A Red Letter Day for Tatlow

The Sign:

The Tatlow Town Hall is not a very big building - two storeys, twelve rooms - but the day the sign showed up on its front exterior wall, the Hall took on ginormous proportions. At least, it did for Janet Couter and her bestie Helen Brox, both of whom regarded the sign as a grotesque monstrosity, bigger even than the screen at the Tatlow Drive-in Theatre, and far more offensive than any movies shown there.

In reality, the sign was a piece of white canvas measuring ten by twelve. But, and this is important, its letters were a shocking shade of red. Nothing so epically crimson had been seen anywhere near the Town Hall since the firetruck had parked out front for the spring fair.

The morning the canvas made its appearance on the esteemed Hall, a cool fog rolled out over the town, easing the population into autumn. The townsfolk came out of their homes wrapped in sweaters and coats to make their way to work or school or to walk the dog. At first, they didn’t notice the sign. But gradually, the redness of the letters leaked through the mist like so much blood through cotton gauze.

Some glanced but kept on moving, some stopped to ponder, others conversed amongst themselves before moving on. And then there was Janet, who came to a screeching halt like that same fairground firetruck arriving to put out a grease fire at the Tatlow Bar and Grill.

Helen, on her way to work at the local bakery, had come up beside her friend to join in the tut-tutting. The pair were mightily offended by the sign - its colour, its location, its size, its message. And they were simply appalled that someone had climbed up there to display it: “Likely endangering lives,” Janet scowled. “Not to mention those hooks in the bricks, striking a blow to the integrity of our historic building.”

Sneering at the vermillion offence, Janet declared, “This is the work of that Wonderly kid.”

That Wonderly Kid:

On the outskirts of Tatlow there is a meadow. In the fall, it is gold-white with sunbeams dancing among tall grasses; morning glories climb old fences and dandelion fluff drifts through the air.

Tess Wonderly, aka “that Wonderly kid”, spread out a blanket in a clearing and patted a spot on it for her dog, Sugar, who accepted the invitation to lie down. The sun had come out to chase away the morning chill, so Tess slipped off her jacket before plunking down next to Sugar.

Passing her fingers through his black-and-brindle coat, she noted the red paint that still stained her hands. Then, she lay back and closed her eyes. In a minute or ten, a shadow passed over her eyelids, causing them to flutter open. A woman in electric-blue sequins stood before her. Sugar, tail wagging, stood up to greet the woman.

“I am Marsha P. Johnson,” she said.

Tess opened her eyes wide and sat up. “‘P’ for ‘Pay It No Mind’.”

“You know me,” Marsha said.

“Of course. They say you threw the first brick at Stonewall.”

“Honey, they say a lot of things.”

“But…you’re dead.”

Christine:

Trans Rights Are Human Rights the sign declared in crimson print. Janet and Helen had heard whisperings of mutilations and rantings about sterilizations and since it did not occur to them that any of those utterances were lies, they firmly fell into the anti-trans camp.

And so Anti Helen and Anti Janet marched right into the Town Hall to grab the Mayor by his sleeve and pull him outside to look at the giant red letters. They made the maple leaf on the Hall’s flag blanch in comparison.

A jogger stopped, his feet still running on the spot, and loudly declared: “I don’t know about so-called rights but what I do know is that this isn’t the place for that.” He stabbed the air with his finger, pointing to the sign.

“Exactly,” Janet said, as the man sprinted away. “That doesn’t belong here, Mayor.”

“Where does it belong then?” someone said.

“What?” Janet snapped, looking at Helen.

“I didn’t say anything, Janet.”

“You think it doesn’t belong anywhere.”

“Who said that?” Janet asked, whirling around to find the speaker.

“Just as you think the folks it supports don’t belong anywhere.”

“Who is that? Show yourself,” Janet demanded.

A elegant woman wearing a poodle skirt emerged from a lingering patch of fog. “I am Christine Jorgensen,” she said.

“Are you responsible for this sign?” Before Christine could answer, Janet bellowed: “You have no right to hang this here!” She turned to glare at the sign. “Take it down,” Janet ordered, turning back to glare at the interloper.

But Christine was gone.

Dread Ball:

Fears, if left unchecked, can gather like snow on a snowball barreling down a steep mountainside. Gwen Wonderly’s fears were like that - one big, icy ball of dread. First, being a parent of a trans teen, not because they are trans but because they are a target. Second, proposed laws putting said teen firmly in the crosshairs. Third, the targeted teen trying to dodge the crosshairs by emblazoning a plea on the Town Hall. Fourth, the town’s biggest bigot on a rampage to tear down and destroy not just the sign but lives as well.

Gwen had heard about Janet’s rage-fuelled mission from her friend, Margaret. “Just a heads up,” her pal had called to say. Hanging up the phone, Gwen gazed at Tess’s schoolbooks on the counter and guessed that her daughter was fleeing another claustrophobic grade ten classroom to write poetry in a park. At least, that’s where she hoped she was, safe in the public sun with Sugar by her side.

"Sort of safe," the icy dread ball corrected her.

That Damn Thing:

It was Friday. The mayor was looking forward to a couple of hamburgers grilled by his son-in-law on the backyard barbecue. In his mind he was already there, cold beer in hand.

“Mayor Radcliffe!” Janet roared, causing his fantasy brew to slop down the front of his shirt. “You have to get that damn thing down.”

“Thing?” the Mayor said, pawing at the imaginary spill. Realizing what Janet meant, he got on his phone and ordered some flunky to “get that damn thing down”.

Helen patted Janet’s shoulder before beetling over to her job at the bakery. As she departed, two workers arrived, hauling a metal ladder. The ladder wasn’t steady on the uneven stones of the Hall entranceway, and so the duo banged it around and adjusted its length up and down with great clanks and clunks. Finally, the younger of the two went up. He couldn’t reach the top, so he tugged on the side of the canvas. But it would not budge.

“We’re going to have to grab it from that window,” he said, backing down the ladder.

“I don’t think that’ll work, Mitch.”

“Well now, Earl,” Mitch said. “How in hell did they get it up there in the first place?”

“Maybe a taller ladder,” Earl posited. While the two chewed the matter over, Janet started up the ladder.

“Ma’am, you can’t…” The two men reached for her legs as her loafers slammed onto the rungs and in one case onto Earl’s hand. While he howled in pain, she clutched the side of the sign and pulled so hard she almost lost her balance.

A powerful wind kicked up just then - one of those autumn gusts that carry leaves and witches into far-off realms. The ladder shuddered and swayed. Janet screamed. Mitch and Earl positioned themselves to catch her.

Angels in the Meadow:

Tess felt that same wind on her face. Picking flowers to put in her hair, Marsha stopped to admire quivering pampas grass, while Sugar lifted his nose to take in windblown scents: baked hams, cats on the prowl, trash.

Seemingly carried in on the golden sirocco, Christine curtsied down onto the blanket, her skirt forming a neat circle around her.

“Your sign is safe,” she told Tess.

“I didn’t expect it would still be up.”

“We’ve been looking out for it.”

“You are…you look like…Christine Jorgensen.”

“I am.”

“Wow. You…you were the first…”

“…most publicized surgery of its kind. But not the actual first.”

“So, you and Marsha are…angels? Ghosts?”

“I am an angel,” Marsha said, sitting down on the blanket. “But then, I always was.”

“This is amazing.”

“We are here to help,” Marsha said.

“So you could whisper into the ears of haters?”

“They can’t hear or see us, Tess,” Christine said. “I mean, they can see us when we want them to - but they don’t believe us or believe in us.”

“But in A Christmas Carol, the spirits help the most hateful man in the world.”

“I love that movie,” Marsha said. “The Muppets one.”

“In real life, we work differently,” Christine said. “What you have to understand is we can’t do the work for you or for anyone. We can only drop hints, bolster truths, occasionally perform simple magic.”

“It’s like in The Wizard of Oz,” Marsha said. “You know, when Glinda says: ‘She had to learn it for herself”? It’s like that.”

Apples:

Janet shivered on the Town Hall steps, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn’t cold anymore but she had been shaken by her ladder experience. Mitch and Earl had padded her fall, and while they might be soon visiting the chiropractor, Janet came away unscathed. Helen, her loyal toady since high school, had answered her distress call by bringing coffee and cinnamon buns.

“I hope these idiots can remove this in time for my daughter’s wedding,” Janet whined.

“That’s not till spring. The sign will be long gone by then.”

“Better be.”

“That Wonderly kid,” Helen growled, sensing her rebuke would cheer her pal up.

It did.

“You know,” Janet said, her cinnamon-gooey lips curving into a sneer, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Tossing her half-eaten confectionary into the bushes Janet stood up and dropped the shawl. "That Wonderly kid's mom needs to hear from us."

And she marched off as if she were General Patton going to war.

A man in a military uniform picked up the discarded pashmina and folded it neatly. He was not Patton and his battles had not been in World War II but he was a soldier nonetheless.

Albert:

“My name is Albert Cashier,” the man in uniform told Tess upon arrival in the meadow. “Born in 1842, I lived as a boy, although they said I was a girl. When I grew up I served in the Union Army during the Civil War.”

Albert scratched Sugar’s snout as the pup leaned against his faded blue pants. “When I was seventy-four years old, I fell ill. Upon examination they said I was not a man and they put me in an institution and made me…wear…skirts.”

Albert faltered and Christine picked up the narrative. “They were going to take away his soldier’s pension but friends from the infantry identified him as the man they’d fought alongside in the war.”

“That was good enough for the government,” Albert chimed in. “And they let me keep my pension. It’s on the record.”

“Those same friends,” Christine continued, “also saw to it that when he passed he got a military funeral and a gravestone with his name and company engraved on it.”

"Albert D. J. Cashier, Company G, 95th Illinois Infantry.” Albert saluted.

Outpacing Dread:

“We’re here about your apple,” Helen blurted, standing on the Wonderly doorstep.

“Apple?” Gwen said.

"The one not far from..."

“Is this the way you’ve brought up your child?” Janet interjected. “To hang garish signs on our haloed Town Hall?”

“The sign is there to bring attention to the hatred sweeping the land,” Gwen said, gathering courage.

“We are a peaceful, loving community," Janet erupted. "I’ve lived a peaceful, loving life here for more than thirty years. My children have grown up here…”

“Janet,” Gwen said, “if you are more pained by the sign and where it hangs than you are by the proposed laws that aim to erase a harmless minority, then you need to reassess your values.”

Anti Janet opened her mouth to squawk but Gwen shut the door. She didn’t slam it as was her impulse. Rather, she closed it with a gentle but decisive click, leaving the two women to ponder her statement, which she’d rehearsed in one form or another all morning. It was perhaps too mild a rebuttal - still, she was surprised she’d gotten it out at all. Her heart was racing and her blood boiling but her determination to take a stand had kept time with both beat and blood, and it had outpaced the ball of dread barreling down that mountainside.

Red Rage:

Workers in overalls and men with clipboards gathered before the sign. It was late afternoon and they were clucking amongst themselves about various methods of removal. One volunteered to rappel from the rooftop while another suggested a cherrypicker.

Fresh off her failed attempt to intimidate Gwen Wonderly, Janet decided to try her luck with Tess, who stood under a willow tree with the trio of angels and Sugar.

“If you put this damn thing up, you should take it down,” she said. “Who else was in on this? Who carried the ladder for you? Or who let you into the building?”

“I fastened three broom handles together with gaffers tape,” Tess said. “With the extended pole I hoisted the canvas up onto the hooks, which were already there. I think it adds a little something to the old shack, don’t you?”

Janet glowered, but before her glowering was done, a holler went up as the sign dropped to the ground. Earl and Mitch had gone to the second floor windows and, after much fussing and finagling, released the canvas from the rusty hooks.

Janet sprinted over to grab an end of the rolled up sign. As if accepting the Olympic torch, she triumphantly carried it to the incinerator with Earl taking up the other end.

Chintz:

The day after the sign came down it was up again: same sign, as verified by Janet, who’d become the resident expert on that particular signage. She and all the townsfolk could not understand how this could’ve happened. Had it not been set aflame?

This time the workers were to get it down and burn it on the spot, but it was harder to detach: every time someone unhitched a corner, the other corner, having been released, dropped back onto its hook and couldn’t be removed. Helen grasped onto Janet’s blazer as she hung out the window.

“It’s like trying to put a fitted sheet on a goddamn mattress!” Janet bellowed.

Helen suggested they cover the sign with flower-patterned fabric. “This could work well for the wedding,” she said. Janet had to agree, but she was too hell-bent on bringing those two Wonderlys to their knees to consider chintz.

A small crowd had gathered to watch the show at the windows. This proved to be more fascinating than TV or even the Internet and was definitely more exciting than watching the Tatlow Taters play baseball. An added attraction was a man wearing a uniform who stood as still as a sentry beneath the sign.

Folks brought snacks and watched with fascination as neither sign nor soldier would leave their positions.

Several observers offered that for a small fee they could get the job done. But finally, everyone had to stop. It was getting dark. Tomorrow, they’d call in some construction guys with big tools, maybe the firetruck or an aerialist, but for now the show was over. And the audience went home.

Grotto Groove:

The sign could not be removed. And people began to flock to it in much the same way folks had flocked to Saint Bernadette’s grotto in the 19th century, minus the religious fervour. But there was passion. Tatlowians of all stripes brought blankets and picnics to the surrounding park. Vendors showed up with lemonade and popcorn. Campfires were lit. Buskers performed and citizens danced.

The sign became an Insta-sensation. Van-lifers blogged about it, tourists treated it like the Hollywood sign, a handful of nuns prayed by it. And Gwen’s icy dread ball began to melt in its presence. Helen also began to melt, not meltdown like her bud Janet, but rather, Helen warmed to the bright colours and big smiles of the crowd. And so she brought day-old pastries to hand out after work.

Scandal:

Winter came and the ruby letters got snowed on then dusted off. Coloured lights were added to the banner’s border. Hot chocolate replaced iced drinks and the dancing continued. Sugar got a new wool coat, designed as a mini replica of the sign. As spring brought green buds and fragrant blossoms, the celebrations grew and Janet had to move the wedding to the Tatlow Arms Hotel.

The press lauded the sign and its organizers for “bringing community together.” They liked the speeches, which they took to be “historical reenactments”, although some critics found the “actors” wanting: “The real Christine Jorgensen was not as good looking as the actress who portrayed her at the Town Hall.”

Some people mocked the sign, declaring it a sin, a hoax, a fad and a travesty. Those folks were not great in numbers but they were loud and their lies knew no bounds. One wannabe-influencer-cum-hater posted that the sign was an “incarnadine scandal”. The phrase instantly became a trending hashtag in support of trans rights. T-shirts and mugs were sold. Replicas and variations of the sign cropped up all across the land.

If you pass through Tatlow today, you’ll see that original still hanging on the front of the Town Hall. Tess and the others continue to work for the day it doesn’t have to hang there or anywhere else.

*

Thanks for reading!