Our Neighborhood Transvestite

     Ryan Deegan.  He was a cool guy, actually.  He used to play catch with us from his front lawn to one of ours so the throws of the softball covered a long distance.  He lived alone in a house that looked pretty much like everyone else's.  We had the most fun on his motorcycle. Loud and powerful.  Not a "motorbike," or any pansy variant like that.  He'd take us on a ride, one thrilled kid at a time.  I think he was retired but I don't know from what. He was hard of hearing and so the tunes he like blared from his high-fi system through his open living room windows in warm weather. 
     Ryan owned one of the first television sets in our neighborhood.  We kids would go over his house to see "Time for Beaney." a puppet show about a young boy who wore a "beanie" cap,  his friend "Cecil the Sea Serpent, " and the adventures they had with other characters such as Dishonest John.  At 7p.m. we'd holler "Time for 'Time for Beaney, ' " and run to Ryan's house. (I was the one who insisted on the repetition of the phrase--the seeds of a snotty little grammarian taking root early.)  We didn't just barge in on him.  Our arrival was by prearranged invitation extended to our parents.  And Ryan had his rules. 
     You could not arrive late to the Deegan house.  You had to have your hair combed.  You could not wear tennis shoes (they took up the nap of the rug).  We considered these strictures odd, but we followed them because we wanted to watch TV.
     What we did not know was that Ryan was "odd" in a more dramatic way than any eccentricities that we observed.  His singularity defeated our parents' desire to tell us the truth about Ryan.  Therefore they said nothing while we were small.  When we all got a little older we started to notice some things in and around his house that puzzled us.
     When our next door neighbors were on vacation I had the job of collecting their newspapers and mail, feeding the cat and watering the lawn and the plants.  Their back yard was separated from the Deegan back yard by a stone wall about five feet high.  On Ryan's side of the wall was his driveway that extended into his garage.  One afternoon, I heard his car pull in and the door open.  I glanced at the top of the wall and glimpsed a lady's blue hat.  The face of the hat wearer was obscured by a wispy veil, and then went out of sight as the person turned and moved from the car to the house. 
     A couple of weeks later I was riding my bike down the sidewalk.  As I passed Ryan's house I looked into his driveway.  I saw a woman watering plants by the side of the house.  I identified the person as a woman because she was garbed in a two piece bathing suit.  I wondered who she was.  So the next day at breakfast I asked my mother, "Is there a woman living in Ryan's house?"
     I thought she was going to choke on her toast.  I told her what I had seen.  She gathered herself and said: "That was not a woman you saw.  That was Ryan dressed like a woman."  The cat was out of the bag.
      My Mom didn't realize I was satisfied with that answer.  I was surprised; I thought it was strange but I did not ask why he did that.  She launched into an explanation nonetheless.    And her explanation was a mess.  She didn't have the words "transvestite" or "cross-dresser" in her active vocabulary.  She told me that there were some people who had "the top of a woman" and "the bottom of a man."  She was standing up as she spoke.  She emitted an "Eww" and then thrust her joined hands into her nether regions in a kind of spastic mimicry of pain or desire.  I wanted to flee the room.
     Over the years I learned more about Ryan.  Mrs. McCormick of the people next door talked with him about his cross-dressing behavior.  He quite calmly explained it was his hobby.  He drew a comparison to Mr. McCormick's enjoyment of fishing.  "Your husband has his hobby.  I have mine."  Later, when I was much older their daughter laughed as she told me this tidbit.  Her bedroom was on the side of their house adjacent to Ryan's living room.  When Ryan's windows were open, she would be regaled with different recordings of his theme song: "I Enjoy Being A Girl!" 
     Nothing that Ryan did or said was illegal, immoral or threatening.  We heard tell of a woman's lingerie shop one town over that catered to his garment preferences.  Good customer.  They kept a small closet available for him as a personal dressing room.  In a sense he was already out of the closet.
    Nice fella.  A dude with an unusual dandy--for the 1950s.  Always treated us well.  Did no harm.  Just a memory from years ago. 
    Now, where did I put my lipstick?