Felony Jones

August 1988

Felony Jones was more situation or state of mind than real live flesh and blood; at least that was how she felt most of the world viewed her—with the understanding, for better or worse, that it was easier for people to put her in the category of a caricature, seen as nothing more than a walking, talking side show act to be ridiculed for having the temerity to exist, rather than be seen as the functioning, mostly well-adjusted human being she actually was.

She had accepted that it was her six foot two, two hundred twenty-pound frame that generally betrayed her ability to blend into a crowd, and it was the custom made red high heels she proudly wore, hitting the ground solidly with every step, that consistently turned heads and triggered whispers. These were noticeable sights and sounds people reacted to when she entered a room, and she was keenly aware of the attention it drew. On any normal day that attention wouldn't rattle her, on a normal day she delighted in the fact that her presence forced people to acknowledge her. This was not a normal day.

The scene had played out in her head on a loop since her last visit to the Department of Motor Vehicles. In her mind, Felony was in control, she was focused, and she had been rehearsing in preparation for this visit. Unfortunately, when she walked through the front door, she felt her gut instantly tighten, her heart start to race, and it wouldn't be long until the beads of sweat trickled down the small of her back, staining the silk blouse she had purchased earlier in the week.

It was the shaking Felony hated the most—a physical manifestation of her irrational fear. A noticeably stained blouse she could deal with, but an outward visible sign of weakness was something else entirely. She promised herself this time things would be different. This time, it was her intention was not to allow anybody, or anything, to stop her from exacting the revenge she felt she deserved. That promise fell apart as soon as the door closed, having been replaced by a gathering panic, minor confusion, and a cold sweat.

To most people a trip to renew their driver's license was just a time-consuming nuisance they begrudgingly pushed through. To Felony, it had started with careful preparation and quickly devolved into a poorly executed plan. Things had gone haywire from the moment she stepped inside the building. Her mind began racing, gathering fragmented images that popped up like flashcards: obscure markers in a timeline of painful life events. Clenched in her fist was her salvation—the ticket she didn't realize she was clinging to so tightly that her knuckles had turned pure white, the damp ticket with a number just waiting to be called—the ticket closed up in her fist, disintegrating by the second, that would free her from a room closing in on her.

"I wish they'd call my Goddamn number," She muttered to herself. Felony was trapped in a geographical nightmare surrounded by dozens of judgmental eyes, reminding her of the many times in her life she wasn't viewed as a woman, but as some hybrid freak of nature concocted by a doctor's scalpel, designed to show the world what they wanted to see. Felony Jones...transsexual.

Four years of waiting to face the loathsome woman who exposed her personal business to a group of strangers came down to this moment, and she was back at the scene of the crime. Felony would never forget the face of the woman who she felt had mocked her the first time she walked in to have her license officially changed to match her true self. It was supposed to be one of the best days of her life—instead it had been another lesson in just how ignorant and cruel the world could be. Felony never regretted her decision, she felt like a whole person after years of unsorted misery, but like everything in her personal life, she wanted disclosure to be on her terms—not by a bigoted career civil servant with no sense of decency or discretion.

Knowing it went against every psychology book, therapy session and meditation class Felony had ever read or attended, her path to self-discovery, inner-peace and general happiness went out the window as soon as she walked through the front doors. Her conscious mind told her the anger was self-destructive and irrational, but her basic instinct was seeking revenge. She wanted that bitch to pay!