The Symphony Of Life

By Keith Kelly

In the heart of West Memphis, Arkansas, Kaley's life seems like an endless quest for inner peace. Torn between her childhood dreams of becoming a musician or writer, she finds herself perpetually stuck in a grocery store-bagel shop hybrid she jokingly refers to as her "career of doom." As she struggles to break free from this cycle, an eclectic and extraordinary group of friends enter her life, each on their own path of peculiar self-discovery.

Amidst the shelves of her Shop Side store, Kaley encounters the astonishing journey of her ex-husband, Roscoe, who yearns to transition into Rozie Redd Skye. Meanwhile, a young man named David embarks on a quest to find his biological father. All the while, Kaley's longtime customer, Shady Ray, weaves enthralling tales, and soon separating fact from fiction becomes a challenging task.

In Keith Kelly's 'The Symphony of Life', unlikely friendships blossom and secrets unravel within the walls of Shop Side, offering a glimpse into the magic and complexity of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023

Book preview

ONE

KALEY

KALEY

The second of July, 1984 is a day I’ll never forget. I stare at the sun melting into the horizon. The evening air smells ripe with a sultry thickness southerners are accustomed to, like tasting sweet iced tea and annual visits to the cemetery.

Mother drives me home from the airport.

I settle back against the seat, aware of its comfort, and close my eyes, intent on shutting out the drudge of the last four days. I want nothing more than to think about getting out of my sweat-drenched clothes, which feel horrible on my skin, and washing off a long day of airports and flight changes.

Mother convinced me that I’d needed to go with her to Atlanta for a small business seminar called Mind Your Own Business. The whole experience has been ridiculous and trite as the title.

Truth is, I’ve resented our family business for as long as I can remember. I never intended to be stuck between the aisles of groceries and shelves of bagels and donuts. My grandparents willed the store to my parents, and the business became the favored child.

Like a dutiful child, I spent every day after school, every weekend, and every summer day exhausted and looking after the shop. Spending a week of my two-week annual vacation bored as hell at a seminar is the farthest thing I’ve wanted to do. The only bright spot over the course of these four days has been the fact that the presenter became ill and canceled the last two days of the seminar.

If I’d known my life would be full of depression several hours later, I would have stayed, found a cheap place to rent, and buried my head under the covers.

I open my eyes.

We round the corner and come to a stop in front of the house.

I focus on the lights shining through the living room window. Dammit, Roscoe, you chicken!

I clumsily step out of the car, bid Mother goodbye, and walk up the sidewalk, deciding not to chastise Roscoe for keeping the lights on. He’s afraid of the dark. We’ve had the why do you keep every light on in the house? conversation so many times throughout our six-year marriage.

No lights shine from the bedroom. I surmise that Roscoe is likely asleep, which is perfect. Chitchat isn’t what I want right now.

Walking into the house, my cold fingers find the switch. I flick off the lights, walking down the long hallway leading to our bedroom. I maneuver my way through the darkness, my nails scratching along the wall and making a hideous sound with every step I take. Minutes later, I walk into the room and kick off my shoes, turning on the small desk lamp on the dresser. I glance at the outline of a body lying across the bed. The meager light makes it difficult to see, however.

My eyes acclimate. I realize it isn’t Roscoe.

A skinny, smooth body lies on its stomach. The back straps of a sequined bra gleam.

Despite the fact that I’m tired, I’m ready for a good, old southern confrontation. Resentments well within me daily toward my husband. They rise to the surface. I struggle to catch my breath.

We’d stopped being intimate a long time ago. It isn’t a big deal, since sex has never been comfortable between us. I never had the interest or the energy to figure out why. Throughout the years, I’ve often thought it’s because he isn’t attracted to me. After all, I’m not the best-looking woman in the world.

Mind you, I’m not ugly. Petite, never weighing over a hundred and fifteen pounds, standing at five-feet-two inches tall, the only part of my appearance I like is my brown hair.

People often compliment me because of my eyes. One of my friends says they’re the deepest brown she’s ever seen. I don’t agree.

The wardrobe I keep is far from attractive. I like wearing baggy, faded blue jeans and a T-shirt with a rock band logo on the front.

Hell, I guess I understand why Roscoe might not be attracted to me. I wouldn’t be, if I were him. The two of us agree that if we decide to have sex with someone else, we’ll have the decency and respect to let the other know.

Fuck him!

I fling the bathroom door open and flip on the lights, expecting Roscoe to be hiding behind it like a trapped animal. To my surprise, he isn’t there. I turn around, eyeing the body that is now lying on the floor.

The person raises their ass in the air and gropes around under the bed.

Get your dirty ass out of my bedroom.

My voice sounds unfamiliar and echoes off the walls.

Kaley, it’s me.

What?

It’s me, Roscoe.

I assess the trembling and frail person dressed in a red-sequined bra and satin thong. Speechless and mortified, I’m frozen in place like a statue.

What in the hell, Roscoe? Are you a cross-dresser?

I drop to the floor, burying my face in my hands. Tears seep through my fingers like water.

No, he says, his voice soft.

Deflated and sad, I search his eyes. Pain lurks in their depths.

Roscoe sits cross-legged in front of me. I know this situation is confusing. Hell, it’s confusing to me, too. I’m a woman. Well, not a woman, but yes, a woman.

What in the hell are you saying? I don’t think you know what you are. I sure as hell don’t.

Just listen. Okay?

Listen, really? My fucking weird husband, who is dressed like a woman, wants me to hear him out?

My mind spins with every word that spills from my husband’s lips. After an hour of conversation splattered with insults and accusations, I want nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep.

To my surprise, I sleep well during the night. Relief fills me. I now understand why I’ve had no sexual interest in my husband, why he’s lost twenty pounds, grown his hair out, and shaved his entire body.

The days progress. Roscoe fills me in on the fact that he always thought he had a gender identity issue. He’s grown weary of the masquerade he’s been playing his whole life. A year ago, he went to a therapist and began his transformation, while planning for sexual reassignment.

Three months after that fateful night, I file for a divorce.

Roscoe moves to New Orleans. He continues his therapy, dressing like a woman and undergoing various feminization procedures. My ex-husband has also enrolled in classes to teach him how to be feminine.

One evening, he decides to have one last night of sex as a man with a woman name Patty. Soon after, he begins the final procedure of his journey—vaginoplasty.

Roscoe enjoys the attention that comes with being the lead dancer in a transgendered strip club. It’s led to his becoming locally famous.

I, on the other hand, return to my incarceration as the pitiful owner of a grocery store and donut shop.

Three years after our divorce, I drive down to see Roscoe. Anxiety causes my entire body to shake. I’m hoping that seeing him transformed into Rozie will make me feel better. Truth be told, I’m not quite sure.

I locate the club where my ex dances. Pulling into the parking lot, I secure a parking space and slide out of the driver’s seat. Once inside, I approach the bar.

With a strong drink in hand, I settle into a torn chair next to the stage. The cold vinyl presses against my legs. The chair’s legs are unbalanced.

The houselights dim. Rozie emerges from behind a gold velvet curtain. She slithers across the stage in her eight-inch stilettos. The music bellows a chest-thumping bass line.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

She wraps her long fingers around the shiny silver pole. The muscles in her forearms glisten in the spotlight despite the thick smoke. Her blonde hair whips around her head.

The crowd moans.

She ends up on the edge of the stage close to where I’m sitting. Rozie drops to her hands and knees, begging to be mounted. The music blares. She traces her lips with an index finger and caresses her body from head to toe.

My ex-husband is a woman, and she’s good at it. She’s become the toast of New Orleans.

Then and there, I hate her. I detest the sexy, lovely creature moving across the stage in front of me. She’s stolen my husband, and has been the source of so much chaos in my life. I want to tear her apart, limb from limb. To rip off her breasts, smack her pumped-up lips, and beat aside every remnant that now makes her the same gender I am.

Peace soon courses through every inch of my body. To my surprise, I want to see him again. To hear him say, Kaley, I love you. You are my very best friend. I want Roscoe back.

The dance climbs to a crescendo. Rozie looks out onto the crowd.

Our eyes meet.

I stand, making my way toward the club’s exit.

Rozie jumps off the stage, stumbling toward me. Kaley, come back. Please, Kaley!

Once free of the club’s walls, I run for several blocks, bumping into every drunkard splattered across the French Quarter until I can run no more. My chest burns. I pant, intent on catching my breath.

Two days later, I return home, opening the store and striding inside with my tail tucked between my legs. A grey hoodie covers my head.

Safe and protected, I intend to keep myself hidden from the world outside. The mountain of groceries and donuts soon become my life.

TWO

ROSCOE

ROSCOE

I’d been fucked from the beginning. Mother is a nut-job, and my brother, a pedophile. I have the misfortune of completing this lovely little triad.

My name is Roscoe Rydell, born in 1953. We live out in the boonies in West Memphis, Arkansas.

To my knowledge, no one ever realized Mother had been pregnant. She’d refused to get medical care and convinced herself that, on occasion, hospitals stole newborn babies who proved to be of superior intelligence. She believed, beyond a doubt, that any offspring she produced would fit the bill.

I’d been born at home under the watchful eye of my brother and the American flag, which hung from the bedroom’s ceiling. Mother had been adamant I’d be female. She already had a ten-year-old son when I’d come along. She’d wanted to complete our little family with something soft and frilly.

My father hadn’t been in the picture. I’d learned early on not to mention the word, father.

The real problems began when the local school district found out I existed. Mother had kept me hidden for the first six years of my life. Whenever she ventured out for food and supplies, she left me at home with my brother.

I’m not sure if he remembered I was male when he’d first demanded that I take off all of my clothes. In my head, I’d known he meant business, so I’d done as he’d asked.

Gender hadn’t mattered to him anyway. Giving my brother head only entailed that I have a mouth.

He’d slapped me hard across the face once when I refused.

I’m gonna tell Mama, I’d cried, blurting out the only thing I thought might save me.

No, you won’t, ‘cause if you do, I’ll kill you and Mama, and then burn down the house. Roslyn, you’re a freak anyway, and so is Mama. No one will believe you, faggot.

What he’d said was true. Mama was a freak, and so was I. At that point, he’d seemed like the normal one. He went to school and had a girlfriend, while I’d been the one to run around the house with ruffles and a baby doll in tow.

By age six, I’d realized something was horribly wrong with me. Dressing in my white starched petticoat and gingham skirt made me so happy. Most of all, I’d loved that it pleased Mother.

She’d told me often what a lovely little girl I would grow up to be. When she’d gotten the phone call that I would have to begin first grade in September of 1959, it had made her furious.

This is ridiculous. Roslyn isn’t ready to start school. I’ll fight this all the way to the Supreme Court.

Mother had been so full of shit. She seldom went out of the house. When she did, anxiety swept through her entire body. On more than one occasion, she’d run out of public places screaming, Get away from me. Get away!

Cards had been laid down on the table. I’d start school as the cute little first-grader, Roslyn.

Teachers and students take to me. I revel in the attention and adulation that comes my way. The problem is a weighty issue that presents itself like a protruding abscess every time I sneak into the bathroom. It’s becoming difficult to hide, and my teacher admonishes me for not using the bathroom during recess.

I often tell her, I’m sorry, Miss Jones. I’ll remember the next time.

She chalks it up to my being a first-grader. One day, however, she refuses to let me go during class.

Holding it for as long as possible, I soon run out of the classroom and head for the bathroom, attempting to wash out my panties once done.

Minutes later, my teacher walks into the bathroom.

Oh, Roslyn. I’m so sorry, honey. Here let me help you.

Startled, I shake my head, barely able to contain my tears. No, Miss Jones. That’s okay.

She approaches and pats me on the back.

Sadness and confusion burst out of me. I fall to the floor and sob.

Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.

Miss Jones wraps her arms around me and holds me close.

I weep. I’ve never felt so warm and loved. Leaning into her softness, I wish I could remain like this forever.

She lifts my face and asks, Roslyn, is everything okay at home?

Well-rehearsed and conditioned from years of pretending, I say, Everything is okay. Unbridled and unexpected, a second response bursts from my lips. No, nothing is okay. I’m a boy. A little boy!