Quickly weaving through a crowded sidewalk as the sun set behind me, there was only one thing on my mind: Holy shit, I was late. The plan was to wake up early, have a sensible breakfast, maybe get in a quick workout, and then get ready for the show. The plan, however, didn’t take into account the fact that I’m an irresponsible idiot who would spend all night watching old music videos. I ended up finally getting to bed at around six in the morning and somehow slept through all eight alarms I had set for myself. Now it was six in the evening the following day, I had eaten nothing, was currently getting in my workout sprinting with all of my might, and was in no way ready to perform with my band. I ducked and twisted to navigate through the forest of people before me, carefully swinging the guitar case in my arms to avoid bludgeoning fellow pedestrians… to mixed results. People passing by must have thought I was an asshole -- strike that, I WAS an asshole, but an asshole with a purpose.

Finally arriving at the stage door, only an hour later than I had planned, I made my way backstage to meet up with my band who were… understandably annoyed.

“Again!? You missed sound check again, you fucking moron.” Keith smacked me upside the head as I held my knees and attempted to catch my breath. “You do realize that we go on in less than two minutes… Two minutes!” Keith had kind of established himself as the leader of the band. He was our bassist and wrote most of our songs. He was a fairly tall guy with long black hair who was obviously more dedicated to fitness than my pathetically wheezing self. Don’t let the verbal and physical abuse fool you, we were best friends and I would more than likely be returning this well-earned ire the next time he screwed up. It’s just how we showed love. Some people hug and have meaningful conversations, we beat each other senseless and demeaned one another.

“Can he even sing like this? Dude looks like he’s about to pass out,” said Raymond, the drummer. He wasn’t wrong, I looked like hell. Raymond was a big guy, in every sense of the word. He had a big frame, big muscles, big brown hair, a big beard, and a huge gut from all of the free booze provided by the local dives we frequently played. “We can try to stall a bit, let him breathe for a minute?”

“I say we just go for it. The crowd ain’t exactly expecting a good show, they’re here to pre-game and get blitzed before the headliner plays. Might as well get this over with and earn our keep.” Ah, Max, ever the optimist. Max was, frankly speaking, the most out of place looking member of our group, for now. He was a blonde, average-sized guy with glasses and a typical suburban haircut. While the rest of us wore jeans and T-shirts, he always performed in slacks and button-down business casual attire. He looked like a member of Weezer who somehow ended up on stage with Metallica.

The decision was made, and my fate was sealed, when the bar’s manager popped his greasy head in, “What’re you all doing in here, braiding each other's hair? Get out there and play already!” Well, shit.

My bandmates took to the stage, ready to rock, while I hobbled out ready to roll over dead. As the rest of the crew took up their instruments, I approached the mic. “My name is Joe and we are The Average Joes! Hope you’re all ready to make some noise!” The crowd of people who gave zero shits about us made a pathetic amount of noise, but I knew better than to try for a second time. “This first song is called ‘Accidental Arson;’ we’re gonna burn this mother down!”

At my announcement, Raymond led the band into the intro of the song. First the drums, then Keith on bass, and finally Max with the guitar, all coming together to create what could barely be considered music. We weren’t good, we knew we weren’t good, but this was something to do on a Saturday night and we always drank for free, so here we were.

Up to this point, I had been stifling my labored breaths pretty well, but singing is something that one can’t really accomplish without the cooperation of the lungs. I drew in a massive breath and everything hit me at once; the adrenaline, the nerves, the exhaustion from the run, my burning lungs, everything came together in concert and added up to one mutinying stomach. I turned away from the mic and threw up on the stage, improving its overall appearance. The crowd reacted with a healthy mixture of disgusted gasps and drunken laughter.

My name, back then, was Joseph Garcia, and I’d love to say this was the first time this had ever happened, but that would be a total lie.

“Fuck you all, that was part of the song and the best damn noise you’ll hear come out of my mouth all night,” I proclaimed, rolling with the punches. It felt both pathetic and empowering to have been through this kind of embarrassment so many times that I’d mastered the art of the speedy recovery. My levity earned me a few laughs, some of which were pity, I’m sure, but regardless, the show must go on. The rest of the night went off without a hitch, my band made noise and I sounded like a tone-deaf Axl Rose being fed slowly through a wood chipper, just like we’d rehearsed. After the show, Keith and I posted up at the bar and collected our earnings in the form of way too much liquor while our two bandmates tried and failed to pick up some of the girls from the audience. Here’s a tip for everyone at home: a musician is only sexy when they’re decent at what they do.

“To another great show,” Keith said, toasting our performance for the fifth time. Dude could put away drinks like nobody's business.

“Great isn’t exactly how I’d describe it; eventful, maybe, but not great,” a feminine voice chided us. I turned to find Sasha, our band's groupie, taking the seat beside mine. Alright, so our group wasn’t nearly good enough to have a groupie, but for some reason, Sasha came to every one of our shows and absolutely eviscerated us verbally. She was probably my second best friend after Keith. Sasha was a girl with short red hair and skin paler than the ale I was drinking. She wore a T-shirt short enough to barely tease the sight of her midriff and low-rise jeans that had torn up knees.

“And yet here you are,” I decided to engage the enemy, “you complain, yet you just can’t stay away. It’s alright to admit you got a thing for me. I’ll let you down easy.”

“Look out there, Joe, you wouldn’t want me to reenact what you did on stage would you?” She gave me a challenging smile. Oh, it was on.

“Oh, you mean giving a stunning oral performance? Be my guest.” Was this completely inappropriate? Absolutely. Was this the first time we’d been down this rabbit hole? Absolutely not.

“Yikes, just the thought of doing that makes me gag more than your limp dick ever could.” Damn Sasha, below the belt, and not in a good way. Keith choked on his drink laughing at that quip and struggled not to spit up the whole thing.

“Alright, how about we skip the part where I say hookers don’t have gag reflexes and you tell me I only know that because I can only get laid for pay. We’ll call this a draw and I’ll buy you a drink.” Normally, I’d be game to keep our volley going longer, but Sasha was really good at what she did. She was a savant at snappy comebacks and I just didn’t have the presence of mind to attempt to keep up with her. Sasha smiled at me.

“Aww hun, this wasn’t a draw, that right there was a surrender.” I grabbed a napkin from the bar and waved it like a flag. Sasha chuckled. “Well at least you’re gracious, and I’ll have a rum and Coke, please.” I flagged down the bartender and ordered her drink. “In all seriousness, are you doing okay? You didn’t look too good up there tonight.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just another hectic day. Thanks for asking.” I smiled at Sasha. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed our fights and her sharp-tongued nature, but the softer side was my favorite part of our dynamic.

Keith, Sasha, and I enjoyed our drinks while watching the headliner, a band called Death of Hope. We also enjoyed watching Raymond and Max fail miserably at flirting. The night ended and I walked the three miles home. The autumn winds were picking up and I was wishing I had brought a jacket with me. I stopped at a park bench as I always did after a gig and popped open my guitar case. There was no instrument inside, only a sandwich and some bottles of water. For years, I’d been meaning to learn guitar, but in the meantime, I figured I wanted to at least carry this around so I looked like a member of the band and not just a fan. Yes, it was a superficial and idiotic reason to lug around a bulky piece of luggage, but dammit I felt awesome holding it. Enjoying the crisp night air and some stale bologna was my reward for surviving another week.

I arrived home at around two in the morning. Between my two jobs I just barely managed to cover the rent for a crappy studio apartment of my own. I knew I could easily save some money by moving into a slightly larger place with some roommates, but there was a very simple reason why I refused that idea each time it surfaced in my mind: I was transgender, and not a soul besides me, my therapist, and the doctor who was prescribing my meds knew. Oh, right, remember when I called myself Joe at the show? Yeah, no. My name is Jane, and god it felt good to say that.

I collapsed on my bed as soon as the door was locked and I was out like a light. The next morning would be filled with nausea, headaches, and regret, but who cares? All I cared about was how soft my pillow was and how warm my blankets were.

After enduring a morning every bit as horrible as I’d imagined, I managed to crawl my way into the bathroom. It’s amazing how quickly a mirror can shatter one’s self-image. When I woke up, I was a woman. When I gracefully puked into my bedside trashcan, I was a woman. When I cursed at the damn birds that wouldn’t shut up outside of the window, I was a woman. So why the hell was there a dude staring back at me in the mirror? I needed to head to a hardware store and replace this crappy hunk of glass with a newer model, because obviously it was the problem. I had been on estrogen and T-blockers for a year now; there should be some noticeable difference by now. Every once in a while I liked to look back at my “before pictures,” only to see the same face with the same features, and the same defeated look in my eyes. It was disheartening, to say the least. Well, let’s get this shit over with: I was a guy, at least in appearance. I was around six feet tall with fairly light skin, long dark hair, dark eyes, you get the picture. Just an average Joe trying to become a plain Jane, in some twisted cosmic joke of a life.

After barely making it through my morning routine and taking the pills which seemed to do nothing despite my dedication, I lumbered to job number one: being a tutor at my former college. I didn’t quite qualify to teach, but I was good enough at helping people pass classes that my old alma mater had offered me a position in their tutoring center enriching young minds… or at least telling them step by step why their essay sucked and that they should be ashamed of it. Eight appointments later, I was free once more to enjoy all of the wonders of living in a bustling city on a thirty-seven cent budget. I know, I felt like a Rockefeller with that much cash on hand. Well, considering I didn’t live in the roaring twenties, I was forced to unsheath my credit card, plunging myself into further debt I knew I’d never crawl out of for the promise of a fast food burrito.

As I sat alone and enjoyed the surprisingly decent taste of crippling poverty, I received a call from Keith. “What’s up?” I asked, knowing I wouldn’t actually receive a call without good reason.

“Joe, man, we have another gig next weekend,” Keith sounded almost panicked as he recounted the news to me.

“Congratulations. In other news, the sky's still blue and Taco Barn’s gutbuster special is still just a buck. What of it?” Our band had been playing fairly regularly since we started making our rounds at all of the shittiest little venues in town. A gig a week didn’t really seem like that big a deal anymore.

“Be an asshole later, listen now. The headliner is Thoughtless Crime--” I’m sure Keith said some words after that but none of them really registered. Thoughtless Crime was a pretty good indie rock band that had actually started at the same college The Average Joes did. Hell, our bands hung out all the time, practiced together, even wrote some songs together. The difference was that Thoughtless Crime had what it took to rise out of our little pond and made its way to the much bigger ocean of the mainstream music industry. For the past couple of years, they had been on tour, opening for a major billboard charts rock band. They were making it.

“Thalia is coming back?” Yet all I had taken away from this news was that I might get to see her again. Thalia was my first girlfriend, my first lover, my first love. Things hadn’t ended well between us, and by that I mean she left without a single goodbye or explanation. One day we were living together and the next I was alone. Despite my bitterness I couldn’t help but want to see her again; after all, Thalia had been a sort of mentor for me. She’d introduced me to my bandmates, taught me how to drop my inhibitions on stage, and unbeknownst to everyone else, was a role model for how I wanted to see myself post-transition. She was the personification of the badass rocker chick, and I loved it.

“No, Joe, I’m saying that she’s already back. Thoughtless Crime ended their tour a month early. They arrived back in town yesterday.” Thalia was back in town. I hadn’t spoken to her since she bolted, hadn’t seen her since the last gig of hers I attended. She hadn’t told me about Thoughtless Crime’s tour; I’d had to find out about it from Keith after the fact. Now she was back, and all I wanted was answers. “Hey, hey, Joe! I know what the hell that stunned silence means. Don’t do anything stupid. Forget her, we can pass on the gig. Fuck their overrated band.”

“Yeah, man, got it. I gotta go.”

“Go where?” Oh my dear Keith, you already knew the answer. I was going to do something stupid. I hung up the phone without another word and could’ve sworn I could hear Keith swearing on the other end of the line. I binned the rest of my dinner and made my way across town.

Have you ever just been drawn somewhere? Have you ever been led by some invisible force toward a waiting destiny? Neither have I, but I knew Thalia well enough to guess where she’d be on a Monday night back in town. I walked for two hours and finally arrived at my destination by moonlight. The old used bookstore in the little strip mall near our old apartment. This was always her favorite place in town. She would drag me here any opportunity she could find and spend hours browsing the selections.

As I approached the building, I saw her through the window. Thalia still had her long hair dyed a vibrant green, three piercings in each ear and one on her left nostril. She had tattoos covering her neck and arms. She wore a plain black tee and black jeans which fed into her knee-high boots. As was typical, she was gently sifting through the books on the shelf with a mystified expression on her face. After seeing her, all courage left my body and I prepared to turn tail and go home. However, Thalia looked out of the window as I stood there staring in. She immediately locked onto me and we just looked at each other unsure, of what to do next. We were both at a loss, two deer staring at one another as if all we saw were headlights. Without my permission, my legs drew me into the store and towards her. Her eyes never left mine as I approached.

So much time, so much anger, so many unanswered questions all came swirling back like a storm in my mind. I didn’t know where to begin. How do you address someone who broke your heart without even the decency to leave a note? I could feel my mouth trying to form words, but without the aid of my brain, nothing really happened. Thalia took the lead and said the one thing she had managed to come up with.

“Hi, Joe… I’m back.” Everything powered down at the sound of her voice. Years of resentment faded into the background and all I could feel was overwhelming relief at having met her once again.

“That you are.”