Rory is considered by many to be the quintessential male. However, he owns thirty-eight designer dresses.

Thirty-Eight Dresses
By Angela Rasch

“Rory James McPherson has the ideal heart for a Basin County High School Eagle. When he straps on his helmet, he breathes Eagle football.”

I blushed. Coach Fowler isn’t a man who hands out praise to the undeserving. I thought.

The two of us sat at a table punctuated by microphones and faced a room bubbling with representatives of the press.

An overweight man -- with eyes that seemed soulless -- stood and peered at me. I knew him to be Trent Crimm, a writer for USA Today, “I’ve watched the tape of the ‘catch’ fifteen times and I still think it was made by Pixar . . . even though it saw it happen in real-time.”

The room erupted in laughter.

He continued. “With that catch, you’ve now caught ninety-six total passes for touchdowns during your high school career. That breaks the national record, which is why we’re all here. But this specific catch was unique. You actually reached between your opponent’s legs, caught the ball, and then pulled it in . . . in the end zone.”

I nodded. I prefer not to say too much because guys like Crimm take your words and make you look like a real jerk, in the newspaper.

“Maybe,” Crimm prompted, “if you were to describe the play in your own words, us mere mortals could better understand it.”

Coach Fowler nudged me with his elbow after the room had sat in awkward silence for what seemed like an eternity. “Just tell him what happened,” he guided.

I spoke slowly, gathering my words from what Rick Rielly wrote about others in Sports Illustrated. “Coach Fowler sent in a play known as ‘B-4.’ It’s a buttonhook designed to gain four yards. Since we were on the two-yard line, if everything went right – the blocking, the misdirection, Terry’s count, Greg’s centering -- we would score a touchdown. On the snap, I dropped my left shoulder but jab-stepped around the defender on the right. Their safety had been playing me a little too tightly – he’s a good player and was probably looking to jam me. He apparently immediately knew he was beaten. Trying to recover, he started to face-guard me, with his back to the line of scrimmage.

“Terry and I have been running ‘B-4’ since our Pop Warner days.” I stopped and took a drink of water. “Terry knows that if he throws the ball low – where only I have a chance to catch it, the odds of there being an interception are very low. So, the ball was right there – coming at me perfectly -- right behind the defender’s knees. I simply reached between his legs and caught it.”

“Didn’t look so ‘simple’ to us,” one of the writers stated wryly, causing the room to break into laughter, again.

“Terry should be at this table with us,” I complained. “Terry Moam . . . M-O-A-M. Terry’s thrown every TD pass I’ve caught -- except for the trick plays.”

Crimm offered an explanation for the room. “Terry has thrown one hundred and thirty career touchdowns. That’s far short of the national record. He’s an excellent quarterback, but you’re the story we’re here to write. Give us a break. Tell us something about yourself no one knows but you . . . that we can tell our readers.”

I blushed. If I tell them my secret, all hell will break loose!

Coach Fowler nudged me again. “Feed the jackals,” he hissed so that only I could hear.

He’s as fed up with the limelight as I am and is retiring as soon as the season ends. The goalposts for our team have long ago been moved. Winning isn’t enough. Setting national records has become our white whale.

“I’ve got your back. . .no matter what!” he added.

I grinned. What if I tell them the truth? What if I tell them that I would trade all the notoriety and glory of being a star football player on a championship team -- to become an unsung cheerleader? What if I tell them that I have this feeling that someone in the hospital -- when I was an infant -- took my baby girl brain and stuck it in a boy baby’s body? I love playing football, but I know that deep within me is the soul of a teenage girl. They’ll think I’m a pervert and nothing good will have been gained.

“There’s nothing to tell. When I’m playing football. . .well. . .all the time, I guess. . .I just try my best to do the right thing.”

“Speaking of ‘doing the right thing’, a reporter inquired. “Are you ready to commit to a college?”

I smiled contentedly. “Thanks to the coaching I’ve received and the teammates I’ve played with, my parents, and all my teachers -- I’ve received scholarship offers from Florida, Ohio State, Florida State, BYU, Nebraska, Penn State, and about thirty other great schools.” I reached under the table and pulled out old gold and black hat, which I jammed on my head. “I’ve decided to stay home. I’m going to play for the Mizzou Tigers!”

“Why Mizzou,” the reporter challenged. “They haven’t even won a conference championship since Dan Devine left for Notre Dame in 1969.”

“I like Coach Smith . . . but more importantly playing in my home state seemed like the right thing to do.”

***

The Chief of Police spoke to the mob of reporters while looking into the TV network news cameras. “We have provided the video taken by the body camera worn by Officer McPherson. It’s been six weeks since the incident. Our review board has completed its investigation and found that the shooting was justified. As far as we’re concerned, this is a closed issue. But . . . judging from the number of you in this room it would appear there probably are some questions you would like answered. Officer McPherson and I are both ready to spend as much time with you today as is necessary to finally put this matter to rest.”

We sat shoulder-to-shoulder. Brothers. There was no daylight between us, or the way we approached law enforcement.

I’ve been on his force for nearly thirteen years and things have been good. The pay is adequate. I live simply and have managed to save a bit for my rapidly approaching retirement. . .although I love my job and will work as long as I can hold off my desire to live as a woman. Once I’ve qualified for my pension I can live as I want. With credit for my six years in the Marines, I’ll have my twenty years in – in months.

As he finished, I looked up from my notes and stared at the dozens of reporters shouting at us . . . me.

“Cary Bradshaw, The New York Observer. Officer McPherson, according to your statement, you were patrolling in your squad car about a block away from the school when the call came out asking all officers to respond to a report of a man with a rifle at Jefferson Elementary on October 9th at approximately 10:17 -- on a Tuesday. When you arrived at the school, seconds later, you were the first officer on the scene. You immediately entered the building where you found Edward Joyston walking the hallway with an AR-15. You asked Mr. Joyston to put down his weapon and raise his empty hands into the air. When he raised his rifle and pointed it at you -- you fired three shots with your service revolver, a Glock 22, which instantaneously killed Mr. Joyston. Have I correctly stated those facts?”

“Yes, sir,” I respectfully answered the man.

“Good. First – why did you enter the building knowing you were outgunned?”

“I’m paid ‘to serve and protect.’ There are no qualifiers that say ‘serve and protect’ when it is convenient for you, or when you feel like it. There were innocent lives at stake.”

He nodded. “A follow-up question, please. Was it your intent to kill Mr. Joyston?”

I sighed. He has no idea the number of nightmares I’ve had. Edward has a mother, two brothers, and a dad. He was a loner, thank God, so there was no wife or children. “My intent was to fulfill the oath I swore to fulfill the duties of my office -- to serve and protect my community. Other than that -- I had no agenda.”

“But . . . did you need to kill Mr. Joyston to ‘serve and protect?’ Mr. Joyston was under psychiatric care. He wasn’t in control of his thoughts and emotions. He hadn’t fired a shot, yet. Maybe he’d changed his mind? Couldn’t you simply wound him?”

The Chief bristled. “Our officers are trained to shoot at the ‘center mass.’ Police officers are human and are pumped full of adrenaline in high-stress situations. We can’t afford to have them trying to aim for an arm or leg -- and take the chance of a lethal error resulting in their deaths or the failure to stop the carnage. Mr. Joyston was carrying over two hundred rounds of ammunition. He could have killed dozens of children and teachers.”

Another reporter rose. “Eileen Fitzgerald, Alaskan Daily. Chief Potter, this question is for you. It is my understanding that normal protocol is for a responding officer to wait for backup before entering a scene where a suspect is armed. Why didn’t Officer McPherson wait for backup, and will he face disciplinary action for his failure to follow protocol?”

I struggled to maintain my composure. My focus narrowed on her all-too-eager face.

“Every situation requires that our officers use their own initiative,” Chief Potter started. “Nothing is ever black and white. Ever since the school shootings in Uvalde, you can bet that police officers have had many training sessions to make sure the lessons of that day aren’t ignored. Our officers carry a baton, handcuffs, extra ammo. . .. None of them tote around a crystal ball or a Ouija board. Official estimates are that Officer McPherson saved dozens of lives. We don’t question what he did on that day beyond the mandatory review. Rather than disciplinary action, Officer McPherson has deservedly received the highest commendations we can bestow.”

Clearly embarrassed in front of her peers, Ms. Fitzgerald pressed on. “Chief . . . we agree that Officer McPherson is a hero. But he’s human. My guess is he makes human errors. . ..”

She rambled about the need for better training, revamping of law enforcement, etc. -- while my mind drifted.

Since the shooting, my need to reduce personal stress has grown exponentially. My primary self-help strategy is cross-dressing. A closet transsexual, I dress more hours a week as a female than I do as a male. When I’m home I’m female, but only at home, by myself.

At the end of her rant Chief Potter dressed Ms. Fitzgerald down in a way only he can do.

. . . and maybe gained me an enemy for life. I don’t need people looking into my business.

No one knows, but me. At six foot two inches / two hundred and five pounds -- and bench pressing nearly four hundred pounds -- I won’t pass in public. Yet, I own over three dozen dresses and all the rest of a female wardrobe to match.

The peace I found, when dressed and properly self-pampered with make-up and perfume, allowed me to carry on through the rest of my life. I’ve dated a few women and have had very satisfactory sex with some of them. However, marriage isn’t for me.

Out of curiosity I recently researched and found that the average woman owns about twenty-one dresses. I had invested a total of nearly twelve thousand dollars in an extensive wardrobe that would be the envy of many Missouri women. I bought designer clothing that I knew would fit. It was my one and only extravagance.

“Officer McPherson,” Ms. Fitzgerald asked, trying to dig out of her hole, “where do you stand on the need for more gun control laws?”

I could feel a blush creep across my face. “I just try my best to do the right thing. Er. . .I . . .I served in the military. . ..”

“Yes . . .. Thank you for your service,” she said gratuitously. “You were a marine and were awarded the Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. But how do you feel about a man like Mr. Royston being able to own an assault rifle? Should Congress reinstate the law they passed in 1994?”

I answered from reflex. “An AR-15 is not an assault rifle. An assault rifle is a machine gun. They’re very different. I took an oath to uphold the Constitution. The second amendment gives citizens of our country the right to bear arms. That’s all I know. Maybe I need to know more. . ..”

Chief Potter drew the PR to a close.

***

Two weeks later I found myself sitting in the basement of Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church attending a NRA meeting. Another member of the police force, David Hogg, had watched the press conference and thought I might find some answers to my gun control questions if I came to this meeting.

“Guns just aren’t that important to what we do,” David said. “I read the other day that only 27% of all police officers will ever fire their weapon in the line of duty.”

I nodded. But I just killed a man with my Glock. I killed several men in Afghanistan with an M27 IAR. I found no pleasure in any of it -- but have no regrets.

I looked around the room, expecting to see Nazis -- but saw the same demographics you would find at a tractor pull.

My research indicated that three out of ten adults in the United States own a gun. Of those, about 4.5 million are NRA members. About 77% of NRA members are Republicans and 30% of those describe themselves as “very conservative.” About half of the NRA members own five or more guns. 44% of NRA members say they carry a gun with them “all or most of the time.” While nearly 45% of NRA members say owning a gun is very important to their overall identity, only 20% of non-member gun owners say a gun is very important to their identity.

“God bless you all for coming,” the first speaker started. “If you listen to the lame-stream press you will hear that the NRA’s membership is in decline. I travel all over our wonderful country doing the Lord’s work to preserve our God-given Second Amendment. I can provide witness that NRA enthusiasm is vigorous and growing more so every day.

“There’s no such thing as a good gun. There’s no such thing as a bad gun. A gun in the hands of a bad man is a very dangerous thing. A gun in the hands of a good man is no danger to anyone except the bad guys.”

Then there must be a lot of "bad guys" because over forty thousand people a year are killed by guns in the United States. On a list of the top 130 countries, the U.S. ranks 31st most violent. Yet, you’re one hundred times more likely to die of gun violence in the U.S. than you would be in a country where guns are highly regulated like U.K., China, or Japan.

The speaker continued. “I simply cannot stand by and watch a right guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States come under attack from those who either can't understand it, don't like the sound of it, or find themselves too philosophically squeamish to see why it remains the first among equals: Because it is the right we turn to when all else fails. That's why the Second Amendment is America's first freedom.”

His face is the map of Scotland. He looks as guilty as speeders I pull over.

He placed his hand over his heart. “The Constitution is a covenant between the Lord and our blessed country.” For the next eon, he cited several Biblical passages that spun a gossamer web that supposedly showed -- without a doubt -- that the Constitution is a religious document that should be held in awe and respected without question.

I might’ve bought his specious argument had I not known that Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Madison, and Monroe were either agnostic or practiced a faith called Deism. Deists believe human reason is a reliable means of solving social and political problems. They also believe in a supreme being who created the universe to operate solely by natural laws—and after creation, is absent from the world.

He bowed his head. “Let us pray for Almighty guidance to follow the pathway that preserves our rights. We all are your servants, dear Lord, in the fight against evil, and our guns are our main tool. Lord, please help us perceive the undeniable linkage between gun rights and the fight to stop the moral decay we see daily in gender culture wars.”

Fuck him! He’s an idiot and a bigot. If he had his way, people like me would be exterminated.

After several dozen more “God Blesses” and “Let Us Prays” he finally slithered away from the podium.

The second man started within seconds. His demeanor and appearance were in stark contrast with the Bible serpent. We had gone from Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show to the precision of the second half of Law and Order. His Canali suit spoke for him. He leaned into a riveting Visme presentation.

Rather than a preacher trying to convince us he had just come from the mountaintop having just chatted with God, the new speaker was buttoned down tightly within Constitutional law.

“The right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed,” he started. “That’s it. The Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.” He smiled and steepled his hands. “The right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” He allowed the Second Amendment to marinate for about fifteen seconds before continuing. “Infringed simply means ‘to trespass or violate.’ In this case, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be violated.”

That’s straightforward.

“I’m a Constitutional lawyer,” he stated. “My law degree is from Georgetown. I’m admitted to the bar in Virginia. Although the NRA pays me handsomely for my expertise, you don’t have to have my education -- to understand this simple statement. The right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed. Shall not be infringed.”

The emphasis he’d placed on that one simple statement opened my eyes.

He wasn’t done. “There have been twenty-seven amendments to our Constitution. The first ten are known as the Bill of Rights. In all of those twenty-seven amendments the word ‘infringed’ was used only once. . .in the Second Amendment. That’s how important this absolute right was to those who wrote the Constitution. That’s how important this absolute right is to you.”

He went on to speak about the “security” provided to individuals through the guns that they own. He spoke passionately about the Heller case, through which the Supreme Court affirmed an individual’s absolute right to bear arms for self-defense.

Everything seemed to click together like the Ravensburger picture puzzles I spent so many hours assembling. I did puzzles at my dining room table while attired as I wished I could be 24/7, if things were different.

I had been struggling with our government’s lack of action to curb mass murders. Now I understand. The Constitution plainly prohibits politicians from taking what would seem to be simple and reasonable steps to control the use and ownership of guns. Without a Constitutional Amendment their hands are tied.

They’re doing the right thing.

At the end of the meeting, I shook hands with the Constitutional lawyer and thanked him for easing my personal quandary.

***

Two months after that meeting, I was patrolling in my squad. I’d swapped shifts with a friend who wanted to see his boy play ball that afternoon.

A call came in shortly after 1:00 A.M. from the dispatcher for an officer to respond to a domestic violence report, not too far from my position.

Other than rape, or a decomposing body, domestic violence investigations are my least favorite duty.

The first thing I noted when I pulled up to the scene was a man holding a Smith & Wesson 460XVR. He held its muzzle tightly against the temple of a woman. Then I saw the Semper Fi tattooed on his forearm.

“Always faithful,” I said softly. “Second battalion, 8th regiment.”

He nodded. “I was part of the surge in 2009. I was wounded my second day there and spent the duration of my service on my back at Walter Reed.”

“Bad shit,” I stated. “I went in during May, as well. My wounds weren’t as bad as yours.” He and the woman look to be my age. She might have been pretty at one time. I have a dress that’s a lot like the one she’s wearing. Her figure would look much better without the belt.

“I need to do this,” he asserted. “She’s killing me. She got everything in the divorce and is using my kids as a weapon against me. My life is crap.”

“He isn’t the man I married,” she complained. “He promised me things. Big promiser. . .that one.”

“I’ve tried everything,” he said. “Couples’ counseling. They’re a fucking joke. The faggot psychologist took her side on everything. I tried talking to him about my guilt, shame, inability to feel happiness. . .. That asshat told me to ‘man up.’”

My service revolver was drawn and aimed at his heart. If I shoot him, he probably will involuntarily pull the trigger on that mammoth pistol. I could hear sirens several blocks away.

“If you shoot her,” I said calmly. “I’m going to have to kill you.”

“I’m counting on that. Sorry!”

Her head exploded simultaneously with the roar of his revolver.

I fired four shots into his chest and their two bodies collapsed into a pitiful heap.

Always Faithful.

***

Whoever had set up the press conference had placed Chief Potter’s chair about four feet from mine. If I would have needed to touch him, it would’ve been a stretch.

The department had released copies of my body camera’s video to the press the previous day.

I had been asked by the Chief to “voluntarily” take part in the press conference. The board had cleared me by stating the shooting had been justified. Brains, blood, and skull fragments from the woman I had come to know as “Sarah” had provided ample testimony.

It was highly probable that I would be “pressed” about not following department protocol. I’m willing to take the heat. I made the decision. It’s the right thing to do.

Chief Potter cleared his throat. “I’ve been asked by the City Attorney to emphasize that although Officer McPherson is in uniform. . .today. . .his opinions are not necessarily those of the department.”

A woman reporter stood. “Eileen Fitzgerald, Alaskan Daily. Officer McPherson, the video from your body camera revealed a horrible occurrence that many believe could have been avoided – had you followed normal protocol.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded. Chief Potter had grilled me hours after the shooting after he’d reviewed the video. He hadn’t been kind.

She continued. “Unless there was a glitch in the mechanism for activating your camera. . .. Officer McPherson, to the best of your ability can you tell us if the video we’ve seen is a complete record of your encounter with Barry Whit?”

Barry Whit. E-9. Semper Fi. “The video is complete.”

“Thank you,” she responded. “Then, Officer McPherson, there’s one simple question we would all like answered. Why didn’t you follow department protocol and ask Mr. Whit to put down his gun?”

I bit my lip. “I took an oath. When I became a police officer, I pledged to uphold the Constitution. Mr. Whit expressed that he thought his ex-wife was killing him. He was defending himself. As a citizen, he has the Constitutional right to bear arms. It would’ve been unconstitutional for me to ask him to put down his gun.”

“You’re insane,” she spat at me.

“No, ma’am. I was doing the right thing.”

“People like you don’t know right from wrong,” she snorted. “For the past few weeks, I’ve talked to everyone I could find who knows you. I spoke to. . ..” She checked her notes. “I spoke to seventy-three people who have either worked with you, are related to you, or were your neighbors. Do you know what they told me?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Seventy-two people all said the same things. War hero. Sports super-star. Police hero who saved dozens of lives. Ohio’s man-of-the-year.”

“Do you have a question, ma’am?” I asked politely.

She sneered. “I’ll get to my question. It wasn’t until I talked to the seventy-third person that I found someone who knew the real you. Your neighbor, Richard Warner Carlson, told me some things that explained a lot about you. Do you know Richard Warner Carlson?”

“I believe he lives across the courtyard from me in my apartment building. I’ve met him at the community pool, but don’t really know him.”

“He knows you. Mr. Carlson gave me copies of photos he’s taken of you sitting at your dining room table in your apartment. These photos were taken from about fifty yards away, through your patio door. But digital cameras are amazing. The pictures are quite clear. That dress you’re wearing in the photo is a floral print designed by Emilia. Am I right?”

I blushed fiercely. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I have thirty-eight similar pictures taken on many different days. The pictures are of you in a different dress each day. Do you deny any of this?”

The room had grown deathly silent.

“No ma’am. I’m sure the photos are showing me expressing my true self in the privacy of my own home.”

“According to the new Missouri law signed by the governor last April – you are by legal definition, ‘insane.’”

“I didn’t know that ma’am.”

“Ignorance is not a defense. According to that same law, you’re required to de-transition. Several of those pictures were taken after the law went into effect. Each time you’ve masqueraded as a woman since the law went into effect, you’ve committed a felony. By Missouri State law you can’t be a felon and a police officer. In fact, since you’re legally insane, you can’t even own or have a gun.”

“I think we’ve completed this press conference,” Chief Potter said. “It’s plain to see what my duties will include this afternoon.”

I closed my eyes, wishing for the millionth time that Barry had killed me -- and not Sarah.

Chief Potter has risen from the table -- no doubt on his way to his office to process my discharge and maybe to initiate my arrest -- but I offered a final statement.

“I am who I am. The person in those pictures is the same as the person who has made his community proud and safe for almost three decades. In fact, without the woman in those pictures, who is me, I couldn’t have done all the positive things that I have.”

The End

When the NRA and many other Second Amendment advocates talk about the Second Amendment they often leave out the first phrase. The full Second Amendment states -- A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

The ‘catch’ I describe is one I made as a senior in high school. It was a fluke -- but a completed pass caught by reaching through my opponent’s legs.

Richard (Dick) Warner Carlson was a TV news reporter in California. He unnecessarily outed Renee Richards, when she, a post-op transsexual, was playing in a women’s tennis tournament. Carlson’s son (Tucker) went on to become a famous liar.

The average police officer serves for twenty-six years. Only 27% ever fire their gun in the line of duty. Second Amendment advocates frequently speak to self-defense as a primary purpose for gun ownership.

Experts state a gun owner is more likely to shoot another member of the family than shoot an intruder. I’m inclined to believe that is true.

I know exactly one police officer (or civilian) who ever shot a bad guy.

I know at least six people (and maybe three more) who were accidentally killed, or committed suicide, by guns.

Of the over forty thousand people who will die by gun in the U.S. this year, about 54% will be suicides.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
Minnifer
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake