I was a waiter at a seafood restaurant

in my early twenties

when I saw Jim Carry’s film,

Liar Liar.

 

Unable to tell a single lie

due to his son’s wish,

this uptight lawyer (in the movie)

suddenly becomes a modern-day Jesus

spewing honesty in every situation

he finds himself in.

 

I identified with the character.

 

I felt as if he was indoctrinating me,

especially when he shouts out the infamous

words of Jesus from the Bible,

“The Truth Shall Set You Free!”

 

It was a long-winded catharsis

filled with fire and a total belief

in the words

said through the animated-mouth

of a clownish soul

who’s been to hell

returned with the gratefulness

of a new life.

 

After the film,

I couldn’t sleep well for days.

Then I finally gave in to what was bothering me

and confessed to my wife

that I’d worn women’s clothing before

and that I had this thing

with cross dressing

and it had started when I was a boy

when my mother was sick

in the hospital

and it had kicked in

when she’d died

around the time I was ten years old.

 

She wept while sitting on the couch;

and for weeks she was in a kind of slumped daze.

 

But then she saw the courage

in my confession, feeling better

about her own issues,

and she came around and realized she loved me

nonetheless, despite this perverted quirk,

and she let it go

as our marriage continued with a new strength

and bizarre force.

 

Feeling the relief of letting this secret

out of the bag, finally, after holding it in

for all these years, 

I confessed to my best buddy at the time;

he in turn confessed to having S and M

perversions

and told me stories of him

paying Mistresses (at their homes)

for forced feminization scenarios

where they’d dress him up as a bitch

and pretend to pick him up at a bar;

it was quite a night, both of us smoking a joint

and cracking up.

 

Then I told my older brother and his girlfriend.

 

And then I wrote a thirty-page

confessional piece

called Confessions of a Transvestite;

and gave a copy to my wife

and to the buddy I told

and to my brother and his girlfriend

and to a few restaurant co-workers

I felt were close enough friends to trust.

 

Well, perhaps I took that line from Carry’s movie too literally, not realizing the consequences.

 

After passing out copies of this manuscript

to other servers

not in my personal circle,

I began to feel the eyes on me

while waiting tables at work; word got around,

especially with caddy servers in a restaurant.

 

People treated me differently.

 

I was, in a silent way, shunned; management

eventually saw me as some kind of freakish threat.

 

That’s when the bouts of anxiety

began to occur.

 

I couldn’t handle the eyes

focusing on my sanity

even if there were no eyes

watching.

 

I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t prepared for the mind chaos

thrown at me.

 

I suppose that’s how it works.

I suppose that’s what Jesus felt,

that is, what any man would face

accepting the role of Jesus, accepting

the consequences of telling the truth. 

 

The truth shall set you free all right,

metaphorically speaking,

rolling a royal carpet underneath a troubled soul.

But if you’re going to go all the way,

jump all the way in, then you better be ready

to face society’s encroaching jaws;

the truth is dangerous pray

in an ocean of dutiful sharks. 

 

Jesus found out pretty quick himself.

Betrayed by his closest friend

and then crucified on the cross,

his suffering represents

the suffering of the artist

or the truth seeker

or the person confessing his deepest sins

to the masses.

 

The metaphor is potent

and still vital for the honest man today.

 

I was aware of these things,

reading Joseph Campbell

and doing my best to face

the obstacles thrown at me.

 

But one doesn’t know how sharp

the tiger’s claws are

until those claws actually rip the flesh.

 

After passing out those copies of the manuscript,

I lasted about three months in the restaurant. 

 

I’m not sure if it was me who’d sabotaged myself

into getting fired

or if it was management who’d had enough

of my ass; my anxiety

mixed with their unwholesome knowledge of me

came to a head.

So I found myself looking for another job

once again, which wasn’t anything new for me, even before all this had happened.

And as time passed,

I found myself isolated,

unable to relate with anyone

other than the masters,

the great comedians

joking their way through hellish confessions,

writers spilling their blood

on the pages, and even painters

wiping their guts onto canvas.

Unable to maintain any sort of normal life,

whatever life that was,

I eventually left my wife,

which had nothing to do with the cross dressing,

but a wildness in me

that just wouldn’t go away.

I was too wild for society.

The anxiety got worse, and I kept losing jobs,

and I barely made it in the end.

 

Over the years, I’ve managed to squeeze my way

through the cracks of the Grid

without being noticed enough

to close all doors in order to make a living.

 

I’m still dealing with the consequences

after watching that movie

almost fifteen years ago.

 

I’m 38 now, and I’ve had more jobs

and more women

and I’ve written six novels

and poetry manuscripts filled with works

like this one.

But other than a few close friends

and ex-girlfriends, at this point in the game,

know who I am or what I’m about.

 

I haven’t stopped;

the crucifixion continues.

 

If you don’t believe me,

show this piece

to your local high school superintendent

in his office

and watch his eyes squirm

with fear, rage, and doubt,

feeling the awkwardness

of a thousand elephants

charging into the room.

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