Male delivery proves tricky

Bob Morrissey

Recently, my close relative Marnie phoned, asking if I’d look after her 13-year-old daughter while she and her husband enjoyed a romantic weekend in the scenic Laurentians.

“No problem,” I say. “I feel like I haven’t seen Laura in ages.”

After a minute of small talk, Marnie says, “Just so you know, it’s not Laura anymore; it’s Larry. She’s transitioning. She wants to be a man.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s a human being of either sex; a person. It’s a …”

“No, what’s transitioning?”

“Like I said, she wants to be someone else. You know: a fellow, a lad, a bloke, a geezer, a bro, a dude.”

“You  must be devastated,” I say.

“Not really. It’s 2025; lots of kids are transitioning.”

“No, devastated because of the name Larry. Why Larry when there’s so many other names to choose from?”

“She thinks it’s cute.”

I feel  like saying “cute” doesn’t sound very masculine, but I hold my tongue.

Then Marnie cautions, “Please, don’t make a big deal out of it. This can’t be easy for her. It’s a lot for a 13-year-old to go through. Just remember to call her Larry. She gets very upset if she’s called Laura … oh, and watch your pronouns.”

“When can I expect to see the big fellow?” I ask.

“I’ll drop Larry off at your place Friday morning. She’ll bring a little travel bag with her.”

Say what? Did I just hear TWO pronoun violations in the same sentence? When I mention that to Marnie, she says, “Look, it’s only been three weeks; we’re all still getting used to it.”

Friday leaves me with only two days to masculinize my home; to show Larry how a REAL man lives. There isn’t that much to do, really, because my house is usually messy to begin with — still, a stack of dirty dishes and a few discarded bits of clothing strewn about wouldn’t hurt.

Now, all I have to do was wait for Friday — and, sure enough, it arrives on schedule, along with Marnie and Larry.

They land on my doorstep at 10 a.m. sharp. Larry looks  just like I remember him — petite, freckles, ponytail, acne under control. No more polished nails, kids’ jewelry or the whiff of mom’s perfume. But what surprises me most is his greeting: instead of my usual big hug, I get a sloppy high-five that lands heavily on my ear.

I’m still clearing my head and waiting for my balance to stabilize when Marnie tells Larry, “We’ll come and get you Sunday afternoon on the way home. Five o’clock, OK?”

Before Larry can answer, Marnie has high-tailed it back to her car, leaving us behind and wondering what the weekend holds for us.

We say our goodbyes and then head into the kitchen.

Larry takes one look at the dirty dishes in my sink and turns to me in disgust. “How long have you been without water?” he asks. “It must piss you off, having all those dirty dishes just sitting there.”

I like that Larry says “piss you off” because that’s what most men would say. But the fact the unwashed dishes bother him is unsettling. So I say, “No, we have water Larry, but you know us guys.” Then: “Hey, they’re only dishes. They’re not going anywhere.”

While Larry’s giving me an are-you-crazy look, I figure maybe a cup of coffee’s in order. But I won’t use the word coffee; not manly enough. Instead, I channel tough-guy actor John Wayne and say, “can I get you a cup of joe?”

Joe!

“What’s that?” Larry asks.

“It’s a man’s name,” I tell him, “short for Jos …”

“No!” he interrupts. “What the hell is joe?”

Appreciating the vulgarity of his typically manly response, I reply, “It’s coffee.”

“I don’t like coffee,” he says. “I find it bitter.”

“Now, now,” I tut, tut. “There’s nothing like bitter coffee … puts hair on a man’s chest.”

“But I want hot chocolate,” he whines, and then adds, “with a marshmallow on top.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t any marshmallows.”

Then we hit the living room where I keep my movie collection beside my TV.

“Up for a flick?” I ask. I catch him stifling a yawn.

“You bet,” he says.

I suggest several high-testosterone titles that I have on file: Terminator, Judgment Day, Predator, First Blood, The Dark Knight and Commando.

“Any of those you fancy?” I ask.

“Not really,” he says. Then: “Do you have Fiddler On The Roof?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t carry porn.”

Then Larry says, “What about The Sound of Music! It’s all about the von Trapp family.”

(Under my breath I whisper “the von Crap family.”)

“Sorry, don’t have it,” I say.

And that’s how things went the whole weekend. We were two opposites, who couldn’t agree on anything — whether it be food, sports, movies, music, books, politics, you name it. I thought I could help Larry transition, but I didn’t know how. Maybe it was too early in his journey.

With nothing to talk about, Larry holed up in an upstairs bedroom from Saturday afternoon until 5 p.m. Sunday, when Marnie came to take him home.

Naturally, her first words to me were, “How’d it go?”

“Hard to say,” I replied. “Not once did I call him Laura and I treated him as if he were male from the second he got here. Thing is, we have nothing in common.”

After a short pause, I said, “Are you sure she wants to change gender? He doesn’t really act that much like a man.”

Marnie said, “Oh, he wants to be a man all right; he’s just not what your idea of a man is.”

With that, Marnie yelled from the doorway, “We’re home, Larry. Let’s go, dad’s waiting in the car.”

“Give me a sec, mom,” he yelled back. “I have to pee.”

That’s when I butted in.

I yelled, “Don’t forget to lift up the toilet seat!”