Lester wasn’t, interested in casual, anonymous sex (not that Lester was considered hot trade, anyway). He craved a long-term relationship. But that was hard to come by for a gay man in his twenties. Sterling said Lester would have better luck over in Oakland, where people were more settled.
Sylvester, dressed in bright flowing clothes, his face dripping with sweat, took his final bow. It had been an exhilarating show, the room was still abuzz with energy.
Hot Chocolate’s “Disco Queen” blasted from the loudspeakers. Men danced together under a big, glittering silver ball. An older man with bushy sideburns walked over to Derrick and asked him what was going on.
“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here, but the rent,” Derrick said coolly, and turned away.
“Derrick’s a golddigger,” Lester whispered to me. “If Mr. Charlie don’t wanna support ‘her,’ he better keep steppin’.” Soon a hunk wearing a chain vest and tight jeans swept Derrick onto the dance floor.
Sterling looked on enviously. “Derrick thinks he’s the chosen one. But most of the time, I get way more play than he does. Lester, remember that night at the Stud? My mood ring was a good color that night.”
“Yeah,” Lester agreed, “you were cooking with oil.”
“And you know, Derrick can’t hold a candle to me at the baths. They can’t see how small his dick is in a club.”
“You’ve definitely got him beat in the dick department.”
“Y’all are terrible,” I protested. “Are you forgetting that there’s a lady present?”
“A lady? I thought you were a fag hag!”
“Forget you, Sterling.”
“I just spotted the perfect man for Lester.”
“Where?” Lester asked anxiously.
“Over there in that corner,” Sterling pointed. The one with the glasses. He looks like that child in the cartoons. You know that boy that be with Bullwinkle.”
“Poindexter,” I said peering at the spectacled brother in the button-down shirt.
“Sterling, you cold,” Lester frowned.
“He might be a nice guy,” I cut in. “You need to look beneath the surface. Everything that glitters isn’t gold.”
“So long as I have my youth and good looks, I’m gonna be picky.” Sterling pouted.
“You need to put more emphasis on inner qualities,” I argued.
“I heard that,” Lester agreed. “Plenty of men pass me up because I’m not considered fine. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have something to offer.”
“Of course you do,” I assured him.
“Let’s face facts, men are visual,” Sterling insisted. “And my pupils are dilating right now!” He said, cruising the place.
“It didn’t take a psych major to tell us that,” Lester groaned.
Sterling rubbed his finger. “It’s been real, y’all. But my mood ring has changed colors.” He strolled over to the bar and hovered next to a tanned, mustached hunk in a sleeveless undershirt and army fatigues. Sterling pulled out a cigarette, and the apple of his eye gave him a light. Sterling told me he only smoked cigarettes in clubs.
Derrick walked back to our table. He motioned toward the dude nearby with the chain vest. “John invited me over to his place. He lives in the Marina District. He even has a view of the water,” Derrick bragged.
“Some folks have all the luck.” Lester frowned. “Well, get enough for both of us.”
“It was nice meeting you, Stevie.”
“You too, Derrick.”
“Later, Lester.” Derrick tossed his head. “Tell Sterling I had love to get.”
Lester and I danced together to K.C. and the Sunshine Band’s “That’s the Way I Like It.” Sterling was boogeying nearby with the dude who’d lit his fire at the bar.
“Lester, you’re a really good dancer.”
“Too bad I don’t get more practice,” he sighed.
“Don’t worry, your ship will come in one day.”
“Yeah, but don’t hold my breath, right?”
“You deserve someone special. It’s quality, not quantity.”
“Thanks, you’re really sweet.”
“I bet most of the men in here are too shallow for you. Look at them.”
“I’m looking.” Lester spun around on the dance floor. “I’m looking. I’m always looking.”
“Check out that one over there gyrating in those shiny gold hot pants. He leaves nothing to the imagination.”
“Honey, I can sho’ imagine him without his shorts.” Lester drooled as the guy bumped his groin against his dance partner to Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby.”
“And look at that one in the torn cutoffs. You can see his butt.”
“Where?” Lester panted like a dog. “Wow, if I could just have one night with him. I swear, I would die a happy man,” he joked.
“What are those dudes in the ruffled shirts inhaling?” I asked.
Lester eyed the couple sniffing from a vial. “That’s probably amyl nitrite. It’s an upper. It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac.”
Lester bought me a beer and we lounged against the wall.
“Clint, say hi to the birthday girl,” Sterling said, hanging on to his new squeeze.
Lester and I shook hands with the muscular dude.
Sterling took a drag off of his cigarette. “What happened to Derrick?”
“He gotta pull,” Lester reported.
“Clint asked me if I wanted to go to the baths. But I told him I couldn’t ditch the birthday girl.”
“I didn’t know he had company,” Clint said shyly. He tugged at the red bandanna around his neck.
“No, you go head on,” I said. “I’m cool.”
“No, that would be cold,” Sterling protested. “Not unless you and Lester wanna hang out,” he added hopefully.
“I’m enjoying Lester’s company. But I don’t wanna cramp his style.”
Sterling looked surprised, as if he wanted to ask, What style?
Even Lester appeared at a loss for words. “I … I … don’t have to cruise tonight. It’s your birthday. We can hang out together if you want to.”
“Sterling, just go. I’ll be fine,” I insisted. “If Lester hooks up with somebody, I’ll check out a women’s bar I read about in the People’s Yellow Pages.”
Clint winked. “She sounds like the kinda girl who can take care of herself.”
“Gon’ Ms. Birthday Girl, wit yo’ bad self.” Sterling stretched his palm out and we gave each other five. “Here I was worrying about you, and you hunting down your next piece of ass just like the rest of us.” He smiled.
I knew that I was looking for more. But I didn’t say anything.
After Sterling and his date had spaced the place, Lester said, “I wish I could dip Clint in chocolate. Then he would really be fine.”
“That reminds me of one of my grandmother’s stories,” I said. “She was visiting family down South. And all the girls were talking about wanting to meet somebody fine. ‘What happens to all the homely men?’ Grandma asked. Her niece answered, ‘Those are the ones we marry.’”
Lester took a swallow of beer. “Let me sip on that.” He rested his elbow on the wall ledge and held his chin. “You know what? I’m gonna go over there and ask that brotha to dance.”
“Who?”
Lester nodded toward the guy Sterling teased him about earlier.
“Poindexter?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?” I asked surprised.
“Yeah, he looks like the marrying kind.”
“I heard that,” I smiled. “And if the brotha says yes, I’ll go check out that club I mentioned. And leave you to your own devices.”
Lester shook my hand warmly. “You got a deal.”
“Knock ’em dead.”
I wanted to be surprised, so I didn’t look up for a while. But when I did, Lester was cutting up on the floor with Poindexter to Gloria Gaynor’s “Never Can Say Good-bye.” It was time for me to book.
> Wild Side West was a club in the middle of Italian North Beach, but it had a cowboy theme. There were pictures on the walls of women riding horses, and a lot of the patrons were dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, and Frye boots. But nobody patted my shoulder and said, “Howdy, pardner.”
I was the only black person in the dark, crowded, smoky club. This wasn’t unusual for San Francisco. If I were going to make it here, I guess I’d have to get used to feeling like a fly in a pail of buttermilk, as Grandma would say.
I didn’t come here to hold up the walls. So I decided to assert myself as soon as I spotted someone cute and had polished off a couple of beers.
I had to dance to LaBelle. I checked out a shapely brunette over in the corner. She was fashionably dressed, for a lesbian bar. She had on nice black pants and a pale-blue silk Indian-style top. At least she wasn’t dressed like a rancher. I took a big swallow of beer and swaggered toward her.
“Would you like to dance?” I asked, wanting to rush her onto the small floor space to finish out the song.
The young woman smiled at me like she might be flattered. She tossed her head back and said, “Sure.”
I was a happy camper. It was the first time in my life I’d ever asked a stranger to dance. And she’d said yes!
I put my heart into it and we jammed on into the next song. We tore up the floor, rocking close to each other’s bodies. The woman was even grinning up in my face the whole time. I thought she was cute with her turned-up nose and pouty-lips. So what if she was white? I could love ’em from snow to crow. Wasn’t this a free country? And it didn’t get any freer than San Francisco.
When the song ended, my dancing partner waved to some people coming in. She said she had to catch up with her friends. I thanked her for the dance like a perfect gentleman, and she was gone.
The next couple of tunes were tired. I couldn’t see taking a chance on getting rejected behind some song that didn’t even have it going on. Especially on my birthday. The woman I’d danced with was busy talking. And I didn’t see anybody else that looked interesting. I decided to call it a night.
Walking along Broadway was really a trip. The streets were lit up with neon signs advertising naked women and sex acts. Barkers in uniforms outside the clubs tried to entice people to come inside.
“Completely nude, our ladies go all the way! Male to female, female to female. Come get it while it’s hot!
“How about you, young lady? You won’t see this back where you’re from.”
I just laughed and kept on stepping.
“Girl, I’m so glad i tracked you down,” Sharlinda sighed after we’d exchanged greetings and discussed the weather.
“Your Mama said you out there living from pillar to post. Said you need to bring your butt back here to Chicago. What you out there for anyway?”
“I like it out here.”
“You ain’t got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. Everybody back here is working.”
“You gotta job?”
“Yes, ma’am. I got on with Head Start in Milwaukee.”
“Well, go ’head on wit yo’ bad self.”
“You could get hired here or with Model Cities or something. I’m a black studies major and they got me teaching, girl.”
“How do you like Milwaukee?”
“I like that it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump from Chicago. I got me a cute one-bedroom apartment. And I got my eye on a fine brotha across the hallway, too.”
“I’m scared of you.”
“What’s happenin’ with you in the dude department? Obviously that thing with Mr. Goodbar has fizzled out.”
“Yeah, it’s dead. But all I’m tripping on right now is getting a job and a place.”
“Surrounded by all them fags, I guess you ain’t got much choice.”
I bristled. “Sharlinda, I’m not comfortable with that word.”
“Listen at you. Don’t nobody care what you comfortable with back in the Midwest. We tell it like it is.”
“Well, I’m telling you how I feel.”
“Okay, Miss Touchy-feely, I’m sorry. I ain’t got nothing against gays. My favorite uncle is funny. I just don’t want to marry one, you dig?”
I groaned. “So, Sharlinda, have you heard from Today lately?”
“Girl, I’m worried about the Beaver. No point in me beating around the bush.”
“Well, make it plain.”
“Today got involved with somebody.”
“So?”
“They talking serious, girl.”
“So, what’s wrong with that?”
“Plenty.”
“Is he a drug addict or an alcoholic? Does he beat her?”
“Well, no.”
“Well, then what are you tripping about? I thought you said you weren’t gonna beat around the bush!”
“I was just building up to a climax. Girl, Today is riding the bus.”
“Riding the bus?” I asked, not having heard the expression used like that since college.
“Yeah, girl, she’s up with a hoogie.”
“Look, it’s not the end of the world because Today is seeing a white dude. I mean, is his color the only thing you have against him?”
“You don’t understand, Stevie. Sam’s not only white.”
“Mr. Charlie’s name is Sam.” I chuckled. “Well, what else is he?”
“You’ve heard that there’s nothing worse than a stingy man, right?”
“Yeah, although I can think of worse things.”
“Well, this is worse.”
“What is he a murderer or a rapist?”
“No, he’s poor!”
“Poor? What do you mean by poor?”
“I mean he’s poor as in po’. He ain’t got shit, OK,” Sharlinda replied.
“White and poor, huh?”
“You got it.” Sharlinda sighed.
I digested this information. White and poor, it wasn’t even exotic. It conjured up thoughts of white bread and gravy, Cheese Whiz and endless recipies involving Spam and Vanilla Wafer cookies. Hadn’t I heard that a white poor person could never really ever rise above it, unlike black people? Their poorness got under their skin, their pasty white skin, which couldn’t even tan decently. Poor black people were at least interesting, expected to be colorful, have attitude, be able to dance and sing like they meant it. And black people had a debt to collect, a score to settle. We’d been wronged, dogged royally in this country. A white poor person couldn’t play a sympathy card. My grandmother had told me about a black man who seemed to begin every sentence, “Now if I hadda been born white.” Grandma said he’d damn near be president of the United States if he’d been born a white man, to hear him tell it. But who could argue that a person born white didn’t have a better shake in life, all in all?
“A business major and she ends up with trash.” Sharlinda interrupted my thoughts.
“Sharlinda, money isn’t everything. Haven’t you heard the best things in life are free?”
“That sounds nice, but I’d rather have nice things.”
“It’s not about that out here. Plenty of folks have furniture made of crates and plywood and cinder blocks. They get their clothes from secondhand stores or even free boxes. And if they have a car, it’s an old beat-up number. And nobody trips. In fact, people are worried about appearing too materialistic. They even have a name for it …”
“Yeah, stupid-ass white folks,” Sharlinda groaned.
“No, downwardly mobile.”
“Well, that might be cute if your daddy happens to be an investment banker. But if some folks start moving downward, they’ll be picking cotton pretty soon. I mean, what was the struggle for, if you don’t want shit? If white folks want to drop out and throw away everything, that’s their business. And you can be a love child if you want to. But that hippy-dippy shit done played out in the rest of the country. Me myself, I want a piece of the damn pie!”
“Sharlinda, maybe the pie is sour. You think all these whi
te folks are happy? These suburban housewives, popping Valium right and left, and these white men in suits with their three-martini lunches? I think a lot of them are as empty as all get-out.”
“If they are, it’s their own damn fault.”
“The point is, maybe we can learn from their mistakes. Why adopt their bankrupt values?”
“You tripping, Stevie. White folks are miserable because it’s just part of being white folks. They’re a tired race of people. Let’s face it, they never learned how to have a good time. They can’t dance, they don’t put any feeling in they songs, and most of them can’t fuck.”
“In that case, let’s hope Today has found an exception.”
“I wasn’t gonna say it, but this makes me wonder about Today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Girl, haven’t you heard folks say, ‘A white man is a step away from being with a woman?’”
“No, really?”
“Yeah, girl, so no telling what line she might cross next.”
“Sharlinda, you need to quit.”
“Girl, I’m just telling you what folks say.”
“Give me your new number, I gotta run.” I needed time to digest that.
14
Even the devil knew I needed a job by now. I couldn’t be up under Sterling with no money much longer and hold my head up. We got along, but I still had to dance to Sterling’s music. I mean that literally and figuratively. I’d grown to like disco, which was lucky, since he played it nonstop.
Sterling had a thing against football; said he didn’t want any parts of it. Wouldn’t even watch the Forty Niners play against the Bears. Sterling would’ve been a walking stereotype, except that he loved playing basketball. Sterling said he could talk as loud and smell as funky as the next nigga on the court.
But he was sure finicky about everything else. He even had his albums alphabetized. Sterling threw a hissy fit just because I’d put his Sylvester album in front of Donna Summer. I was reminded of what Grandma always said: “I’d rather be in my own shack, than in somebody else’s mansion.”
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