A TALE OF TWO SYDNEYS

Syd Lyman, my consulting partner, has been wearing dresses to work for three weeks now, and I'm concerned some about what this is going to do for business. At the moment, though, racing through Philadelphia on the way to our ten o'clock appointment, I'm more concerned about Syd's driving.
"Can you accept this?" Syd asks, nearly taking out a cement median along Market Street. "Will this be too large an obstacle?"
"Watch the road."
He swerves, forcing a yellow cab behind us to brake and skid on the wet asphalt. Then he speeds up.
"I can drive," he says. "That's not the question."
"Then drive," I answer. "We're late."
Syd runs a red light, leaning on the horn to discourage a gaggle of pedestrians straining to cross. "The question is, J.D., can you accept me? Can you accept the softer, more female side of Syd Lyman?"
"Right there," I shout. "That Toyota is pulling out. Park there."
Syd has small ears, small blue eyes, but a large, bony nose. As a man, he struck me as decidedly too thin. His shirt collars, for instance, were always too wide for his neck. He looked like a chicken, sometimes; a chicken in a big suit. As a woman, however, he is slender, bordering on elegant. Though still with that large, bony nose.
Today, he wears a shoulder-length, reddish-blonde wig, and a hunter green dress with small white flecks, belted, conservative. The dress is snug around his shoulders, but falls nicely along his straight hips. His complexion is clearer than I remember, perhaps because of the hormones he's been taking. Or maybe it's the makeup.
Syd parks, and I jump from our Mazda wagon. "Hurry."
"How do I look?" he asks, smoothing his pantyhose. "Am I presentable?"
"You look fine." I grab a box of overhead slides off the back seat and try to remember our client's name. It is either Dave or Dan. "You look just wonderful. Come on."

Today, Syd and I are pushing the "You Perspective" to middle managers at a major pharmaceutical firm. We reach the office at 10:10, and the client is already pacing the lobby. He looks ready to pounce on something and eat it.
Then he sees me, smiles and comes toward us to shake hands. "J.D.," he says. "Trouble parking?"
"Sorry. Traffic."
"Horrible," he says. "Half of the globe torn up for construction." The client, Dan or Dave, turns and smiles oddly at Syd.
"This is my partner," I say quickly. Then I stop. It's our first time out with Syd in his new get-up. We haven't discussed what his name will be.
"Sydney Lyman," Syd says, flashing his big white teeth. "But please call me Syd. Everyone does."
"Welcome," the client answers. "I'm Dave."
Syd smiles again, cocks his head a little to the left. "Hello, Dave." His voice sounds huskier than when he wasn't pretending to be female. He's brilliant.
"Let's go," Dave insists. "Everyone's waiting." He turns, rushing us to Conference Room A.
I watch Syd maneuver in heels down the dim hall, and for the first time I realize he doesn't look at all bad. If you like slender women. If you like wide shoulders.
If you don't know Syd.

The last time we gave this presentation, I did all the talking and Syd just ran the overhead projector; but today, fifteen minutes into my talk, Syd interrupts me. The middle managers, all male, smile good-naturedly. Our talk is sort of like a school assembly for them. They are just happy to get away from their desks.
"Look at this letter," Syd barks, his voice nasal and deep, using his pen to highlight an area on the overhead. "Notice how the writer keeps saying 'We need you to do this by Thursday ... we need you to do that by tomorrow.' Wrong, wrong, wrong."
I study the managers' faces. They seem to be taking Syd in stride, not suspecting. It seems obvious to me, but I guess that's because Syd used to be my racquetball opponent. I've seen him in the locker room, tweezers in one hand, a mirror in the other, yanking ingrown hairs from his neck. Aren't they at least curious why his voice sounds like Howard Cosell?

The lights come on, we shakes some hands, and Dave walks us back to the lobby. "Just loved it," he says. "A first-rate job."
"Thank you," I say.
Syd walks beside us quietly, smoothing his dress.
"We'll have you back, of course."
"Thank you," I repeat. "That's great."
"I'd like also to bring Syd in by herself."
"Really?" I ask.
"Really," he says, smiling at Syd. "I'd like some of our females executives to meet her. She's professional, confident, up front. A good role model."
"No problem," I say. "Syd's available."
Syd nods. I can't tell what he is thinking.
"The You Perspective," Dave says. "We like that."

Back in the Mazda, after I rip a ticket off the windshield because Syd forgot to load the meter, I tell him it won't work.
"Too weird," I say. "Too strange."
"But you told Dave 'yes'."
I stare at Syd's knees wrapped in fleshtone hose, then at his plucked eyebrows. "I've changed my mind, Syd. No way. I can't take it."
"It's good for business," he tells me, his voice firm and deep. "You saw it working."
"I don't know."
"It's what they want, J.D."
"I can't let them look at you like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like a bimbo."
Syd is quiet a second. He starts the car but leaves it in neutral. "Really?" he asks eventually. "Do you think they liked me?"
"Christ, Syd. Are you out of your mind? We don't need this."
"I do."
"It's too weird, Syd."
"I'm having an operation. I need the money."
"Oh God," I say.
"It takes a little getting used to, that's all." He throws his wig into the back seat, slams the Mazda into gear and pulls out into traffic.
I reach for my seatbelt. "It takes a lot of getting used to, Syd."
"You don't have to get used to anything," he says. "You just have to keep acting like you always did." He speeds up, running through all four gears, then downshifts so fast I have to grab the dash. "And it's not just the operation. Pam and I are getting married."
Pam is Syd's girlfriend, a little blonde with a flat nose. I met her maybe four times, months ago. "Pam, Pam," I shout. "My God!"
"She prefers women," Syd says, whipping across three lanes of traffic. "We discovered that in therapy." He cuts off a Septa bus trying to enter our lane. "It's really quite a coincidence. We're getting married next month."
"No," I protest. "That doesn't make sense."
"You have no choice," he says, speeding up a ramp onto the Schuylkill Expressway, merging without a glance. "You told Dave I would be there."
"Syd, what the hell is going on?"
"She's gay, J.D. It's simple. I become a woman, she stays gay, we stay the way we were. What could be more simple?"
"Oh, Syd, Syd," I cry. "God, Syd. You're going too fast."
He accelerates toward the Whitman Bridge. "It's the Expressway, J.D. Everyone goes fast on the Expressway."