Let me clarify something: I hate moving. Whether our déménagement went well or poorly doesn’t really matter: it was doomed from the start to be physically and emotionally traumatic.
There were, however, a couple of pleasant moments during the course of the day. Watching my boyfriend–who says he hates painting–do a last-minute, lovingly detailed touch-up of the wainscoting in the study. Sitting on the floor while Gaston and Kika romped up and down the house with their new friend, Dexter. Waking up before dawn and padding off to a kitchen with a real table and real coffee, listening to the radio as the sun came up.
Also nice was re-discovering some nearly forgotten mementos beneath the piles of Happy Meal rubble dotting my part of our former abode: a card on inchworms from my bizarre friend Frank, a Cheerios-brand winter hat that I pilfered from Michael‘s apartment, various gifts from various folk (you know who you are). But the biggest surprise of all was finding the Get-It-Girl Glasses.
They’re not much to look at–just a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses any hooker might wear. But for for one shining, alcohol-laden evening 11 years ago, they were pretty magical. In fact, they were so special, I dedicated an entry to them in the half-assed memoirs I was pulling together for all my college friends–memoirs that may or mayn’t ever see the light of day. Not much happens in the story, so don’t get your hopes up; like most happy memories, it’s the image that sticks with me, not the evening’s events. Anyway, for what it’s worth…
The Get-It-Girl Glasses
It’s the summer of 1990, shortly before I’m to leave the Bold, New City–Jackson, Mississippi–for good and start my life in the Big Easy, Sweet Lady Gumbo, Old Swampy. (My friend Lesley always swore she was going to pen a little diddy for me called “Jackson in My Rear-View Mirror,” but I guess she never got around to it.) As usual, I’ve spent the day by the pool, and as the daylight has faded, people have joined me: Mark, David, Ann, Lesley, perhaps a few more.
After nightfall, we doll up to go out. There’s no occasion: we’re bored, disaffected youth, we don’t need an occasion to paint the town rouge. Our group ranges in age from 18 to 22, which somewhat limits our choice of bars. After a brief powpow, we decide on Bill’s Disco, since it’s one of the few places that doesn’t card.
Let me back up a minute: like most Southern states, Mississippi still carries vestiges of segregation. There are black parts of town and white parts. Black churches, white churches, black malls, white malls, and, of course, black gay bars and white ones. Jackson’s white gay bar, Jack and Jill’s, brings new meaning to the word “tired.” There’s rarely more than Madonna in the DJ’s bag of tricks, and the proprietors check IDs so ruthlessly they might as well call the place Stalag Fudgepacker.
Just across the parking lot sits Bill’s Disco, the city’s black gay bar. Jack and Jill’s closes at 1am; Bill’s cranks ’till dawn. Jack and Jill’s is fairly well lit and forthright; Bill’s is shady, with a dimly lit speakeasy/backroom where toothless drag queens serve beer illegally ’till the bass beats fade out. We spend a lot of time at Bill’s
Back to the present: we consume vast quantities of Milwaukee’s Best Light at my apartment, then drive on down to the cha cha palace. (Don’t be shocked; I’m sure you’ve done worse.) On the brief but mildly treacherous walk from the bar’s parking lot to the front door, my friend David and I do our Charlie’s Angels routine: standing there, backlit by a single high-powered streetlamp, our elongated shadows hearken to those of Farrah Fawcett and Jacqueline Smith (we could use a good Kate Jackson) in the 1970-something show’s opening credits. After our bout of posing–which always goes on a beat too long–someone notices a pair of large, Sophia Lauren-esque, coral-red sunglasses lying on the ground. They probably fell out of someone’s drag bag on their way to Bill’s. Or maybe they belonged to one of the, um, pros working on nearby Farish Street. They quickly become a communal prop for our entourage.
Dancing at Bill’s, a member of the group–David, of course–whips out a bottle of poppers. That’s usually a sign that the situation’s about to deteriorate; tonight’s no exception….
The next thing we know, we’re dancing in a circle like high school kids, passing around those grimy glasses for everyone to model. Each time someone puts them on, everyone else begins snapping, screaming loudly “Get it, Girl,” in the general direction of said individual. This goes on for a really, really, really long time, but cheap beer and inhalants help keep the ritual fresh and new. An hour passes, and we’re still amused, strangely unfazed by the predictability of it all. We continue for goddess knows how long and awake next morning with severe headaches.
I am still in possession of the Get-It-Girl Glasses. They may be viewed by appointment only.
