FUN ON I-95




BY MELINA STEVENS



Was I nervous? Yes.

Was it traumatic. Yes.

Did I survive? I'm not sure.

I am talking about almost every crossdresser's automobile nightmare:
the unexpected breakdown. It happened to me late one night in June
2000 after a visit to Gypsy's Cabaret, a Fort Lauderdale nightclub.
I left Gypsy's shortly after midnight. I only live a few miles from the club, but
I was house-sitting for two gay friends in Boynton Beach, about 30 miles away.

I was on Interstate 95 - about 15 miles from Boynton - when my unexpected
car troubles began. With no warning, the radio went dead. The radio lights
worked, but there was no sound. I turned it off. A few seconds later, I
noticed the headlights starting to dim. Not a good sign. The engine was
still running, but it seemed like the car was losing power. I moved into
the right-hand lane to be closer to the next exit. Without a cell phone,
experience told me the highway is no place to break down, because
the only way to summon help is by walking to the nearest telephone,
which could be a mile or more away. So I took the next exit, which
was Deerfield Beach, Fla. Halfway down the exit ramp the engine quit.
At least I had made the right decision. Because of the car's speed,
I was able to coast off the ramp and onto Hillsboro Boulevard.

Now what! There I was, sitting in my Ford Taurus dressed in a skirt,
high heels and a blue sweater blouse. Hillsboro Boulevard is heavily
traveled, so I knew a Broward Sheriff's Office deputy car would find
me sooner or later. I was praying it wasn't sooner. There was a gas
station about two blocks away, but I didn't want to walk there dressed
the way I was. I'm sure several male motorists would have been more
than happy to stop and assist a girl in high heel pumps, but I'm not sure what
their attitude would have been when they found out they were coming to the
aid of a crossdresser in distress. Thank God I'm a procrastinator. In the back
seat of my car were a pile of clothes I was going to donate to charity.

When I went to drop them off a few weeks earlier, the church office was closed.
So they had been in my car for a few weeks now. I found a pair of sweat
pants and a polo shirt and began stripping off my female attire, tossing everything
in the backseat: high heels, blouse, skirt, pantyhose, bra, breast forms,
wigs, jewelry. I did this while cars whizzed by and wondering if a police officer
would be behind me at any moment. I can describe this feeling in one word: panic.
I am sorry to say that my language at that moment was not ladylike, as nervous
as I was. I ended up ripping off one of my bracelets (I didn't have time to fiddle
with the damn clasp, especially while wearing long nails). As I struggled into
my male clothes, I felt a little better, but I wasn't home free yet. I had nothing to
wear on my feet. No socks or shoes. And since my toenails were painted, this
presented another dilemma. I also was still wearing makeup. I grabbed
a couple of extra T-shirts in the car and began wiping it off. I would have killed
for a jar of cold cream, girls. Every now and then I would dab the end of the
shirt with some saliva. Not a pretty scene, I know, but I was somewhat desperate.

Before heading over to the gas station to call Triple A, I pushed the car about
20 yards west and into a right-hand turning lane. At least this way the car was
not blocking traffic. I also thought this would decrease the likelihood of a police officer
stopping. On the way to the gas station I got a strange look from a security guard
driving around the area in a car from a nearby company. I yelled out about my
broken down car. If he heard me, I'm sure he didn't car. I'm sure I looked
dreadful. My hair was a mess. I wasn't wearing anything on my feet.

I called Triple A and headed back to the car, tearing off my nails as best I could
and tossing them on the ground. The wrecker, I was told, would be there in
about 90 minutes. When I got back to my Taurus, I decided to cover my feet with
two T-shirts, which I tucked up into the legs of my sweat pants. Much to my surprise,
they worked pretty well. So as I sat in my car sweating, I continued to wipe my
face with a T-shirt to remove all traces of make-up. I then reached into my
glove compartment, grabbed a small bottle of car air freshener (Vanilla) and started
spraying it onto my wrists, where I had applied perfume. I rubbed it in as much as
I could with the T-shirt to try and mask the smell. Yes girls, I can hear you all laughing.

Twenty minutes later, as I predicted, a sheriff's deputy stopped. I told him I had called
a wrecker and thought the problem was the alternator. I'm not sure if he noticed
I was wearing T-shirts around my feet. Since they were both yellow and matched,
maybe he thought they were some kind of new wave sneakers. In any event, he soon left.

Triple A came 30 minutes or so later. The driver was courteous and helpful. I'm not
sure if he noticed the odd way I was dressed, but I didn't care at that point. I finally
got home to my friend's house around 3:30 a.m. I looked in the mirror and
couldn't find a trace of makeup (it's amazing what you can do with enough spit).

After taking a quick shower, I went to bed, slept until past noon and took it easy
for the rest of the entire day. What's the lesson here? For me, it's this: I'm
going to keep a male clothing emergency kit in the trunk of the car. Looking
back, I'm sure I would have survived even without those male clothes.
Come to think of it, girls, it probably would have made for a much better story.