The One That Could Have Been
Urgency is exigency. An emergency of body
is an emergency of mind. The building’s neat, crisp
and worn as muscle. Someone cares;
even when the pay is min, even when the pay
is when, someone cares;
I sign my name
and take a seat to watch Friends. The LGBT clinic
is on the eastern side while the women’s clinic
is on the western side. A young woman
is ushered into the intersection
of the clinic by a nurse, a young woman
waiting on a man
who is late, the nurse gently holding her hand
and holding the door open
to let in the hope
that he is waiting outside
the door. But he isn’t
outside. Eventually, they return to the cool
dark room to wait. Everyone
is kind. Everyone knows why
I’m here, though the Christians with signs
out front throw side-eyes like I’m a man
and not something entirely open
like a forest mind. So many
men arrive to carry a body
through the door, so many men arrive
to carry a body across
the shame of powerlessness. Working two jobs
or not working or drunk or not drinking
or loving and care-worn or angry
at the inconvenience of it all, men carrying
bodies. At these times, I wonder
if I’m broken, but wonder
passes. I have given up doom.
It's the fat Monica[1] episode, a fantasy
alternate-timeline-what-if Friends episode. It’s not funny
but a variant timeline intrigues as Chandler enters
announcing he’s sold an Archie story, a man
arrives, swinging
the clinic door, not happy, not unhappy.
Owning his maleness in a way I never could;
even at best I was a glamour upon a glamour
upon a glamour, which is a maw
waiting to swallow a fall. The man doesn’t look
at me. I am grateful for the nurse
who opens the waiting room door
and gently, so gently, fishes the man
with her gestures, and lures the man
to the woman, walking slow and behind. The nurse
has ushered so many men through
those farther doors. The Karens in the front
are already shouting, the nurse shutters
the door. Joey hits on Rachel and I
am called through the eastern door
by a hopeful voice that rings. I answer
the call, my name, a chorus of strings.
[1] The episode is titled “The One That Could Have Been," Fat Monica, as she is known in pop culture, was one of the cheapest jokes the show made in its run, and comes off as mean and awful, imo, now, not to mention lazy.
Cassandra Whitaker (she/they) is a trans writer living in rural Virginia. Whit's work has been published in Michigan Quarterly Review, havehashad, Conjunctions, The Mississippi Review, and other places. They are a member of the National Book Critics Circle.