Pearl of the Orient.....: on a Stick

By Len Greyson

Pearl of the Orient…on a Stick is a story about Jon Ho and his friend, Myra Kaye Morgan. Jon, a first-generation Japanese American man who dresses and lives as a female most of the time, is pretty, smart, and funny. Myra makes him laugh, comforts him when his on-again/off-again relationship with a straight man isn’t serving him well, and protects him from outside harm. Jon asks Myra all the right questions about her relationship choices and fulfills needs within Myra she didn’t know existed.

Their relationship is at the heart of Len Greyson’s exploration of metaphysics and spirituality—through their friendship readers get a gentle dose of spiritual growth, humor, and an occasional glimpse of risqué fun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jun 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781977270856

Len Greyson

Len Greyson, a former schoolteacher, lives in a rural lakeside community. When not writing, he spends his spare time reading, spending too much time on the Internet, and seeking nirvana or a good laugh (nirvana’s shorter twin).

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Pearl of the Orient...

On a Stick

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2022 Len Greyson

v4.0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2022902582

Cover Photo © 2022 www.gettyimages.com . All rights reserved - used with permission.

Outskirts Press and the OP logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

We are what we pretend to be.

-Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.-

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One: A Dark and Stormy Night

Chapter Two: Threshold of a…Dream?

Chapter Three: Zen Zang Zoom

Chapter Four: Slippin’ an’ a Slidin’

Chapter Five: A False Front

Chapter Six: Alleyways and Bi-ways

Chapter Seven: Fool Me Once…

Chapter Eight: But You Said…

Chapter Nine: Your Place or Mine

Chapter Ten: Fool Me Twice…

Chapter Eleven: In and Out

Chapter Twelve: Tangled Web(s)

Chapter Thirteen: Tangled Emotion(s)

Chapter Fourteen: Counting the Days

Chapter Fifteen: Bug Up Whose Ass?

Chapter Sixteen: What the Heck.

Chapter Seventeen: Not a Word

Chapter Eighteen: Mindquake

Chapter Nineteen: …Full Circle

PART I

There’s nothing wrong with you that reincarnation won’t cure.

-Jack E. Leonard-

CHAPTER ONE

A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

It was a terrible night outside, stormy and raining, and it matched the mood in Jon’s apartment. He was alone and crying, a scene being repeated more and more these days because of his failed attempts at finding stable friendships. He would meet promising prospects, but either they were non-stop party animals, which he was not, or they abandoned him after finding out he was a man.

Jon Ho was a petite, attractive Japanese man who dressed and lived as a woman most of the time. He had friends where he grew up in San Francisco but rarely saw them anymore. Even when he was living there they didn’t get together the way they had in school. Life has a way of imposing itself on the company one keeps.

When he first arrived in Atlanta, he was cautious about revealing his secret because he wasn’t sure of the acceptance levels. As he learned, it was hit or miss, and both the rejections and warm inclusiveness came from people and directions he would not have predicted.

Jon cried it all out once again, dried his eyes, and thought, Maybe tomorrow will be different… If not, I’ll stick another pin in the voodoo doll and hope for the best. He chuckled and said out loud, Yeah, right.

Billy Thomson was playing the piano when the doorbell rang. He looked through the peephole to see a man in uniform with a no-nonsense expression.

As Billy opened the door the deputy said, Good morning, sir. Is this the home of William E. Thomson?

I’m William Thomson.

The deputy handed him a folded packet of paperwork. Sir, this is a copy of a complaint that has been filed against you in the Superior Court of Fulton County.

What’s this about?

I do not know, sir. I’m not authorized to read the complaints.

Do I need to sign anything?

No, sir. Good day.

Billy closed the door and read the complaint while standing in the foyer. He couldn’t believe it.

He was being sued for non-payment of a substantial bill from a place called House of Tokyo. The amount claimed in the lawsuit was $23,624.43. Attached to the complaint was Exhibit A, the itemized bill.

He had never heard of the place, so he went to his computer and typed in the name. He found the website, wrote down the address, and grabbed his keys. He drove to the location before calling his attorney because it was all a mistake and he was sure he could straighten it out without further action.

Billy didn’t know what to expect. The bill contained a list of what appeared to be solid gold accessories for a pool or spa ($2,999.99), a Zen garden kit ($6,149.95), and an entry that simply said #2 Shrine: Deluxe Model ($14,474.49). As he pulled into the parking lot, he saw a plain, square brick building but nothing indicating any connection to Tokyo. He was greeted by a young American woman, about nineteen, with long, straight blonde hair and a wad of bubble gum held in her cheek. He could see the gum when she talked.

Yes sir, may I help you?

Hi. My name is William Thomson, and I’d like to speak to the owner or manager please.

Just a sec. She turned her head toward the back and yelled, Yo, J-Ho. You got customuh. She turned back to Billy and smiled. We kid around a lot.

After a few minutes of waiting and flipping through some catalogs on the counter, Billy finally met J-Ho. He wore a distinctly female haircut, feminine leather sandals, and his toenails and fingernails were painted red. His off-white caravan pants were made of expensive cotton, his shirt was white silk, and although he wouldn’t swear to it, Billy thought he was looking at a man wearing eye shadow and lip gloss. The part he wasn’t absolutely sure of was that J-Ho was a man. As he watched the short, slender wisp approach, Billy was thinking the guy was actually very pretty, and just as suddenly Billy realized he was giving himself the creeps for having the thought. But he couldn’t help staring at the unnerving beauty of this creature.

Hi. I’m Jon Ho. He turned his head toward the girl and said, My friends call me Jon. Then he looked back at Billy. How may I help you. He extended a limp hand. Billy gave it a quick shake and told him his name.

I’m William Thomson and I’ve been served with a complaint saying I owe approximately $23,000 for some items I never ordered and do not have. He handed Jon Exhibit A.

Oh, yes. I remember this one. An exquisite specimen, but, unfortunately, he had a tart on his arm. If they’re touchy feely with fish when they come in, I don’t do any exploring, if you know what I mean. I just assume they’re breeders and leave it at that.

Billy asked, Can you describe them for me please? If I recognize either from the description, we may be able to deal with this matter rather quickly.

Well, like I said, he was delicious. Tall. About your height. Not as handsome, though.

Billy’s face turned red. He wasn’t used to guys flirting with him.

Jon noticed, smiled a little, and continued, He had brown hair, kind of long, but not quite to his shoulders, a cute little dimple in his chin, and smelled heavenly. Very clean and well dressed. She was tall, short, I can’t remember. She had, I don’t know, blondish, blackish hair, and a rather sizable chest. I do remember that very well. I kept thinking she might tip over any second. Other than that, she’s kind of a blur. Although, she did have a unique name. Give me a sec. Hmm. Moonbeam, streetlight…I don’t know, something shiny.

Star maybe?

That’s it. I remember thinking, ‘Star, my patootie. Black hole.’

If you don’t mind my asking, what kind of business is this?

Import/export. We export American products to Japan, and we import Japanese products to sell here.

What kind of products?

Anything produced in Japan. If it’s made in Japan and you want it, we can get it for you. We provide the same service for customers in Japan who want American products.

Who does the selling?

I do mostly, but if you can find what you’re looking for in any of the catalogs, Ms. Thing over there can help you if I’m not around.

~

Myra sat down to rest. As she looked around at all the boxes, she felt a twinge of regret followed by a long, satisfying wave of relief. The regret was for moving out of an apartment she thought of as home. The relief came from the fact she was leaving her boyfriend of two years. The split had started as a rather nasty bit of insults, but they came to a mutual agreement. When Mark first told her to leave, he expressed it in an abrupt statement between bites of a Clark Bar.

You’re a ball-busting cunt and I want you gone.

He was prompted to say it because two days earlier Myra said, If you’d let go of the apron strings, your dick might actually grow big enough to fulfill some of your promises.

It had taken him the entire two days to shake it off and work up the courage to tell her to go.

She smiled at him when he said it because she knew he’d probably been planning how to say it in a way to make himself seem cool and nonchalant.

Bravo. You did it in half the time I thought it would take you. Keep it up and you may actually make a timely remark someday. And I’m not a ball buster. If I were, you’d have four. As it is, you barely have two.

He stood silent. Repartee was not his strong suit.

She smiled again as she let him off the hook. You can call me when you think of something clever. But look, we both knew this was coming, so let’s not fight anymore. I don’t want us to hate each other. I just want to go.

He let out a sigh. I don’t hate you. I’m sorry. Being mad isn’t something I want, and I’m not good at being mean. I do want you to leave, but there’s no deadline. I’ll stay at my parents’ house until you get moved out.

She patted his arm as she headed for the closet to get her suitcases and said, Thank you, but it won’t be necessary. I’ve arranged to stay with Claire while I look for a place. I’ll get the rest of my things later.

Myra noticed he still looked at her like he wanted to jump her bones, and as she opened the door to step out into the afternoon sun, she even thought of asking him if he wanted to roll around one last time.

Claire, Myra’s best friend since middle school, opened the door for her, and asked, So, did you kick his ass or did you let him slide?

I let him slide. He’s such a wuss I was afraid I’d make him cry.

Mark was taller than she was, but Myra could probably torture him pretty well if she wanted. Her 5’6" frame was sturdy and she was fast. She had played two years of varsity softball in high school and four years in college. Myra set the suitcases down and flopped into the big cushy chair Claire got from her grandmother. It was large enough for two people to snuggle and smooch in, and the soft material made it feel like Myra’s favorite pair of flannel pajamas.

As Claire sat down on the sofa across from Myra, she said, "I hope it isn’t too soon to say anything, but why you ever moved in with the guy is beyond me. I mean, he’s nice and all, but only in a Winnie the Pooh, doormat kind of way. I was used to seeing you with silent, athletic types."

Myra pulled a hairband out of the pocket of her jeans and began smoothing the waves of her dark brown hair into a ponytail. It’s not too soon. You can go over and kick his ass yourself if you’d like… But, even though it didn’t work out with Mark, you’re not going to see me with strong and silent anymore. It’s too dull. I don’t like having to do all the talking, and I can’t stand the lack of response when I’m angry or need to discuss something. I’m going to find someone who falls somewhere in the middle. Somebody who likes sports but who can talk about other stuff…a lot of other stuff. And who’s not a broken record when it comes to talking me out of my panties.

Claire said, I don’t think you’re going to find it in the places we’ve been looking. Drunken kickball and spinning class aren’t going to get you there.

Tell me about it. But I won’t be looking for a while. I need a rest.

You can hold the light while I search.

~

Billy dialed the number of his attorney, Jim Bob Jacobson. Jim Bob was the only Atlanta attorney he ever met who talked and dressed like a cowboy—the whole nine yards: cowboy boots, hats, bolo ties, and corduroy blazers with leather trim and patches on the elbows. His real name, of course, was James Robert Jacobson, but somewhere along the way he spent three weeks at a dude ranch in New Mexico and when he returned he dressed and drawled like a cowboy. He didn’t explain and nobody asked. His colleagues at Epstein, Fenner & Jacobson began calling him Jim Bob.

How the hell are ya, Billy. I ain’t heard from you since the little incident with the college girl, what’s her name, Star somethin’ or other?

I’m fine, Jim Bob, and it’s interesting you should mention her. She’s back. I’d just as soon forget she ever lived, but nothing is ever easy is it, Jim Bob?

Well, hell, Billy, there ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. You rode the wild bronc, and you got throwed. They’s a lot worse things that coulda happened to you. Besides endin’ up a little lighter in the wallet, you coulda walked away with a case of the clap or herpes for cryin’ out loud. Or worse, you coulda married her.

Billy shivered at the thought. Okay, okay… The reason I’m calling is I’ve been served with a lawsuit. I’m being accused of making purchases of about $23,000, and I’d never even heard of the place before today. I drove over there and it’s an import/export business. The manager only remembered the big chest, but he heard the man she was with say her name.

Sounds like it might be a case of identity theft, and like the manager was a little careless.

I’m guessing he was careless because he got a case of the hots for the man Star was with.

Jim Bob said, "You need to cancel all your credit cards and have new ones issued, and call the banks where you have accounts and have new account numbers issued. I’ll send a letter to the credit agencies and let them know there’s strange activity. Not that anybody with any sense is going to be turning away your business, but it never hurts to exercise extreme caution in situations like this.

Why don’t you bring me the complaint and I’ll file an answer for you. Then we’ll crush the little sons of bitches if they don’t straighten up and fly right. Did the manager get an address?

Billy noticed Jim Bob turned off the twang while issuing the instructions, then finished with a good ol’ boy flourish.

He did, and you really need to meet this guy. Kabuki Theater gone Hollywood Boulevard, but he seems like a decent fellow and said he’d work with us. The address is for a duplex apartment near Piedmont Park. I went over there, but the landlord said the people I described left a couple of months ago.

Well, if they’re still around, we’ll find ‘em. In the meantime, we need to file an answer to the lawsuit. The sooner the better. You only have thirty days.

I can bring it tomorrow if you’re available.

See you at 11:00.

~

Freddy Finley was in the sitting room reading the morning paper when Gloria breezed through on her way to the dining room for breakfast.

Good morning, Freddy. Are you finding anything of interest?

The governor is getting some attention for holding a prayer vigil in an effort to make it rain more.

A public event?

I’m afraid so.

Why don’t we make of a copy of Matthew six and mail it over with the relevant sections highlighted?

Freddy laughed. We’ll probably need to attach a campaign contribution to get him to read it.

Gloria gave a dismissive wave of her hand. Are you coming to breakfast?

Right behind you.

Freddy and Gloria resided in a stately older mansion in Midtown Atlanta with nine other residents. There were usually ten, but recently one of their party left for greener pastures. He bought the farm.

All of the residents were there by psychic invitation of the owner, one William E. Billy Thomson of the rich-as-all-get-out Thomsons. All of the residents paid rent, but the amount paid by each was kept secret, and varied widely.

Billy ambled into the breakfast room and mumbled, Good morning. I take it everyone else is either hungover or sleeping in.

Freddy added, Or both.

Gloria didn’t drink any alcohol at the previous night’s gathering. I feel terrific. After we finished our contact meditation, I read a while and then slept like a baby. I take it the others were so pleased with the energy they decided to celebrate. It’s too bad we’re still getting resistance. She has such a nice energy, I hope it won’t be long before we meet her.

Billy poured himself a cup of coffee and said, If she’s never meditated or given any thought to telepathy, it may take her a while to catch on and follow the yellow brick road.

Freddy said, "I’ve been here almost four years now, and we’ve never failed to find the right person. I think the fact Bowden was a fairy, God rest his soul, will make the inner strength of the