======================
"Dear D.B. ..."
by A. R. Morlan
======================

Copyright (c)1987 by A. R. Morlan


Alexlit
www.Alexlit.com

Horror


---------------------------------
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       At first, I only thought that good old Super-super goofed, _again._
After all, the man's command of the "Engleesh as she is spoken" isn't the best
to begin with (but you would think that living in the City for umpteen years
would make a difference sometimes I'm sure that English is doomed to become
the United States' second language), but even _he_ should know the difference
between _gringa_ and _gringo_ (at least that's how I think the "Spanish she is
spoken" I never did take that course back in Ewerton High) but at the time I
decided that it would _not_ do to gripe about it. He does allow me to keep
Wolfie and Duke (neither of whom will ever be mistaken for lap dogs) up here
in the apartment, which is not the most common practice here in New York City.
(And if I'm not a good girl, he'll confiscate his Roach Motels!)
       Anyhow, Roach Motels and the boys aside, when Mr. Hernandez said what
he did to me, I had just gotten back my proofs for "The Mouth That Would Not
Die" from _Bloodbath Quarterly._ The editor scribbled that the "...That
Wouldn't Die" sounded a bit "flip." _As in Wilson,_ I was tempted to scribble
back in the margins, but you learn to keep such thoughts to yourself
especially when there's a five foot high slush pile generated by writers just
dying to get a shot at _BQ._ (Instead, I told myself I'd change it back when
the anthology of my work came out.) As usual, the galleys came back with the
standard note, "Running late, get back ASAP," and so on. I had only found
three typos, all minor, when Mr. Hernandez knocked, asking for the rent, and
for once he _didn't_ make some crack about (pick one or more): my halter top,
my shorts, my body, and/or my single female status. (Thank goodness for two
mammoth _male_ doggies at a time like that! And I used to think good ole Dead
Fred Ferger back home in Wisconsin was bad! Spare me from the Latin lover
type!)
       Instead of his usual "How's de preety senyorita?" line, Mr. H. kept it
short, but right before he left, he bent down to itch Wolfie's head and said
something about, "You boys protect the young _gringo,_ okay?" but I didn't
really _think_ about it until after I took a second look at the proof sheets
(noticing the initials of the guy who typeset my story in the upper left hand
corner of the first page he was the one that the editor at _Gore Magazine_
wrote to me about; she said that he really liked "that D.B. Winston's stuff"
if I remembered her letter correctly), and even then, I figured that Mr. H.
made a simple mistake ... but after I went to the drugstore, what Mr.
Hernandez said began to niggle at the back of my mind.
       Not that the trip to the drugstore and back was eventful but, in a way,
that _was_ the problem. All I had picked up was a box of tampons, some cheap




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typing paper (is there any other kind?) and a few stamps from one of those
mini mail-box shaped dispensers (the kind that gobbles your quarters and
usually forgets to stick out a tongue of stamps), and even though a few of the
toughs from the neighborhood were lounging around the counter and by the door
for once they didn't give me a hard time. Once, one of them offered to help me
"put in" a feminine product (shades of Dead Fred and his "can I trim your
bush?" remarks), but this time they just stood around gassing, playing with
the dials on their boom boxes (which I swear grow out of their shoulder
blades) and scaring the bejesus out of out-of-towners who happen to find
themselves in this part of the city (not your highlight tourist attraction
here!). And I actually made it _back_ to the apartment house unaccosted
       ...and I didn't have the boys along for moral support, either. (When I
walk the dogs, _no one_ approaches me if the _boys_ don't scare them off,
there's always the option of beaning someone over the head with the pooper
scooper!)
       But _that_ day, I only figured I'd lucked out. It wasn't until I called
the super to come and take a look at my leaking faucet (the roaches were
taking sides for swimming teams in my sink) a week later that I realized
something was _wrong,_ really off-kilter. For one thing, Mr. H. who usually
broke both legs running to come spend time with the _gringa_ made some excuse
about not being able to make it until after supper. I figured that perhaps he
didn't realize it was _me,_ the "Preety _senyorita,_" so I said who was
calling, taking pains to pronounce my name _very_ plainly, and after I did,
there was this _pause_ on his end of the line, and I could hear this
Spanish-language radio or TV station in the background (like something out of
"The Possession of Joel Delaney," the part when Shirley MacLame goes slumming
in search of help for her brother) and only after I'd shouted _"Hello?"_ into
the speaker a few times he came back on the line, muttering that he'd be up
right away, but before I hung up I heard him grumble something about the
_"loco gringo"_ At the time, I thought to myself, _Maybe you should write "I
Am Woman" across the front of your tee,_ since it _did_ seem funny ... then.
As it was, Mr. H's visit was uneventful; he growled that he had his food
waiting on the hotplate, and hurriedly fixed the faucet, but as he was leaving
(and Mr. "Do Not Disturb Night Job Sleeping" Door Sign as if a "Night Job" was
an entity that needed sleep! was just leaving _his_ apartment across the
hall), Hernandez happened to say to himself, "Goddamn _loco gringo_
sonsabitch," which prompted Mr. "Night Job Sleeping" to chortle "Goo'night,
fellah" at me. I almost sicced Wolfie and Duke on him, but figured, why waste
the effort? They might have gotten food poisoning from the jerk. I decided to
get them to bark at his door some day ... his sign didn't say "No _Barking!_"
       However, I didn't get a chance to mull over the day's events; since the
_BQ_ editor called; would I consider some last-minute editing on "The Mouth
That..."? Nothing major, just a few changes near the end? After scrambling
around for a copy of the MS (not much of a scramble, considering the size of
my Roach-Motel room) I dictated the changes over the phone, and at that point
things _really_ began to get weird, for between lines, he kept asking "Got a
cold, D.B.?" "Can you speak up?" "Bad connection," and I wouldn't have paid
any undue attention to that if I'd still been living in Ewerton, where bad
connections were the norm but he was calling from an office only a couple of
miles away at the most! After he hung up I told myself I'd have to get
Super-super to come and look at it (since Ma Bell was slaughtered, calling the
phone people is a fool's errand!) when he got himself some glasses, or after I
made up my "I Am Woman" shirt.
       And that was when things were still fairly _normal._
       Two weeks later I got my check for "The Mouth That..." and I went to
the bank to try and cash it. I hadn't been in for about a month, but that
isn't an eternity ... yet the teller, a woman who I _thought_ would recognize
me (I'd been to her a few times before, during other visits) acted like I'd
caught the first ship from Mars and landed on the roof of the building five
minutes before, and jumped down to the lobby through the ceiling. Now I'm not




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a naive person, even though I was born and raised in a small town. I'm aware
of the fact that New Yorkers simply don't have the _time_ to be slavishly
polite to every Tom, Dick, and Henrietta who walks through the door (unless
they work at Bloomies and are busy trying to get you to submit to a cosmetic
makeover _then_ they act like they'll sell you the city for a string of beads
and some feathers!) but I was expecting a teller at _my_ bank to treat me like
a _human being._
       The woman gave me a strange look when I submitted my check and passbook
(for deposit of part of the check; I'm not crazy enough to spend the whole
thing at a pop), looking from the book to me and back again, like something
wasn't computing for her. She began to act as if I'd just handed her a
scribbed note topped with the words "This is a Stickup!" and stammered
something about needing some "recent identification," and I reached over, took
my things, and said for her to forget it, and left, while she stared at me as
if I was Al Pacino carrying a long flower box under one arm. While I walked to
the subway station, I began to think about the past few days and decided that
the Big Apple (as the folks back home love to call it when I phone them in the
background I can hear Mom yell "Arlin, c'mere, it's our girl calling from the
Big Apple!") had gone wormy for me. I mean, Ewerton was bad it was deeply
entrenched in that old system of "Oh, you're Arlin Winston's girl," or "Her?
She's old Palmer Winston's grandchild," or worse, "Devorah? That's old man
Winston's son's little girlie." When I got my driver's license, I had almost
expected it to say "Devorah Bambi Winston, daughter of Arlin, son of Palmer,
grandson of Porter," or something semi-Biblical like that. It was so
_frustrating;_ if I had stayed back home I wouldn't have ever had a chance to
be _me,_ but I would have either been dubbed "So and so's _child,"_ or "the
such-and-such _girl,"_ or if I had married one of the local-yokel Ewerton
males, eventually I would have become "Joe Blow's _wife,"_ or "the mother of
Dick and Jane" and so on to infinity. Part of the reason why I cleared out of
there was the fact that I had had no hope of carving out an identity for
myself; in a small town a person is never a _person,_ period, but either the
offspring of someone or the parent of another ... at least in New York, I
figured that a person would be known only as his or her _self_ without a
centipede-like trail of relatives hanging behind them. All I wanted to be was
_me,_ D. B. Winston, writer, but after all this _gringo_ and "better
identification" stuff, I was beginning to wonder if I should go and have my
gender and vital statistics tattooed across my forehead!
       Crawling out of my pool of self-pity long enough to look up for my
station number, I noticed that I was sitting in a subway car full of boom-box
babes, all big, all poorly dressed ... and _all leaving me alone._ And there
wasn't a Guardian Angel in sight.
       When I reached my stop, I hurried off, hoping to leave before my
traveling companions came to their senses. During the walk home, I toyed with
the idea of working this all into a story. It had worked for me in the past
... as evidenced by my still uncashed check.
         ****
After a bit of arm-twisting I got the super to cash my check for me (I used an
automatic teller to make my deposit later on), and settled down with a new
stock of groceries (and seeming tons of Alpo!), trying to catch up on my
writing. Just for the hell of it, I began a story called "The Metamanphosis"
While I was busy writing that, the _BQ_ editor sent me a black and white photo
mockup of the cover for the next issue a real stunner. I'd had my name on the
cover of more than a few issues, but this time was the first time that a cover
illo had been based on _my_ story. I liked the way Potter put the reflection
(distorted, of course) of the killer on the old-man's spittle-moist teeth,
inside the cavern of that drooling, vacant mouth. And next to that: A
HAIR-RAISING TALE OF NEIGHBORLY REVENGE _THE MOUTH THAT WOULD NOT DIE!_ BY D.
B. WINSTON. As I looked it over, I realized why the editor had opted for the
title change; this way it was a bit more on the Lovecraftian side. If only my
Grandpa Winston (the former English Lit teacher) could have seen that! (I




                                                                                 Page 3
wondered if _Gramps_ would have had trouble with my gender, too...) But the
story beckoned, a sure five hundred dollars if I could get it done and
accepted at a pro 'zine, so I put the cover mock-up aside and got down to
business, thinking that the heroine/hero of the story was the only with with
big problems....
       By the seventh of June, I realized that I _had_ it with crazy New
Yorkers. Never mind the _gringo_ bit of the month before, or Mr. "Night Job
Sleeping"'s jibes (I'd _give_ him something to go banging his walls and
bellowing about!), or even the snafu at the bank just who would have thought
that the sort of thing would happen at _Bloomies?_ (Saks, _maybe,_ but good
old _Bloomies?_ My God, they let Paul Mazursky make that _movie_ there! If
Robin Williams could _defect_ there, I thought they'd be good sports about
almost _anything!_)
       Hold on, try to calm down. I must try to figure out what went on, where
it all went wrong. (Put it down, good old black and white.) But thinking about
it, even after everything _else_ which has happened, still makes me shake ...
it didn't _seem_ like the end of the world, not then. But it was close.
       _Anyhow_ I went there to buy myself a new half-slip, some panties, and
maybe a nightgown if the pennies stretched far enough. So. Once through the
door, I made my way past the endless cosmetic counters, mildly surprised that
the floorwalkers didn't rush up to me, begging me to let them spritz me with
some much-too-expensive perfume, hoping I'd find it irresistable and buy five
gallons of the slop, or just spray me and ask later for permission. Usually,
by the time I'd made it to the second floor I'd end up smelling like a cheap
streetwalker on Friday night, but that day I lucked out and escaped the
scented hordes. It really seemed like my day, no Lorelei-like calls from the
cosmetic clerks, begging me to wander over for a makeover, and I rode the
crowded escalators until I found the intimate apparel. I was happily looking
over the unmentionables, no stuffing things into my jeans pockets, no hiding
panties in a false-bottom bag, simply minding my own biz-niz ... when the
saleslady came up, hovering like a polycotton hummingbird. With too much
eyeshadow. She began to pester me, asking if I was looking for "something for
a special someone?" Not understanding why she couldn't go bother one of the
dozens of other shoppers milling around us, I said, "No thanks, just browsing
until I find something I like." I held a pair of panties up to the light,
trying to see how sheer they were, when she tried another line of questioning:
       "Did you happen to have someone special in mind? Maybe that would aid
in your selection "
       Thinking _Read my lips, honey,_ I tossed over my shoulder, "Just
looking for something for myself ... if you don't mind. Thanks for asking!"
She didn't leave. I could smell her, and feel her breathing down my neck.
Turning around, I saw her give me a look, like I had feathers growing out of
my ears, or a less appropriate part of my anatomy, then exit Ms. Too Much
Eyeshadow. Followed shortly by _my_ exit. I figured that she'd have to take a
coffee break sometime; I'd check out the undies then. Walking away, I
remembered that the World Fantasy Con would be coming up soon, and decided to
check out the junior dresses.
       Bad move. And no warning signs this time; the salesclerk initally left
me alone, in peace, while I looked over the racks of new fall arrivals and she
didn't even flinch when I picked out two reasonably priced streetlength
dresses (one with a side slit, the other a sweater-dress) and approached the
counter. Then
       Her: "_Yes,_ will that be cash, charge or "
       Me: "Oh, no, not yet ... could I please try them on? I have two items
here "
       Her: (look of utter "slap-me-silly" shock on her face) "Uhhh "
       Me: (getting _mucho_ disturbed) "Okay, I'll leave one here and take
them in one at a time, if that's the prob "
       Her: "I'm sorry, sir, but you don't understand, this isn't _that_ kind
of store "




                                                                                 Page 4
        Me: (completely disturbed now) "_Sir?_ Are you _blind,_ ma'am? All I
want to do is try on these dresses "
        Her: "I I I'm afraid that you can't do that, at least not here "
        Me: (something _beyond_ disturbed) "Miss, is there a _problem?_ Is
there a limit on the number of dresses I can take in there? Are you afraid
I'll shoplift these? You are welcome to come in the dressing room _with_ me if
that's what's got you worried "
        Her: (barely stifled scream, by now we have an _audience_)
"Please-leave-this-store-immediately! Be-_fore_ I have to call the manager"
All of the above with a plastered-on _smile,_ for cryin' out loud. Thinking
that I would have caused less of a disturbance if I'd put my head under her
skirt like Robin Williams did to Maria Conchita Alonso in that damned _film,_
I threw the dresses on the floor by now people were openly staring, then
shoved their noses in Fabric Care tags when I stomped past and started doing a
number on my Bloomies Charge card with my nail clippers while riding the
escalators to the ground floor. I hope all the little pieces jammed up the
mechanism, too.
        During my ride home my unmolested, unpinched ride home I wondered if
New York was going through a gender-blindness epidemic of some sort.
          ****
Not long after the Bloomies fiasco, my contributor's copies arrived, along
with a little note from the _BQ_ editor, which was to let me know that in this
year's _BQ_ Reader's Poll I'd placed as the fifth most requested author, up
six places from last year, et cetera, et cetera. There was more, but at the
time I wasn't in the mood to read on. I mean, I figured he didn't _know_ what
was happening to me. And I wasn't about to call him up and announce, "Hey, by
the way, the _funniest_ thing happened at Bloomies last week, even better than
that scene in "Moscow on the Hudson" where Robin Williams puts his head under
the sales clerk's skirt. Only they wouldn't even let me try _on_ a skirt, let
alone "
        He probably would have attributed it to my fertile mind, my writer's
flair for the dramatic ... but even Larry Olivier couldn't top _this_
situation's dramatics. And no one could be this imaginative.
        The dogs, my _boys,_ my trusty Wolfie and Duke, began looking at me
strangely. And they sniffed me more, the wary type of snuffle with no wagging
tail they used to reserve for good ole Dead Fred the helpful back home
neighbor (bless his nosey soul!) and now for Mr. H. when he comes down for the
rent. It couldn't _be,_ not _really_ but the dogs were acting as if _I_
smelled like an old man.
        By the next day, I realized that something was _bad_ wrong. When I
picked up the phone on the second ring, the _BQ_ editor asked _me_ if _I_ was
home! I didn't know if he bought my line about a bad connection, but I kept
crinkling the wrapper from the boys' Gaines Burgers (even Lorne Green would
gag on Alpo day after day) next to the receiver, so I think that maybe I
fooled him and doing something like that to him made me feel like week-old
fishbowl scum. The call was about the novella he'd bought some time ago would
I mind if he split it into three parts, and ran it in three issues? I was so
rattled by then I almost made the suggestion that I'd be happy if he ran it a
line at a time until kingdom come, but then reason shut my mouth for me,
warning, _Why blame this mess on your editor?_ So far he hadn't called me
"Sir" or _gringo!_ However, once he hung up, I dug out my old cassette
recorder from under the bed and taped my voice, then played it back. It
sounded fine and feminine to me, but it made the boys howl ... and the sound
of Mr. "Night Job Sleeping" banging on the wall was sweet music to me, but by
the following day nothing could have made me smile.
          ****
That day, what went on went beyond _wrong,_ bypassed _strange_ and entered
_bizarre_ at full tilt. And all I did was go down the hall to the _bath_room,
something I've done hundreds of times since moving to the city, to this
apartment-cum-tenement. And while I wasn't actually friends (or even very




                                                                                 Page 5
friendly) with the people on my floor, things were non-hostile enough to allow
for a bit of overlapping when it came to using bathroom stalls; after all,
total strangers use the same restroom at the same time in all sorts of public
places with no hassle. At least I knew the other tenants by sight and
occasionally by name (from matching bodies with name plates on mail slots),
and they likewise "knew" me. Or so I had assumed. And I thought that Mrs.
Pendelton (Miss? Ms? All I knew was that she always took the Social Security
checks out of the box labeled "Pendelton, S.") was one of the friendlier souls
on my floor, at least she'd grunt "'Lo" as she passed by a person in the
hallway, hunched over her walker. Even the boom-box babes on the corner didn't
bother her. But that day you could have heard her clear into the Bronx, the
way she carried on when she lurched out of the stall and found me at the sink
washing my hands. Goggling at me from behind her trifocals, chins quivering,
papery white lips working in indignation, and then yelling: "Ain't you got no
decency? Getcha kicks outta _listening? Pre-_vert! Raised in a _baaarn?_ No
sense of _shame,_ young man? Terrible, just _terrible!_ Listenin' in on old
ladies! Pig!" And she tread on my instep with her walker as she passed me for
good measure. (And it hurt like nobody's business! She came on like some sort
of Hell's Grandma!)
       I thought I could hear Mr. "Night Job Sleeping" laughing at me all the
way from the bathroom to my room. When I got in, locked the door and sank on
to a kitchen chair, the boys wouldn't even lick my hands.
       No doubt they thought I was a "_pre-_vert" too.
         ****
Venturing out only when nature's call couldn't be ignored, I worked in
isolation on the rest of "The Metamanphosis," and on a whim I decided to try
sending it in to that holy-of-literary-holies, _Skin Magazine._ The one the
7-Elevens wouldn't touch with two flag poles soldered together. I figured it
wouldn't hurt; one of the assistant editors there knew my work from previous
tries, and once I got a handwritten note scribbled on the bottom of a
rejection slip, telling me to please try again, that the editor of the
magazine knew my work from _Bloodbath_ and liked it. They got my name wrong on
the note, calling me "Dear Mr. Winston." The note _was_ a nice touch, and
since I'd be appearing in the next three issues of _BQ_ anyhow, I decided to
give _Skin_ a shot at "The Metamanphosis."
       If I had any hopes of pulling stakes out of this dump (the nerve of
that old biddy!) I had to start pulling in contracts from the top markets ...
a lot of them.
       In retrospect, sending in that story to _Skin Magazine_ was the best
thing I ever did considering the circumstances I had fallen into but at the
time, when I finally got it through my hick skull what was going on, I didn't
_want_ to believe it.
       After a month of slinking to the bathroom, avoiding Mr. Hernandez and
his mumbled _gringo_ remarks by sliding the rent under his door before it was
due, and telling myself that it was _normal_ for a woman not to hear lewd
comments from men on the street (despite the fact that I still wore skimpy
summer garb) I got a call not from _Bloodbath,_ but from _Skin Magazine..._and
not just from someone in the fiction department. I was speaking to Mr.
Father-of-_Skin_himself, the Man Mr.-Meese-Would-Love-To-Bring-To-His-_Knees,_
the _editor. Him,_ his _Skin_ness, talking to _me._ The clods back in Ewerton
would have done number two in their sanctimonious overalls while tsk-tsking in
horror (the few stores in Ewerton which reluctantly stock _Bloodbath
Quarterly_ only do so for a week before ripping off the covers and tossing the
pages in the dumpsters, ever since that braless she-demon graced the Fall
cover a couple of years back welcome to the Bible Belt, folks!) while the
hometown girl passed the time of day with Mr. Pornography, Esq. Actually, the
guy seemed very nice, not sexist at all.
       Very politely, he asked for "Denton Blair" (my pen name if my mom's egg
had got it on with a Y sperm instead of an X way back when, it would have been
my real name), then corrected himself when he noticed my real name D.B.




                                                                                 Page 6
Winston typed at the top of the page, next to the "Member, SFWA." (I suppose
days spent oogling bare, tanned flesh can mess up a guy's eyesight.) Either
way, he wasn't surprised that I was a woman (while we chatted, I thought _how
nice, a man who prints beaver shots who isn't a macho "where's your husband
little woman" boor...),_ then he got to the point; he wanted to run "The
Metamanphosis" in the January issue, and my heart almost pounded right through
my chest and popped out of my t-shirt (John Hurt with his Alien-in-the-chest
would have had nothing on _me_), and I had to keep reminding myself, _Don't_
grovel, _woman! Don't drool on the receiver and electrocute yourself! Suppose
he wants some revisions!_
       As I mentally congratulated myself for making a sale to _Skin_ without
an agent (_mine, mine, the money will be all_ miiiine!) I had to do a
double-take when the editor said, "You had me going there, D.B., the part in
the story where the protagonist is still a woman is _fantastic_ I do know my
women, and _I_ almost believed for a minute there that you _are_ a woman!
Believe me, man, that is no mean feat, fooling an old 'letch' like me! By the
way, I've been following your _Bloodbath_ work, and I wish we'd have grabbed
some of your stuff sooner you're right up there, fellah. Not a King or Barker
yet, but someday, right? One more thing, do you still want to run this under
the Denton Blair name or okay, I'll change it right now. Well, nice talking to
you, D.B., and thanks for thinking of us..." and so on, and when he finally
got off the line I threw down the receiver and began to paw through my files
(some system an old cardboard box from Keebler cookies I keep under my bed ...
I don't think Stephen King ever did it _this_ way), looking for all my
correspondence, rejection slips, contracts, and whatnot.
       After culling what I wanted, I spread the mass of papers out on the
floor (the dogs were stretched out against the walls, rumbling at me, heads on
paws, eyes half-lidded), and began looking them over carefully, pausing only
to swat away an occasional roach ... looking at the pages _fearfully,_ too....
       It was all there, in unwavering black on white. My name, "D.B.
Winston," on my submissions (upper right hand coner, except for the occasional
wise-guy editors who wanted it on the _left_ hand side, like it _mattered_),
no "Devorah," no "Ms.," or "Miss," or any indication of my sex, no inkling
given that "D.B. Winston" was a woman. Oh, _occasionally_ my checks from
_Bloodbath_ including the one which caused me so much grief at the bank came
addressed to "Devorah Winston," since the editor there wormed the name out of
me while I was still living back in Ewerton, but those checks were the
exception, not the rule ... according to my contracts, my few magazine
subscriptions, and my bills, I was "D.B. Winston, Neuter"... except now, even
_that_ was subject to debate....
       Likewise, those 'zines which sent me either handwritten or personalized
form rejections were all part of the pattern either "Dear D. B." or "Dear
D.B.W" or "Dear D.B. Winston," or, much worse, "Dear Mr. Winston"... something
which had ohmigod! _amused me before! While the people who knew me, who saw me
daily,_ still thought I was a woman. What did the opinion of someone I'd never
seen matter? _I_ knew that I was a woman, and everyone else _seemed_ to know
it when they saw me ... then the loss of my literary feminity didn't seem very
threatening. In fact, I figured it was _helping_ me! Apparently others thought
the same thing; one of the letters I got from the editor over at _Gore
Magazine_ (who did realize that I was a woman) put it best: "It's fun when I
get the occasional comment about D.B. Winston: that guy's work is really
good.' Tee-hee. Ah, the prejudices of the genre. Did you know that V.C.
Andrews didn't know about her publisher substituting her initials until her
first book came out?"
       I only hoped that V.C. Andrews didn't have to go through _this_ happy
horseshit! Maybe that's why she gave interviews, telling people about the
change ... but I think that people at least _guessed_ that she _was_ a she.
But most of my stories take a male point of view (or woodpile creature point
of view, and so on), so the readers and editors had no way of _knowing_ unless
I actually told them that I was a woman. I picked up a rejection slip from




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that new small press 'zine, _Prophetic!,_ and read with blurring eyes, "All
this time, my husband and I thought D.B. Winston was a man! What a surprise to
see you sign your name 'Ms.'" That cover letter, the one I signed with a 'Ms.'
(a rarity for _moi,_ it must have been Susan B. Anthony's birthday, or some
other such pro-feminist occasion) was a pure exception on my part, and I
hadn't signed one like that to a new magazine I'd submitted to in months. Even
my personal correspondence was genderless, and generated male-oriented
responses ("Dear Mr. Winston, We are sorry you were dissatisfied with new
Doggie Dinners..."), all of which seemed so _funny_ at the time. With a
growing sense of dis-ease, I scanned the contributor's copies of the zines
which had run my material, and was confronted with table of contents after of
table of contents crediting my stories to "D.B. Winston" or "Denton Blair,"
(and remembered that all the junk mail in my kitchenette garbage bag was
addressed to "_Mr._ D.B., et cetera" once I realized that the Great Computer
Network Hook-Ups had my gender wrong, I was sure that I was _doomed!_) and on
top of it, few of the magazines I had things published in bothered with
author's pages (even if they did, how many people actually _read_ those
things?)
       As the editor at _Gore_ had pointed out, most of the writers in my
field are men; readers expect them to be men, for who knows what reason. It
was that automatic assignment of gender on the part of readers that led me to
use my initials instead of my name on my work, and played a part on my choice
of a male _nom de plume._ Years ago, I had read an article about breaking into
the publishing market that suggested that men have an edge when it comes to
certain genres, and since I never liked my name _anyway_ (to me, Devorah Bambi
Winston had that good old cheerleader-Pom-Pom-Girl-Prom-Queen-Sorority-Sister
ring to it, and plain old Devorah Winston had a
small-town-paper-mill-office-clerk-playing-with-her-typewriter feel to it ...
which is what I _was_ at first, when I started submitting things), so using my
initials had seemed so appealing, so natural, so crisply efficient ... and,
unbeknownst to me, so very _masculine,_ not merely androgonous, as I had
hoped.
       Crazy as it all sounded, it did make sense; wasn't that editor
astonished to find out that I was really a woman? Which, in turn, meant that
the impression that she and her husband had gotten that I was a man, a strong
one? And those readers writing to the _Gore_ editor, about liking that "guy's
work." After all, didn't Peter Pan, or some other fairy-tale kidlet, say that
"wishing makes it so"? (I know he said "Clap your hands for Tinkerbelle," and
all _that!_) So, if that's the case, wouldn't "Thinking makes it so" also
apply? A wish _begins_ as a thought ... suddenly I remembered the note that
the _BQ_ editor put in with my contributor's copies, the one with the reader's
survey results. That meant that a lot of readers a lot of very _imaginative_
horror and fantasy loving (_and_ believing? I wondered) readers had asked for
my stories, many of them no doubt thinking _(believing)_ that I was a man. I
found the note, and if I had had doubts before
       "...fifth most requested author, behind Bloch and Williamson and
Koontz, and you'd be surprised to see who else you topped on the list. Some of
the readers can't help but scribble comments in the margins about their
favorites, and about you they wrote, 'He's my favorite,' and 'That Winston
dude scares me'. I guess the readers really got into those macho-hero
adventures about pagan sacrifices and bird-blood worship you wrote while you
were living in Ewerton."
       _That_ was the capper. If only he had written one "Tee hee," or "I set
them straight," or ... I could only come to one conclusion. Even though he
used to know that I am a woman, somehow, he had forgotten ... or his mind had
told him something else ... or maybe, because so many people now believe that
I am a man, he's doing so as a matter of course. Even the people I had just
met, all of them were treating me as if I were _actually a man._
         ****
It was funny, but after I finally figured it out (more or less); figured out




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what happened to me, I _couldn't do anything about it!_ Bellevue may be
overcrowded, but it was within the city limits and convenient. A good place to
hide the "_pre-_verts" who _pretend_ to be women....
       What made me hurt above and beyond the embarrassment the shouting, the
bruised instep where old Mrs. Pendleton tromped on it was the fact that even
telling people that I was a woman didn't seem to help anymore.
       Then, while I sat on the floor, hardly noticing the tickle of roach
legs on _my_ legs, I _thought_ of something. And got to work.
       By the time I was through, my hands and fingers were a hurting, my eyes
were blurred from staring at endless black letters (sort of slate grey towards
the end) marching across illuminated white paper, my tongue was coated with
that slimy, gummy residue from licking too many stamps and envelope flaps (why
wouldn't those damned dogs lick something besides their paws and fannies?)
but, finally, I was done. And I thought that it might work. _Had_ to work.
Please, pretty please with sugar on top work ... and sugar on the bottom, if
that might help.
       From the afternoon when I sat on the floor, bemoaning my bizarre fate,
to the day when I finally called it quits a month later, I had written eight
short stories, three poems and a criticism of
faceless/personalityless/mindless killers in 1980s dead-teenager mad slasher
flicks ("Down with 'Jasonism' _or_ Norman Bates Won't You Please Phone Your
Mother?"). Plus cover letters for each submission with my full name, as in
"Ms" and "Miss" added to the bottom sign-off the works. I had to wait until
dark to send them off (in a weird way I _missed_ the sexist comments from
strange guys) to both magazines which knew my work but not my sex as well as
newer zines I'd never tried before. Even though I left late someone yelled
"Drag Queen" at me from across the street and I was only wearing a sundress!
(It was too hot even for shorts, and besides, I thought that maybe _I_ had to
do a little _believing_ on my own, to speed up the process...)
       Only a week later, I couldn't help but think of that kiddie book, about
The Little Engine That Could, who said "I think I can, I think I can;" only in
my case it was more like "I think I am I think I am a WOMAN!" It happened! A
cabbie, one I'd never seen before, who brought me home from a movie I took in
one night (only fools and vampires ride the subways come night, whether people
think they are men or not!) actually said "Thanks, lady," when I told him to
keep the change. I could have kissed the slob, three days' stubble or not! And
better yet, I soon got back replies on most of the things I sent out; all with
either rejection slips or contracts (!) addressed to "Miss" or "Ms." Winston!
       I figured that it had to be working; Mrs. Pendleton didn't snort and
toss her hair-netted head when she saw me coming down the hall, and Mr.
Hernandez had finally stopped calling me a _"loco gringo."_ All this put me in
such a good mood I even considered springing for a long-distance call home.
You know, "reach out and _touch_ someone" sung in _soprano,_ for a change! The
dogs were even licking my hands again, no more rumbling and tail-thump-less
greetings. I decided to brave Bloomies again, too.
       My wonderful mood continued when I got my contributor's copies of
_Bloodbath;_ the Potter cover was even better in color. Seeing it reminded me
that I had to contact the editor about changing my name on future issues, but
I figured that I had plenty of time for that. That night I tried calling home,
no answer. They probably were at the bowling alley-cum-arcade, renting video
tapes or something stimulating like that. I decided to try a daytime call,
what the hell, surprise the folks, make 'em happy. Share the feeling.
       More joy the next day; my check my great big check came from _Skin
Magazine_ for "The Metamanphosis," made out to "D.B. Winston." Looking it
over, I decided to write The Editor and let him know that I wanted the by-line
of the story changed. _Shouldn't be a biggie,_ I told myself, kicking myself
for actually forgetting something like a sale to _Skin!_ Maybe I had _wanted_
to forget it, make it not so by forgetting that something in my life had
_prompted_ such a tale ... besides, I was sure that Mr. _Skin_ Editor would
get a kick out of the "Bambi" part of my name. I couldn't wait to tell my




                                                                                 Page 9
folks about the big check, but there was no answer in either the morning,
afternoon, or evening. Slightly saddened, I tacked the check in a place on
honor above my bed and resolved to call again the following morning ... but
something kept me from making that morning call.
       The mailman had a hard time getting my contributor's copies from _Skin_
into my box; the envelope covering them was badly torn. When I saw them, I ran
down the street to the nearest kiosk, and found that the latest issue of _Skin
Magazine,_ with "D.B. Winston's "The Metamanphosis" a Study of the Ultimate
Identity Crisis!" advertised on the front cover, just to the left of the
model's barely covered nipple, was out for sale.
       I zombie-walked back to my apartment ("the Ultimate Identity Crisis!")
and after I locked the door behind me, I sat down on the bed to read the
"Under the _Skin"_ author's section. A brief mention of me was in there, a few
lines about my publishing history, capped by the line "he is one of the best
up-and-coming horror writers in America."
       He, as in _me._ I looked in the tattered envelope which had held my
contributor's copies. There was a note in there, written on _Skin-_logo paper.
From the Editor. Said how much he liked, no _loved_ the story, how he bumped
an _Updike_ from this issue to make room for my tale, so that his readers
could enjoy it _now._ Said again how the first part had _almost_ fooled him.
Said he enjoyed talking to me in July. Said I should subscribe, special rate,
to _Skin,_ so he could use my name and likeness ("send a pic, should've asked
in July, but the story just blew my mind and I forgot to ask") in those
advertisements he runs in the front of _Skin_ "Denton Blair Winston a _Skin_
Reader and proud of it." Said I should think it over and call, collect. Said
there'd be money in it for me. Said I should come to the mansion, meet the
"gang." Said his readers were bound to go wild over the story. Said I seemed
to be a great guy.
       He's right. _Now._ The man isn't only _rich._ He's _influential._
       As I finished the letter, Mom and Dad called me; they'd seen the new
_Skin_ on the back stands at the Ewerton Pharmacy, and wanted to let me know
how happy they were. Dad said he's proud of his son. Mom said she hoped the
gold-diggers wouldn't be after me once I made the "big bucks."
       I _am_ an only child.
       And I didn't _think_ my name is Denton. But I guess it beats Devorah.
       Mrs. Pendelton spit at me in the hall; I ducked just in time.
       I wonder if I can find a _suit_ at Bloomies for the World Con?
       What do men who read _Skin Magazine_ get for advertising the fact?
       I think the boys and I may need to move out of this place.
         END
--------
       _Author's Note: Thanks to Peggy Nadramia, editor of Grue Magazine, and
Deborah Rasmussen, editor of Portents, for their kind permission to use
quotations from their letters to me._

-----------------------
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