Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice

by April Sinclair

  “No, I’m awake. Who is this?”

  “Sterling.”

  “Sterling?”

  “Sterling Grant from KPIX, remember?”

  “Yes, of course. My mind has just been somewhere else.”

  “I hope it wasn’t too late to call. I thought you might still be up, since it’s Friday night.”

  “I’m still up, don’t worry.”

  “Stevie, I called to tell you about the Minorities in Media luncheon at Fort Mason tomorrow. It’s a great networking opportunity.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry it’s such short notice, but I forgot to call you before I went away. I was down in L.A. visiting my sisters.”

  “Sterling, thanks a lot for thinking of me, I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. I said I’d look out for you. I hope that you’ll be able to make it.”

  “Actually, Sterling, I can’t make it. I’m going back to Chicago.”

  “Going back to Chicago for a visit already? Is your family OK?”

  “They’re fine. I’m going back to live.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Things just haven’t worked out for me here. It’s time for me to throw in the towel.”

  “Just because you haven’t found a job yet? You can’t get established overnight, you know.”

  “I just had a bad scene with my girlfriend. I can’t really talk. She could walk in at any moment. I don’t want to see her. I called the Haight-Ashbury Switchboard. They’re trying to find me a bed in a shelter. If they can’t, I might have to sleep in the Trans Bay Terminal tonight.”

  “Sleep in the Trans Bay Terminal! Over my gay body! Now, you listen to me. I have a car. I can be anywhere in this city in fifteen minutes. You are not going to any shelter tonight and you sure as hell are not sleeping in anybody’s terminal.”

  “Thank you, Sterling. But maybe you could just give me a ride to BART.”

  “Did you hear what I said? You are not going to anybody’s shelter or anybody’s terminal, period!”

  “Yes, sir.” I couldn’t help but feel taken care of. Sterling was, acting like the big brother I never had. And I felt safer now that he’d confirmed that he was gay.

  “You like San Francisco, am I right?”

  “Of course. San Francisco will always have a place in my heart.”

  “Well, there’s no reason for you to leave San Francisco just because your relationship has gotten funky.”

  “How about these reasons: For starters, I don’t have a job. I’m broke, I’m on food stamps and Medi-Cal.”

  “That’s exactly why you don’t need to go back to Chicago.”

  “Come again?”

  “You don’t need to go back to Chicago in defeat. It would be like you were a failure.”

  “It’s too late to salvage my ego. Besides, I can’t stay out here. You don’t understand. I have no money.”

  “You don’t understand. I knew the first time I saw your face that you didn’t belong in Chicago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is an openness in your eyes that Chicago can’t fill.”

  “Thanks for the poetry. I know that some people are content just to hang out. But I’ve been hung out to dry. It’s time for me to be realistic, not artistic.”

  “Stevie, excuse my language, but sometimes you have to fuck being realistic!”

  “Easy for you to say, you’ve got a job and a place to stay.”

  “You can find a job. And you’ve got a place to stay, too.”

  “I told you, I can’t stay with Traci anymore.”

  “You don’t have to stay with Traci. She’s not the only person in this town who can offer you a roof.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you can stay on my couch till you get on your feet. No strings attached. I’ll even empty out the living-room closet for you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Sterling, but I couldn’t—”

  “My couch is very comfortable. It’s not one of those uncomfortable sofa beds.”

  “I believe you, but I’ve learned to put more emphasis on inner comfort than outer comfort these days. There’s no such thing as no strings attached. There’s always strings.”

  “Wow, nobody can accuse you of not being cynical.”

  “There’s less chance of a misunderstanding that way.”

  “Well, somebody helped me get on my feet, once. And I believe that what goes around, comes around. A part of me would like to return the favor.”

  “A part of you?” I hated to sound suspicious, but I wanted him to make it plain.

  “Yeah, and my ego is involved a little bit, too. Maybe having just seen Rocky is a factor.”

  “Rocky?”

  “Yeah, this movie I previewed down in L.A. about a boxer who beats the odds. It was really inspiring. It’ll be out next year.”

  “Well, not everyone can be a Rocky.”

  “No, but I believe you can be. And I’ll always be able to take satisfaction in knowing that it was partly because of me. So, that’s one reason I’m offering to take you in. Let’s face it, Stevie, whatever people do, they ultimately do for themselves.”

  “You mean your motives aren’t entirely unselfish?”

  “Are you kidding? The fish ain’t been biting lately in the romantic department. So, hey, I could use a shoulder to cry on or a creative mind to dream up a new strategy.”

  “Well, I think I have a reasonably strong shoulder and a pretty active imagination. At least this time the cards would be on the table. And heaven knows, I don’t want to go back to cold winters and steamy summers.”

  “Come on, Stevie, where there’s a couch, there’s a way.”

  “Are you sure that you want to give up your couch? I mean, you really don’t know me from Adam.”

  “Yes, I do too, honey, ’cause if you were Adam, you wouldn’t be sleeping on my couch, you’d be up in the bed with me!”

  Sterling had taken the suitcase to the car while I was saying good-bye to Jawea. I’d already hugged the cat. It was almost midnight, and we still hadn’t heard from Traci.

  “Jawea, I’m glad I got to know you.”

  “I’m going to miss your energy.”

  “Tell Traci …” I felt a lump in my throat. “That I wish she had been honest with me. But I don’t regret being with her.” My eyes were suddenly clouded with tears. “Tell Traci that she was the bridge that got me across.”

  Jawea nodded. “I’ll try to remember all of that.”

  “Take care, Jawea.”

  “You take care too.” Jawea hugged me. “Remember, your energy will always be a part of this house.”

  Sterling reappeared on the stairs. “The car’s all packed.”

  “Don’t forget to stay behind your eyes,” Jawea shouted as I headed down the stairs.

  “‘Stay behind your eyes!’ Wow, I can’t offer you that kind of depth,” Sterling chuckled as we got into his old T-Bird.

  “That’s OK, Sterling. Just be yourself.”

  “Well, I hope you like disco.”

  “I’m not all that familiar with it.”

  Sterling started up the car. “You will be, ’cause I’m a disco queen!”

  I wondered what on earth I was getting into. At least Traci was the devil I knew.

  fall/winter 1975

  13

  Sterling and I sat in his matching blue wing chairs sipping white wine. Lounging around in his bathrobe and bedroom slippers, he reminded me of Hugh Hefner.

  “Stevie, it’s when you’re at your lowest that it’s important to look your best.”

  I squirmed. I didn’t know how to take his remark. It didn’t sound like the thing to say to a person recovering from a love affair gone sour. I mean, it had only been three days, and I was still recuperating.

  I took a swallow of the dry wine. “The last thing I’m concerned about right now is my appeara
nce.”

  Sterling tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, we do have the children to consider.”

  “What children? You don’t have any children, do you?” I was confused. It was hard to imagine “crumb snatchers” romping on Sterling’s white-and-blue oriental rug. And there were no smudges on his Japanese-print couch or the raspberry-colored walls. His apartment was immaculate.

  “I’m talking about the members.”

  “The members of what?”

  “The gay children, honey. My friends. The children will be scrutinizing you. And if you don’t look good, I won’t look good.”

  “Your friends judge people by how they look on the outside?”

  “Yes,” Sterling answered without hesitation. “Our motto is, ‘Friends don’t let friends wear polyester.’”

  I glanced down at my rumpled T-shirt and worn jeans.

  “Well, at least I’m partial to cotton.”

  “Now, don’t get the wrong idea, the children will give you points for having a good heart. But they will down you for not making the most of your natural assets.” Sterling rocked to the rhythm of his words. “You’re an attractive girl, Stevie. It would be a shame if you just let yourself go.”

  “Let myself go! I can’t believe it! I look like a beauty-pageant contestant compared to some of the politicos in the women’s community.”

  “I’ve seen how they look, believe me. God don’t like ugly and neither do I.” Sterling pointed at me. “Don’t get me wrong, Stevie, I’m not trying to make you into a femme fatale.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Actually, I think you have baby butch potential.”

  “Baby butch?”

  “Yeah, tomboyish, but cute”—Sterling rubbed his chin—“not deisel dyke. A bull, without the dagger, so to speak. I want women to just want to nuzzle you up against their bosoms. Take shit off of you like they would a little boy, because he’s so cute. I think this image could get you over.”

  “Will it help me get a job?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Stevie, you have to understand something.” Sterling lowered his voice. “This is San Francisco, ‘durling.’ And it’s very competitive. There are a lot of gentle people here. But it’s still dog-eat-dog, honey. You can’t afford to half-step. With a new hairstyle and a confident stride, you can project that you’re the woman for the job in the bedroom as well as in the boardroom.”

  “Leave my hair alone. You sound like my mother.”

  “Honey, when the going gets tough, the tough get a new hairstyle.” Sterling crossed his leg and patted his neatly trimmed ’fro.

  “You don’t like my natural?” I couldn’t hide the irritation in my voice. Sterling probably wanted me to get some ultrafeminine, straightened style, like Diana Ross.

  “I’m not against the natural on women. It’s just that you have one that you appear to care nothing about. A cut would do you good.”

  “First of all, I haven’t really been tripping on my hair. And secondly, I can’t afford a haircut right now.”

  “Well, I’m sending you down to Vidal Sassoon’s Training School.”

  “Sterling, I can’t take money from you.”

  “Look, I’d rather spend a measly five dollars than watch you start looking like Buckwheat.”

  “Buckwheat! You’re signifying now!”

  “What are friends for, if not to pull your coattails when necessary?”

  I stood in line waiting to be picked by one of the students at Vidal Sassoon. All of the other guinea pigs were white, except for one Asian.

  I’d never had my hair cut by a white person before. What if he or she didn’t know the first thing? What if no one picked me? The old anxiety crept back. The voice I’d heard riding on a bus—“I prayed for a boy because at least I didn’t have to deal with that hair.” Or the tired tape from my own mother—“How can you have the nerve to be tenderheaded with these naps?”

  I was thankful that at least I had a hairpick in my purse. How could I live it down if the stylist’s narrow-toothed comb popped in two, flying across the room?

  To my surprise, two women pointed toward me simultaneously: A perky blonde and a stylish brunette. The women looked at my head longingly. Here I was afraid that I wouldn’t be selected, and don’t tell me they were gonna fight over me!

  “Jane, I should give in and let you have her.”

  It was fine with me, I didn’t have a preference.

  “Are you sure, Megan?”

  “Positive. This is only your second day. You can use the practice.”

  Now, I did have a preference. But Megan had already turned toward another customer.

  “You’re new?” I gulped.

  “Yes, g’day,” blondie smiled. “I’m Jane. I just came over from Australia.”

  “G’day, I’m Stevie,” I mumbled. But I was afraid it wasn’t going to be a good day for me and my hair. Maybe it wasn’t too late to bolt.

  “Well, Stevie, I’m anxious to forge ahead,” Jane said cheerfully as she steered me toward a row of chairs.

  I made up my mind that I would just have to wear a scarf until my hair grew back. Even if I looked like Aunt Jemima, it would be preferable to the haircut this woman was about to give me.

  I slumped in the chair and Jane tied a smock around me.

  “Shall we start with a shampoo?”

  “No, I washed my hair a couple of days ago.”

  “Don’t worry, the shampoo is included.”

  “It’s not the money. It’s just that with black hair, it’s easier to cut dry. It changes shape when it’s wet.”

  “That’s right,” a loud male voice cut in. I looked up at a tall, slim man with a dark ponytail.

  “Here, comb it out with a pick first,” the man instructed.

  Thank goodness, somebody here knows shit from Shinola, I thought. Too bad he wasn’t cutting my hair.

  “Jane, have you ever cut a black person’s hair before?”

  I hoped the instructor would rescue me from this disaster about to happen.

  “No, Peter, but I’m anxious to have the experience.”

  “Great,” the instructor boomed. “I love your enthusiasm.”

  “Well, I’m anxious to have a good haircut,” I cut in.

  “Jane comes highly recommended.”

  “Yeah, but she’s never cut a black person’s hair before,” I reminded the instructor. I might have to get funky if Jane messed my head up.

  “Don’t worry mate, I’m going to put my heart and soul into your haircut.”

  “You’ll look marvelous,” Peter insisted. “Remember, our motto is If You Don’t Look Good, We Don’t Look Good.”

  “OK, I’m gonna hold you to that.”

  Time had marched on. We’d chitchatted about the weather and the aborigines. Jane was still cutting, alternating between clippers and scissors. All of the other customers were gone. I closed my eyes. I didn’t dare look into the mirror. This woman was a cutting fool.

  But it was downright embarrassing. It seemed unfair that my hair took so long and poor Jane got the same money as the other stylists. She was probably regretting she’d ever picked me.

  “This is so satisfying.”

  “What is?”

  “Cutting your hair. I feel like an artist, like a sculptor.”

  “Oh,” I said, afraid to believe my ears. “Here I was feeling sorry for you because it was taking so long.”

  “Don’t be silly, mate.”

  To my surprise the instructor led a group of students toward us. The teacher pointed at my head. “This type of hair can be challenging.”

  I frowned. Nobody wants to have her hair called challenging. Just humiliate me to death.

  “But the results can be stunning,” he continued. I let out a sigh of relief, but I was still afraid to look. I couldn’t trust white folks’ opinions. Didn’t Mama used to say, “White people will call a monkey cute”? Then again, I couldn’t ignore the plea
sant chorus of oohs and ahhs from the other students.

  Jane thrust a big mirror in front of me. I dared to peep into it. My hair looked good. Better than good. It was totally happening! I turned and surveyed the back of my head. I was scared of Jane! She could cut her behind off!

  “You did a really good job. I love it!”

  The group of students applauded as Jane glowed with pride. I never thought a five-dollar haircut would lead to this much attention. To top everything off, Jane whipped a camera out of her bag. She explained that she wanted to put me in her scrap-book. I went on and smiled, big time. Too bad I couldn’t afford a tip.

  “You’re a bad mamajama now!” Sterling yelled his approval over a Bette Midler song when he saw the cut.

  “Am I bad?” I grinned. I turned around so that Sterling could inspect the back.

  “Miss Thing, you are Superbad. That’s a haircut and a half.”

  “You know, Miss Ann had never seen an Afro-American before today,” I laughed. “Had just left the aborigines, day before yesterday.” I clapped my hands. “But honey, she got to clipping and got to cutting, and the rest is history.” I shouted over Bette’s sultry, “Do You Wanna Dance?”

  Sterling nodded. “Miss Ann got down, all right.” He stretched his hand out and I gave him five. “She got all the way down!”

  “In fact, this calls for the Zorro snap,” Sterling insisted, snapping his fingers in a Z.

  I celebrated my twenty-second birthday on one of those rare warm San Francisco nights. Sterling took me to hear this dynamite disco queen, Sylvester, sing. Two of the black “children,” Lester and Derrick, joined us. We had all jumped clean, wearing gold chains, platform shoes, and colorful attire. Mama had mailed me a box of my clothes. And my family had sent me fifty dollars for my birthday. Anyway, the music was happening, and the North Beach Club was jam-packed with writhing, hot, sweaty bodies.

  Of course, Sterling had given me the 411 on his friends. Derrick was cute and he knew it. He kept a perm in his hair and hoped you would think it was natural. He had a nice body. He was a letter carrier. Derrick and Sterling were occasional “fuck buddies,” when they were both between lovers.

  Lester was another story. He was chubby with a reddish complexion. He looked more like a teddy bear than a Castro clone. To be honest, his wrist could stand to be a little stiffer. And yet there was something solid about him. Lester was hoping to find a brotha. Unlike in Oakland, many black men in San Francisco would knock him down trying to get to a white man who reminded them of Clark Gable. Lester was the type who was always stuck holding everyone else’s sweaters.