Are We Here Yet?

A dusty Patria Pasi XA-180 painted in green camo trundles down the rain-slicked sidewalks of Boston. A few people glance at it, then look away. They do not see the Patria Pasi as it is. They see a tall brunette woman in a puffy taupe winter coat and a black cat beanie. Some sets of eyes stare longer, searching the windshield’s bullet-resistant glass for the return gaze of the driver. They are deprived of satisfaction on their self-inflicted promise. Nobody is driving this thing. Not right now, anyway. It’s on autopilot.

The Pasi began production in Finland around 1984, but this one was manufactured in ‘86. It is an armored personnel carrier, an amphibious one at that, designed to fit fourteen people. Two crew and twelve passengers, though at this moment it only hosts eight. Maybe someday there’ll be more. Someday, maybe there’ll be less.

Perched on the top of the Pasi is a black metal gunner’s seat and a rotating turret with an M2 Browning machine gun. Both are unmanned (pun intended), and the M2 is just for show. It’s been decommissioned and is scheduled for full removal. That’s why the Pasi is in Boston right now. To have its firearm removed.

Despite its bulky shape, the Pasi navigates the sidewalks quite deftly. In no small part thanks to its high ground clearance and six offroad-capable wheels with independent suspension. No matter the barrier: bush, mailbox, or streetlamp, the Pasi wends and curves toward its ultimate destination: the battlefront of Boston Medical Center.

Most of the passengers in the Pasi have grown impatient. Sharing a body is hard work, and it’s been a long trip for os. It’s a cold, wet November day and oer rainbow-patterned shoes are soaked through.
Oe (pronounced “we”—how one might describe a metaphorical personnel carrier full of deviants and abnormals) each sit on oer weakly padded bench seats, some strapped in for safety, or comfort, or as a joke. Pearl, Windy, Cheeky, and Marie sit closer to the front, as per usual. Hole, Quiver, and Bleak sit farther back, less interested in participating in this story. A shaded, barely perceptible figure leans against the rear bulkhead. They remain entirely unmentionable.

“When are oe gonna get there?” Cheeky groans. She tugs at the ears of her hat and makes a face.

“Soon,” Pearl is the closest to the front, but still has to lean over to see out the windshield. “Probably a block away.” She isn’t the one who put the body on auto-pilot, that was Windy’s idea, but she’s not going to let it go wholly unmonitored.

“I don’t even want to be here.” Cheeky says, “Can’t oe get something to eat instead?”

“We have to do this,” Windy says. “Don’t you want to have sex?”

“Oh, tons! Probably more than any of you. But I can have sex anytime. I don’t hate anal like you do.”

“I don’t hate it, it’s just… Not fun. And it’s not just about the sex. Clearly it’s not just about the sex.”

Pearl slams her hands down onto the padded seat. “Oh my goddd~, can you two please stop talking about this like it needs to be said? A lifetime of self doubt, a late twenties circumcision, a sense of intimacy so harrowing it’s precursored by the theme to Jaws. The doctors inside aren’t going to care about oer history as the backyard slide. They want to know we’re mentally fit to choose this. No coercion, no confersion.”

“Confersion?” Cheeky asks.

“She means confusion,” Windy says.

“Oh, because it rhymes. That’s silly.”

Pearl checks the Pasi’s progress. “We’re going inside. Who’s running the show?”

Marie lifts a finger. “I can put a firm face on.”

“That’s a good call. Maybe Windy can sit in shotgun?”

“You think that’s necessary?” Windy says, already getting to her feet.

“You know all the qualifiers. And hold more memories than Marie does.” Pearl makes space for the two to squeeze by.

“Not untrue.” Marie follows Windy to the front cabin of the Pasi as it trundles down the capacious lobby to the elevators. Oe press the elevator button for floor 3, headed for the Plastic Surgery wing.
Marie settles into the bucket seat and stares at the steering wheel. It’s wrapped in a fuzzy pink ring with little cat ears. “Last time I used this thing, I made everyone mad.”

“That’s not true. You didn’t make os mad, you just made os nervous. It’s not often oe lose three hours in the middle of the day like that. Is that why you haven’t gone out in a while?”

One spring day, quite early in oer process of discovering oe were more than an “I”, Marie decided she wanted cheesecake from the local bakery. On the way, she stopped by the print shop to gather some brochures oe had printed for that year’s Pride Festival, then grabbed a drive-thru energy drink to wet her throat.

Every hour, on the hour, that oe were awake, whoever steered the Pasi would log what they had done in that hour. We called it “timestamping”. Even a little cat nap got tracked in an app on oer phone. But for the three hours that Marie was gone, where she went, what she ate, none of it went in the log. She simply parked the Pasi at oer desk and went back to the depths.

When Pearl took over to check work emails, she saw that three hours had disappeared and sent out an alert. DEFCON 1: Missing time. Nobody else could answer the question of where oe went or what oe had done. Until Marie, yawning and stretching limbs into the conscious mind, noticed the clamor and fixed the facts.

“Yeah. I became a joke. A story you tell people. Real people.”

“Have to admit it was pretty funny.”

“I promise it hasn’t happened since.”

“Doesn’t matter if it does. Oe stopped timestamping because of that. I call it a win.”

“You think Pearl agrees with that?”

“Pearl doesn’t agree with the sky when it rains.”

Lumbering up to the front desk of the Plastic Surgery department, the Pasi settles back on its brakes. Marie slides the intercom from its hook and fingers the push-to-talk. “Hi, I’m here for an appointment at eleven thirty.”

The burly receptionist nods with a graceful disinterest and stares into his computer screen. “Name and date of birth?”

The intake nurse guides the Pasi around the corner and into a small examination room with a ceiling-high curtain drawn open. Oe get the usual battery of tests. Oil levels, engine pressure, radiator health. Unlike the others, most of whom disappear—go blank—the minute oe enter a clinical setting, Marie is good with doctors and nurses. She’s warm and receptive, information-focused but personable. Her demeanor and vigorous honesty can be disarming. She’s the cool-headed guardian oe never had.
Before the intake nurse leaves, she gives os a blanket and a hospital gown with the slit all up the back. “Take this,” she says, “But don’t put it on yet.”

The PA-C follows soon after. She has blonde hair and wears a soft green shirt accented by a pregnant belly. We swap forms to sign. Privacy notices and safety releases.

“The surgery itself should take no more than eight hours from start to finish,” she says. “With the exception of any complications that may occur. When you wake up, the neovagina will be filled with packing material and a foley catheter will be in your urethra. You may experience a great deal of pain and a sense of fullness. The stay will last two days.”

“Will I be able to walk out?”

“You will be able to walk. We’ll prescribe you painkillers to take home with you.”

“Not Oxycontin?”

“Oxycontin.”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. It makes me nauseous.”

She stares at os a moment before continuing. “The packing material will come out a week after surgery. That’s when you’ll learn about dilation. It’s important that you understand not to engage in strenuous activity—no penetration—for at least six weeks. Up to three months. It may be helpful to buy a donut cushion to sit on.”

A lot of this is information Pearl knows already. She obsesses over every detail.

“Frequent, proper cleansing of the neovagina is crucial to keeping a healthy biome on the outside and inside. Water and a mild soap. Some people use vinegar. Just a drop or two is fine. Dilation, however, will last a lifetime. You’ll start with dilating three times a day, but eventually once a week should be enough. If you ever stop, your canal will close up. Best case scenario, you’ll have to get surgery to re-open it. A closed canal can easily turn into a bigger health issue. Don’t stop dilating. Penetrative sex does count as dilation.”

“Even if my partner is small?”

She looks at os like Marie was joking. It’s an honest question. Marie’s no size queen.

“The last thing we need to discuss is the possibility of a perforation of your bowels during construction of the neovaginal canal. Because of the proximity, it is possible for a perforation to occur between your new canal and the lining of your colon. In the event of this, prior approval is necessary to have emergency surgery on the rupture. You will need to have a nasogastric tube installed to drain the contents of your stomach, effectively keeping your lower digestive system cleared of waste and kept clean while the perforation heals. This would occur entirely while you are under anesthetic, so it’s important that we have your approval before you are put under. Is that understood?”

What is there to do but nod and assent… Drive out of here as fast as possible? No. Stay and survive. Marie skims and signs each document the PA-C passes over. She closes the curtain so oe can put on oer hospital gown, and then Dr. Musil, the surgeon responsible for crafting vulvas, replaces the PA-C. Musil reiterates the complications. In case oe didn’t hear them the first time. He examines the M2 Browning, warns os when he’s going to touch it. Doesn’t want it going off in his hands, it seems. The thing’s shooting blanks at this point, anyway. He works gingerly. Considerately. Then he says, “More skin may need to be taken from elsewhere on your body.” In order for him to craft a replacement socket. “I don’t use scrotal skin for the labia majora,” he says. He touches the Pasi gently—on the belly—to the left and right. “We’ll take a graft from here most likely.” Marie wonders if he’ll make it look cesarean. She’ll be a MILF.

“Will it leave a scar?”

Nobody answers questions in this place. Musil has os dress and then he shows os photos of previous surgeries. Most of them are possible complications that can happen. He explains them as he clicks. Skin that reconnects as it heals. Necrotizing tissue. “The likelihood that you’ll need a revision is high. It’s the nature of it.” He shows photos of wound dehiscence. Ripped sutures. Misaligned urethras. “We can’t guarantee you won’t experience nerve damage in your clitoral region. It’s possible it won’t have any feeling at all. You have to be aware of that going into this. You might never have sensation.”

Marie nods along. At the end of Musil’s presentation, she says, “I want to see the good ones.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your best work. I want to see the ones you’re most proud of doing.”

He looks at the floor. Concerned, perhaps. Then pulls up another presentation. “We don’t have as many long-term photos. It’s not common that people come back if they’re— You know, satisfied with the results. But we do have some…” Most of the photos are at six months or less. Some show traceable lines of progress. Emissaries of neo-vulval amelioration.

Marie grunts non-committally at each, with Windy muttering an ooh yes at ones she likes, an eh at ones she doesn’t.

Musil says, “Bear in mind, you get the results you get. It’s all a matter of tissue and the healing process. I can’t just make it look the way you want.”

“I understand. I get the pussy I’m born with,” Marie says.

Musil’s professionalism gets in the way of a good joke. He clicks through the rest of the slides. “Is that alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Marie says. “Thank you.”

As oe roll out of the hospital lobby, Pearl moans, “My god, I’m so glad that’s over.”

“Why? It wasn’t that bad,” Windy says. “Just a bunch of same old same old and some admittedly well-crafted pussies.”

Pearl says, “Doctors freak me out. I heard once that people automatically give them social authority because of their position. I don’t like automatic dispensation of power. Gives me the willies.”

“Authority shouldn’t be trusted, ever.” Bleak speaks up from the back of the Pasi.

“On that, we agree,” Pearl replies.

Windy says, “You two are more alike than I think you want to admit.”

Pearl and Bleak both cringe.

“Well, I’m excited finally,” Cheeky says.

“Because of the oxy, right?” Marie rolls her eyes.

“It’s fun! And oe’re gonna be sprawled out on the couch for at least a month, might as well enjoy oerselves. Anyway, I love surgery. There’s something invigorating about it. Knowing that we’re due some magnificent change, even if it’s one I don’t totally care about.”

“Knowing someone’s going to be cutting into os,” Bleak says. “The reflection off the scalpel, the smell of blood; the opportunity for mistake, disaster, destruction.”

“Well, it’s clear there’s going to be something for everyone,” Windy says.

“So what’s next?” Pearl asks.

Cheeky says, “Food! Food please!”

“Works for me,” Windy says. “What are oe hungry for?”

“Breakfast!” Cheeky says.

“Any complaints?”

No one raises a finger.

And so the Patria Pasi turns up Massachusetts Ave., headed for Washington St.. There’s a diner down that way with the best corned beef hash oe’ve ever had. That, and an endless mug of coffee, and the trip will be complete.

Of course the end of the trip is not the end of the road. There’s still the matter of the gun. There’s pre-removal appointments to make, there’s hair to sear away one-by-one, and there’s one long slumber. One last deep sleep to cap off years of work.

But none of these things are today. What’s left to do today is catch the train for home. Ride north. Watch the rain collect in parking lot puddles, the sky dark and full with replenishment. Find home in the night, collapse into bed. Fall asleep to a dream—no, premonition—of flowers. White petals pressed to the skin of oer inner thighs; a bright pink stigma, fleshy and fragrant, in the space between oer legs where an M2 Browning air-cooled, belt-fed .50 cal. machine gun, darling child of the nomadic war machine, once was. But is no longer.