The Trial of the Transvestite
He didn’t know what was in store for him at the party
I usually see him in the carport near the laundry rooms. He lumbers like an old lady, hating his life and where it has taken him. His walk seems to have little purpose. It’s always the same heavy shuffle. But something about the walk doesn’t jibe.
There’s a rotation in his shoulders belying another life, another profession. Like a…