How to be Megnificent – book 2 of girldragongizzard

By the time Chapman arrives at my table at the coffee shop, I have a very nice sentence planned out for hir, and hir alone. So, I send it via direct message, and sie receives it as sie is sitting down with a huge cookie in hand.

“How can you blow off work so easily and frequently?” I ask. It’s not important, it’s just that private.

Sie pulls out hir phone, wrinkles hir nose at it and chuckles, then types a one word response into it with hir thumb, “Magic.”

“I not feel,” I shoot back. “Only scan.”

“Is that so?” sie responds, and then put hir phone down and starts unwrapping the cookie, a smirk on hir face.

Rhoda has been watching this whole exchange laconically, and now she’s shaking her head just a little as she raises her tea to her lips.

I’ve skipped over the best part in order to focus on that conversation, because the conversation is important.

But Chapman cannot enter the cafe without both Kims shouting, “Chapman!” upon seeing hir. And so everyone knows when sie has entered the building. And today was no exception. That happened.

What is also happening is Chapman’s latest outfit.

Sie is wearing a tight white v-neck T-shirt, which shows off just how immaculately flat hir chest is, with the word “Other” Sharpied onto it. Over that is a black fishnet tulle shawl with black lace trim that must have been homemade, because I can’t imagine it being sold even at Hot Topic. And then there’s the black tutu with rainbow sparkles in it, black fishnet stockings, and hir signature decorated Doc Martens. Sie’s also wearing a purse, socks, and fingerless gloves that are the same deep magenta as hir sidecut pompador.

With hir eclectic and arcane looking set of tattoos, the whole effect is… that.

Where Rhoda is fairly tall and with a medium build, Chapman is short and fat and lumpy. And they are both supremely confident in their presences. And I am thrilled to have them both in my life.

I get excited in a nearly disastrous way whenever the two of them are sitting at the same table with me. Even though both of them have assured me that they each see themselves as maybe being part of some kind of partnership with me given time and getting to know each other better, I still feel more anticipation and anxiety than I should, more vibrating giddiness rising in my gut toward my heart and gizzard.

They’re humans and I’m a dragon, but I feel like we could be a really powerful team for Cool Things in the world. As if we aren’t already.

Well, Rhoda is a human. Chapman says sie isn’t but won’t explain further. None of us are the same species, but we’re friends.

Anyway, once Chapman is settled and has hir drink, I slowly type out the simple sentence, “Ask me about my trip.”

Rhoda starts by filling Chapman in about what I’d told her so far, and then between the two of them they’re able to ask me enough yes-or-no or one-word-answer questions that my story gets told to them in detail without me getting overly frustrated with my tablet. And I get to drink my mocha at a reasonable pace.

I do prompt them unasked a couple times to get better questions about details.

Rhoda, the whole time, takes notes on her own phone.

When Kim or Kimberly ask questions or want to be filled in after dealing with a line of customers, Rhoda tells them she’ll be sending the story to our group via a document file. They both seem pleased by this.

But, when lunch time rolls around and Jill and Cerce come in to take their shifts, the Kims both join us at my table, so Rhoda pushes her phone toward them. And side by side, they read her notes.

“Oh. Oh, wow,” Kim says.

“This part’s bad ass,” Kimberly says, pointing at the screen. “Especially the part where you told them to fuck off.”

“We do have to wonder, though,” Kim says. “If the state decides to continue to recognize your personhood, then will they charge you with vandalism and assault?”

“Those chucklefucks get to be charged with kidnapping, then,” Kimberly says.

“True,” Kim agrees. “But then there’s the question of who’s got the money for court and lawyers.”

“Damn.” Kimberly looks at Chapman, “And you say it’s Säure behind this?”

Chapman tightens hir lips and nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“He’s probably just gonna get another helicopter too, anyway,” Kimberly says. “If he doesn’t already have one.”

Chapman shrugs and I huff.

“I think,” Rhoda says, “that Meg here has shown that that tactic isn’t going to be very efficient. If he wants to keep going that route of clearing dragons from Fairport, he’s going to need to throw a lot more resources at the project. And maybe even get the government involved. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the failure was part of the plan. To learn something, or demonstrate something.”

“Mmm,” Kim intones.

“Shit, yeah,” Kimberly acknowledges.

I can’t say I didn’t think of that, a fleeting realization while on the wing, but I hate hearing it. Coming from Rhoda, who goes out of her way, and pushes beyond her own personal boundaries, to connect with different people and make sure that they get to know each other – with the amount of thought she puts into everything – it’s a chilling confirmation of suspicions.

Obviously, the true confirmation will be what Säure’s company, Equisetum Wildlife, does next.

While I’m trying to come up with something I can add easily to the conversation, I see conspicuous movement out of the corner of my eye and focus on it.

A slight person dressed in a black duster, black jeans, nondescript black shoes, black everything, with long dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, sits in the easy chair that used to be my favorite back in the far corner of the room. They’re drinking tea with a pinky stuck out. It’s a gesture that doesn’t look like it fits them. Like they’re doing it specifically on purpose to get attention.

When my head naturally whips their direction, it cues everyone else to look, too.

They smile at us, and Chapman frowns, and my head twitches to focus on both of them.

I’m in the middle and my wide field of vision accommodates. In one eye, I watch the stranger watch us, while in the other eye I watch Chapman sit up more straight and consider them.

If I really pay attention to what my vision looks like, I can tell my eyes really distort the images, like fisheye lenses on a camera. But that’s not really how my brain parses what I see, and I’m really focused on what’s happening at the moment.

Chapman works hir mouth, but doesn’t say anything, and everyone else is quiet, waiting for the stranger to say something.

Which they do, in a deep voice that sounds like a single dry mountain rock, “I can tell them what you are, if you can’t, Chapman.”

Chapman’s frown deepens and then sie says, “Why would you do that?”

The entire cafe is paying attention to all of us, now. This is a moment. And I can only imagine how tense it’s making Chapman. I can see some of the tension pulling the muscles of hir frame taught.

The stranger shrugs, “It might be useful to you. All you have to do is ask. In any case, I’m a fan. So only if you want me to.”

“I think I’ve got it covered, thanks,” Chapman says.

There’s a nod, and the mountain rock says, “Very well. I’ll tell them what I am.”

“I can’t stop you.”

The tea gets set down on a low side table, and the stranger sits up more straight and scoots to the edge of the seat, tilting their head and looking at me specifically. I don’t think that face has known a smile. They say, “I am Ptarmigan. You’ll have to excuse the all black, it’s a disguise I’ve found very useful. She/her, but I guess I don’t expect anyone to stick to that. It’d be nice if you did, though.”

“Chapman, sie/hir,” Chapman says, as if sie doesn’t know this person. Maybe sie doesn’t.

“Meg,” I say.

The others remain silent.

Ptarmigan looks around the cafe at the other customers briefly, and says, “Ah.”

There aren’t really all that many. Just four other people. But with our table of five and Ptarmigan in the room, too, it does feel a little crowded.

“Whatever,” Ptarmigan says, focusing back on me. “I’m an Artist. As in, literally, that’s what I am. I work primarily in ballpoint pen on scrap paper, but I can do some pretty cool shit with it. And I’m speaking up because I’ve been listening to your conversation and I think knowing what I am and what I can do might be helpful. If you want, I can tell you where I think I come from, too.”

I look at Chapman, who has also described hirself as an artist. Presumably, Chapman was using the term obliquely, to avoid giving away what sie really was, sticking to the letter of a vow of secrecy sie had made. At one point, sie had told us to pretend that sie was “a Gandalf”, so I’ve been thinking of hir as a wizard, as a species or type of being. But Ptarmigan had just used that word with a special emphasis that made it sound like the correct term. Like it really did mean something more than just making art.

Chapman relaxes with what looks like, to my eye, resignation, and slumps back in hir seat. Rhoda looks over at hir and touches hir arm. Chapman looks at her, and Rhoda gives a small smile.

Chapman shakes hir head.

“In any case,” Ptarmigan says. “You should also know that Artists don’t walk only amongst humans. That’s important. Can I join you?”

There’s very little room at this table, and I’m not sure any of us have become comfortable enough with her to agree to it. But, then I wonder if she’s asking about the table specifically.

I look at each of the others in question, and get a mix of shrugs and shaken heads.

Then, instead of saying anything, I look directly at the nearest stool at the bar near our table. 

There’s a dividing wall between the lobby and the dining room, with a bar on either side of it, and a glassless window frame in it so you can see through it clearly, and people on either side of it can talk. Our table is at the end of the wall, in the large doorway between the two spaces.

Then I look back at Ptarmigan.

What I get from her looks like a quarter of a smile, almost. Then she gets up and makes her wave over to the stool, carrying her tea with her, and settles on it, leaning back a little so as not to get in anyone’s personal space. Her elbow is on the bar. Her tea is resting on the surface in front of that hand.

I do find myself wondering invasively if she’s intersex, or if she’s trans and on either estradiol  or testosterone. And I remind myself that it’s really none of my business. In any case, she’s extremely gender non-conforming by white colonialist standards. She even has a bit of stubble.

There’s something about her gruff but relaxed manner and her presentation that puts me more at ease than I want to be, considering her choice of conversation. And I would guess that everyone else is feeling similar.

The rest of the customers of the cafe turn back to their own business, but I feel like they’re still paying some attention.

Jill and Cerce are watching from behind the counter with wide, dear-like eyes, both. Another customer is leaning on the counter, also watching. But then they turn and say something about their order.

I’m very pointedly not going to say “yes” or “okay” or anything like that until another question is asked. So I knuckle my tablet to utter something else, “Talk.”

Ptarmigan chuckles and glances at Chapman, then says in a lower voice, “There’s a real problem in this town, in the world, really, and it goes further back than anyone wants to admit. I want to admit it. So I’m going to tell you exactly what I am and where I came from, OK?”

Chapman looks at her and says, “I thought you’d already done that. Just now.”

“Yes. I’m Ptarmigan, and I’m an Artist,” she says. “I know the Johnny Cash look comes off as more of a crow or raven, but that’s sort of the point. I am hiding just a little. It doesn’t matter. There’s more.”

“You do keep beating around that bush, though,” Rhoda supplies, eyeing Chapman as she says it.

“I do,” Ptarmigan says. “I guess I’m working up the courage.”

I huff.

“Would you like some coffee?” Kim asks. “Maybe it will help.”

“Thank you, no,” Ptarmigan replies. “I quite like the tea. But no. Listen. Artists have been on this planet longer than humanity. Possibly longer than life itself. Though I’m not really sure how that would work. We might look like one kind of animal or another, here and there, including humans, but we’re not. Not anymore than dragons are. But the important thing here is that humanity wouldn’t exist without us Artists, and neither would dragons. That’s key. Remember it.”

“Okay,” I say.

Chapman pinches the bridge of hir nose and squints hir eyes shut. I don’t know what that means and I want to ask.

But Ptarmigan continues, “Also key is that we’re not all good people. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m good or even a person, but that’s beside the point here. Good or bad are constructs anyway. But there are Artists out there that are huge assholes. They have goals and schemes going on that exploit people, or all of humanity itself, and a lot of what we’re seeing today is a result of that. And that’s what you’re fighting with Daniel Säure. I have my own reasons, but I’d like to help you fight him.”

I’m trying to think of all the things that Ptarmigan isn’t saying, and to pick one or two to ask directly about.

Kimberly goes right for the throat before me, “How old are you?” She makes it sound like an insult. But she jerks her head into a quick little tilt to indicate she wants an answer.

“Weird question,” Ptarmigan answers. She takes a sip of her tea and seems to consider how to answer it, then says, “Forty-nine, I think. This time around.”

Chapman shifts in hir seat.

“Listen,” Rhoda says, thumping her cane and squaring her shoulders to assert her presence. “Ptarmigan, I don’t know what you are, but –”

“I’m an Artist,” she says.

“What is that?” Rhoda snaps back.

“An agent that creates Art,” Ptarmigan replies, like it’s obvious.

“Fine,” Rhoda says. “There are Rules we all must follow. Rules of consideration, hospitality, greetings, rules of business, to make sure we can build trust. And you are not observing any of them. By all rights and wisdom, we should all stand up and walk away from you. What do you want from us?”

I huff again. I wanted to ask if Ptarmigan was saying that Säure is an Artist too. I want clarity on that. So much of what Ptarmigan has been saying is implication, I feel like I can’t find any direct statement in it. And that point about Säure seems like the most important one. But the conversation seems to be moving away from it.

“I want to make a collaborative piece,” Ptarmigan says.

“Piece of what?” Rhoda asks.

“Art,” Ptarmigan and Chapman say at the same time.

Ptarmigan looks at Chapman.

Chapman’s arms are crossed and sie lifts her scowl up from facing the floor to aim it at the other Artist. Sie says, “Being so open about what you are is putting us all at such risk.”

“Oh, come on,” Ptarmigan says. “I know you made that vow a while back, but you know it’s time now. Ever since the likes of Meg have awakened, it’s been time to take decisive action.”

“I was hoping to be more subtle about it.”

Ptarmigan laughs so loudly, barking and braying, and then sobers up and says, “From where I’m sitting, it sure doesn’t look like it.” Then she looks very stern and says, “Break your vow for serious, this time. Put your back into it.”