“I will never, never be dry again,” I say to my best pal Slutty Mandy as we wring ourselves out under the Civic Center awning. We’ve just walked the route for Pride Parade 2008, apparently sponsored by The Wrath of God. All that flooding and rainbows felt distinctly Old Testament.
“Preppy is so lucky he had to work today,” says Slutty Mandy, trying to bring her phone back to life. “Is your Blackberry working?”
“I’m hoping it will when it dries out.”
“Great, well there goes getting a cab. Fabulous.”
We decide to forego riding MARTA from Civic Center, suspecting that every single waterlogged reveler was headed in that direction. Instead, we simply return to the parade route and walk it in reverse, back to Mandy’s apartment in Midtown. To pass the time, I bitch constantly about how wet/chafed/tired I am.
“I’m sorry, didn’t you walk EVERYWHERE up until like six months ago?”
“Not in the rain. And not for like, miles. This is coming dangerously close to exercise, and you know how I hate that.”
“How do you think I feel? I had spin class this morning. My legs are killing me.”
“Oh, no, Soggy Mandy. People who exercise voluntarily are not allowed to bitch about having to engage in MORE physical activity. There’s nothing so obnoxious as people in great shape complaining about how sore they are. You’re supposed to like this sort of thing.”
“Your denial of your own history astounds me. You used to go to the gym.”
“I also used to breast feed. People change.”
We decide to cut through my old neighborhood.
“Oh, man. That’s where Neighbor Guy lived. He was my waist size, too. If he hadn’t moved away he could loan me clothes.”
“Sweetie, would you really stop at a former trick’s house demanding pants?”
“Yes. I would compromise myself in any number of ways for dry clothes right about now. Ooh! Charlie used to live over there before he got married. And Dean moved to Stone Mountain of all places, got himself a farm house. Over there’s where Criminal Mike lived until the cops found him. Aw, and that bartender with the tattoo of eyeballs on his lower back, remember? He lived right there.”
“Jesus, did you fuck all your neighbors?”
“I didn’t have a car. It was practical,” I say, really considering my surroundings. “Wow. I don’t think I know anyone in Midtown anymore.”
It’s only been about two years since I left my little apartment on Durant Place, and my fiancée and I almost always make it to a bar once a week, but a curious thing has happened: Right around the same time I packed up my boxes and headed out of the Midtown mix, a good number of my friends did too. No longer content with our tiny, overpriced apartments, yet in no way prepared to buy one of the area’s stately old homes, we took our leave. I got a house on a quiet street in Decatur, a car, a soon-to-be-husband. We have a yard. Now, I borrow lawn care supplies from neighbors instead of having sex with them.
And while the life I’ve built is a source of great joy, I can’t help but be a little wistful as I remember closing Blake’s and stumbling down this street, belting “Express Yourself” for the benefit of my sleeping neighbors. Let it never be said that I don’t have happy memories of my bachelorhood. Vague, drunken, happy memories. I recently visited my friend Nick at his new apartment in Ansley Forest, and of course already knew where his bathroom was.
“Preppy is so lucky he had to work today,” says Slutty Mandy, trying to bring her phone back to life. “Is your Blackberry working?”
“I’m hoping it will when it dries out.”
“Great, well there goes getting a cab. Fabulous.”
We decide to forego riding MARTA from Civic Center, suspecting that every single waterlogged reveler was headed in that direction. Instead, we simply return to the parade route and walk it in reverse, back to Mandy’s apartment in Midtown. To pass the time, I bitch constantly about how wet/chafed/tired I am.
“I’m sorry, didn’t you walk EVERYWHERE up until like six months ago?”
“Not in the rain. And not for like, miles. This is coming dangerously close to exercise, and you know how I hate that.”
“How do you think I feel? I had spin class this morning. My legs are killing me.”
“Oh, no, Soggy Mandy. People who exercise voluntarily are not allowed to bitch about having to engage in MORE physical activity. There’s nothing so obnoxious as people in great shape complaining about how sore they are. You’re supposed to like this sort of thing.”
“Your denial of your own history astounds me. You used to go to the gym.”
“I also used to breast feed. People change.”
We decide to cut through my old neighborhood.
“Oh, man. That’s where Neighbor Guy lived. He was my waist size, too. If he hadn’t moved away he could loan me clothes.”
“Sweetie, would you really stop at a former trick’s house demanding pants?”
“Yes. I would compromise myself in any number of ways for dry clothes right about now. Ooh! Charlie used to live over there before he got married. And Dean moved to Stone Mountain of all places, got himself a farm house. Over there’s where Criminal Mike lived until the cops found him. Aw, and that bartender with the tattoo of eyeballs on his lower back, remember? He lived right there.”
“Jesus, did you fuck all your neighbors?”
“I didn’t have a car. It was practical,” I say, really considering my surroundings. “Wow. I don’t think I know anyone in Midtown anymore.”
It’s only been about two years since I left my little apartment on Durant Place, and my fiancée and I almost always make it to a bar once a week, but a curious thing has happened: Right around the same time I packed up my boxes and headed out of the Midtown mix, a good number of my friends did too. No longer content with our tiny, overpriced apartments, yet in no way prepared to buy one of the area’s stately old homes, we took our leave. I got a house on a quiet street in Decatur, a car, a soon-to-be-husband. We have a yard. Now, I borrow lawn care supplies from neighbors instead of having sex with them.
And while the life I’ve built is a source of great joy, I can’t help but be a little wistful as I remember closing Blake’s and stumbling down this street, belting “Express Yourself” for the benefit of my sleeping neighbors. Let it never be said that I don’t have happy memories of my bachelorhood. Vague, drunken, happy memories. I recently visited my friend Nick at his new apartment in Ansley Forest, and of course already knew where his bathroom was.
Half the homos in Atlanta know the layout of those apartments. They’re an inevitable stop on our personal parade route through gay life in the city.
As Slutty Mandy and I approach Grady high school, a blonde guy in his early twenties passes us, drenched and happy, with a few of friends.
“Come on,” he says. “We’re almost home!”
He could be headed back to my old place, or at least somewhere I spent the night. But the thought is interrupted by my Blackberry coming back to life, albeit with a screen full of water droplets. I answer and catch Preppy up on the day’s events, walking away and leaving my old street to a new crowd.
As Slutty Mandy and I approach Grady high school, a blonde guy in his early twenties passes us, drenched and happy, with a few of friends.
“Come on,” he says. “We’re almost home!”
He could be headed back to my old place, or at least somewhere I spent the night. But the thought is interrupted by my Blackberry coming back to life, albeit with a screen full of water droplets. I answer and catch Preppy up on the day’s events, walking away and leaving my old street to a new crowd.
