally. I neither turned my head leftor right, nor shifted my weight from one foot to another. Nor blinked. Nor breathed. I stood perfectly still, like a classical statue, like the
Venus de Milo
, hoping that she would move so that I could move. But neither one of us moved. This went on for about two minutes. I knew then that she had recognized me. As the train came up the track, Patricia finally moved from her position and walked slowly but deliberately back into the station.
    As I saw her from behind gliding up the escalator, I thought,
I know that woman, I know her vagina and her breasts
.
23. Patricia My Archivist
    It was very unfortunate that Patricia saw me in my disguise. She had known me as a man, as her lover. There was no need for her to be devastated by my transformation.
    More importantly, she was my archivist. She had known me during my happiest, most successful moments. If my life could be distilled to what was stored in her memories, then it would be considered a happy life.
    It was a happy life, that is, until this episode in Trenton, this codicil, fucked it up. She had known me as a man with a beard, as her lover, as someone who gave her orgasms, not as a clean-shaven, dress-wearing faggot.
    But if Patricia thinks I’m a faggot, then she’s mistaken. I’m not a faggot. I’m not even a cross-dresser. It was a brief, misguided experiment. I wore dresses only for a few days.
    What Patricia saw in Trenton was an