I went to my first gay bar at 14. It was terrifying. Not because I was afraid of homos–I won’t detail my sexual history, but rest assured, I was a very precocious child. And not because of the whole “gay underworld” thing, either–though it did take a while to get used to the sight of men dancing with other men. No, it was terrifying because this was Mississippi in the 1980s, and we had to drive miles and miles of unlit backroads to the one and only gay bar in the area, on the outskirts of the tiny town of Hattiesburg. Then, after backing into a parking spot along the wall (yes, there were churchwomen out there taking down license plate numbers), we huddled into the front room of what must’ve once been the world’s smallest diner, and I had to talk my way past the cashier.
If I made it through all that (and I always did, thankyouverymuch), then, as the bar was closing at the stroke of 11:50pm, and the music cut off, and everyone was trying to figure out where the afterparty would be, I had to avoid the police officer (sometimes two) who’d stroll in to take a look around the place. I just knew that one day I’d feel a tap on my shoulder, and I’d turn around, and there’d be a big ol’ redneck policeman asking to see my ID (which, obviously, I didn’t have), and I’d be hauled off to jail to wait for daddy to come pick me up. We’d fight, and then I’d have to run away, assume a new identity, work as a waitress in a truck stop restaurant….
As terrifying as all that was, though, after several weekends it gradually became routine. The cashier got to know me, so talking my way in wasn’t a problem. I became friendly with some of the clientele (you know what I mean). I could mouth the words as every goddamn drag queen in town lipsynched the Uptown Girls’ version of “(I Know) I’m Losing You”. Not too shabby for someone still four years underage (this is back when you could drink at 18, of course).
Then, one Saturday, as I bellied up to the bar for another Coke (it would be several years before I discovered the joys of beer), I ran into my Uncle John.
I should explain that John wasn’t technically my uncle. He was a close friend of my mother’s family (crazypsycho mother, not biological mother), and I guess they didn’t have any uncles of their own, so they sort of adopted him. I’m not sure why. He was crusty and curmudgeonly, and he wasn’t particularly attractive or wealthy. He did tell a good story, though, and he traveled a lot–I guess that counted for something.
I wasn’t close to John myself. He dropped by the house a good bit, but he tended to hang out in the kitchen with my mom and drink coffee and smoke cigarettes, and I was always out riding my bike or rehearsing shows or playing truth-or-dare with the most attractive neighborhood boys I could find. Frankly, I didn’t pay him much attention at all. Until that moment at the Cha-Cha Palace.
When I saw him standing next to me, I did a double-take. Honestly, a double-take. I though about ducking and covering, but he was six slender inches away. It was far too late for evasive maneuvers.
John seemed completely unfazed, like he’d been expecting me. I think I mumbled a “Hello,” and I think he said something to the effect of “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell your mama” as I slunk away. If that’s what he said, he must’ve kept his word, ’cause crazypsycho mom never mentioned anything to me, and I saw Uncle John at the boy bar a number of times after that.
All of this comes to mind because I was on the phone with dad this weekend, and we were talking about nothing in particular–fishing, the farm, mom’s latest stint in rehab–and out of the blue he mentioned that Uncle John died a couple of weeks back. Emphysema. It was a little casual for a death notice, but then, dad’s a poker-faced kinda guy.
So, farewell, Uncle John. I hope they’ve got lots of nice, nubile Thai boys up there to keep you company. If not, try John Paul II–I’ll bet he can find you some hot, young Poles….
