Trans Man

Chapter One: The Death of Jordan Boyd

The car alarms going off were the only evidence of what had just happened.

Nothing else had been destroyed- quite a feat for Zeke Varela, martial artist and bookstore-managing extraordinaire. He had seen a pair of robbers climb into a van after robbing presumably several houses in a row, and had stepped in. To his chagrin, the crooks had gotten away, but not before he had taken back the money and expensive things they had stolen.

Now, he supposed he had to locate the owners and return it all. Fun.

Well, that was a task for tomorrow. For now, it was the middle of the night and he really needed to take off his chest binder. It was starting to hurt.

~

"And now please, if you have anything to say, any happy memories of Jordan Boyd you'd like to share, stand up and tell it to us," the funeral director said kindly. Zeke stood up, eyes watery but not overflowing.

"I have something to say."

"Please, go ahead.*

"Jordan was like a father to me," he started, and swallowed back the sadness thickening his throat. "He taught me more than I could ever learn. How to shave, how to throw a punch... He was there for everything. I remember when I was a teenager, I needed a ride home from a party that had gotten out of hand. I didn't even think about it, I just called him. He picked me up without question or judgement and got us Chinese takeout on the way home. I really cannot stress enough how much I appreciate what he did for me, and for my mother."

"Thank you, young man. Jordan must have really loved you. He is still watching over you in Heaven, I'm sure."

Zeke sat back down and the funeral service continued.

~

"Thank you so much for coming in on a Saturday," the detective entered the small meeting room. "Can I record our conversation?"

"Sure, go ahead. What's this all about?" The detective sat down across from Zeke, the lines on his forehead pronounced and the slouch in his posture suggesting perpetual exhaustion.

"It's about Jordan Boyd. Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt him?" Zeke sat up straighter.

"What do you mean? He was a really nice guy."

"We think there might have been foul play. Please think hard. Is there anybody he was afraid of? Or had legal problems with?"

"I thought he had a stroke. How could that be foul play?"

"There are some types of poisons are hard to detect and imitate the symptoms of a stroke," the detective replied reluctantly.

"Holy shit, was he on the bad side of the mafia?" Zeke muttered. "Who would have access to that kind of thing? That's gotta be a really small list, to begin with."

"Mr. Varela, please just think. Did anyone have a problem with Jordan?"

"Jordan was a kind man who went out of his way to help others. He became well off because of his genuine talent, not by exploiting people. If anyone can hate such a guy, they'll be pretty easy to find, what with the horns and pitchfork and all." The detective sighed, shuffling the papers in the file he was holding.

"Alright. Thank you for your time." They both stood.

"Don't thank me. Just bring whatever it was to justice. Or else Jordan will never forgive me." The detective nodded and left.

~

Zeke cut open the package with exacting eagerness and took a big whiff of its contents. He loved the smell of new books.