Those Were the Gays

For the magazine's 10th anniversary issue, the editor of DAVID ATLANTA asked all of us to reflect upon where we were in 1998. This was my contribution.

My sister Shannon inherited my father’s ability to harness the power of the sun, producing a flawless golden tan that would last well into October. I, on the other hand, received the Scotch-Irish genetic makeup of my mother and her sisters- skin as pale as the belly of a frog which can redden to a third-degree sunburn if I have to stand in line too long at the ATM. As a child, I was always struck by the unfairness of it all- we’d go to the pool at the country club, and my sister would lounge about browning to perfection, while I bobbed in the pool slathered in SPF 50, a t-shirt stretched over my ample belly. Life was so unfair.
In 1998, I visited my Aunt Merry Ellen, and was greeted at the door not by a fellow pale-face, but by a russet-toned beauty that looked like she’d just spent a week in Gulf Shores. I was flabbergasted, and she couldn’t have been more pleased.
“It’s fake,” she said with pride. “They’ve got a new tanning booth over at Shear Perfection. You just step inside in your underwear, and it sprays the tan right on ya! Took me five minutes and now I’m gorgeous.”
I couldn’t argue with this assessment. Sure, if you examined it closely you’d notice the streaks on her neck and the orange fingernails, but from six feet away the impact was remarkable.

She booked me an appointment for that afternoon.
If you’d come to Jack & Jill’s, Jackson, Mississippi’s one and only gay bar in 1998, you would have found me there sporting my new look- bleached blonde hair, goatee and eyebrows penciled brown, and skin sprayed the color of an overripe carrot. I took to piercing anything that would support a steel stud, and amassed an impressive collection of YMLA stretch tank tops and wide-leg jeans. I’d found an oasis in a cultural Gobi where I could finally be myself, and promptly set about changing everything about me. I’d buy copies of OUT Magazine at Books-a-Million and try to emulate the fashion spreads. I was a divine style experiment, the entire decade of 90’s gay fashion piled onto one person.
In that persona I remained for the better part of a year- I’d come home from work, feed my incontinent Siamese cat, squeeze into one of my flammable shirts, and hit the bar until closing. By my eighteenth birthday, I was sleeping with the manager and drinking for free. It felt like an endless party, and in many ways it was. Because there was only one bar in town, we represented every rest stop on the QLGBTI highway, and formed a small community of revelers. All of us were filled with the optimism and possibility of the era- the first time a president had acknowledged the contributions of gay Americans to the national conversation, the first time the star of a TV series had come out while their show was still on the air, the hope that this visibility would naturally segue into a cultural viability. It was cause for celebration, and we sure as hell did.
But things were about to change.
We’d asked America to acknowledge us, and when they did, our increased visibility led to increased scrutiny. Those who once politely ignored us now looked directly at us, saying, “What is it you people want?” We were forced to define that. We wanted to serve openly in the armed forces. We wanted to be protected from discrimination in housing and the workplace. We wanted our relationships to be validated, and to raise families if we desired to do so. We wanted to stand equal as American citizens. Basically, we wanted to live our lives, thank you very much for asking. And in declaring this, our “gay agenda”, the opposition became fierce and organized. Progressive politics were shoved aside by a new faux cowboy president who believed that belittling, bullying, and demonizing us would make us go back into hiding.
Eventually the maintenance on those platinum locks grew tiresome, and I began to note that I looked a little, well, orange. My hair returned to auburn and my face grew pale again. I gave my vinyl pants to a grateful drag queen. I moved away, got a real job. But the regulars in that little bar with whom I drank, talked, danced, and occasionally got naked made me understand that my sexuality was not something to be ashamed of, it was actually pretty fun. And as the national debate grew increasingly personal and perverse, they were the solid foundation of community that reminded me of why gay is good.
Ten years later we’re in a political climate placing us in a fight for legitimacy. That means holding politicians accountable to the campaign promises that won our votes, and maintaining a community that isn’t broken down by infighting. The power to be a formidable force lies before us, waiting for us to grab it with our voices, our votes, and our refusal to be stereotyped or pushed into the background. Evangelical churches are organizing vans to take people to the polls on Election Day. Why not get bars do the same thing with party buses? The key to winning the culture war might lie in our roots, and for many of us that was the gay bar that first felt like home. Today’s eighteen year-old gay boys deserve to have the optimism and support that I experienced ten years ago. Hell, I guess I still want that for myself, too.

Then the party can resume, because we’ll really have reason to celebrate.

You Can't Take It With You

Watching the season premiere of Saturday Night Live, I realize that Michael Phelps is not the least bit interesting to me when he’s wearing clothes. While his accomplishments in this year’s Olympics were inarguably historic, I’m a little perplexed by this business of promoting him as a sex symbol. Sure, he’s got that crazy ripped body, but then you get to the face, and the contrast just confuses the hell out of my penis.
Preppy’s working an overnight doing inventory, so I’m hanging out at the house with my cousin Nelson, which I won’t be able to do much longer.
Nelson got an offer he couldn’t refuse, returning to the pricey fancy-pants seafood restaurant he used to work at in our nation’s capitol. Apparently the period of time between the election and inauguration of a new president is like Mardi Gras up there, and people who work in areas of the service industry catering to moneyed pundits spend those months rolling around naked in piles of cash. I can’t really argue with the choice.
Nelson’s straining the laws of physics trying to pack everything he’ll need for the next four months into his Prius. What must go with him, versus what must stay here in Atlanta, reveals a lot about the life he intends to have up there. He’s leaving his good suit, but taking his lacrosse stick.
“This is a challenge,” says Nelson, furrowing his brow and staring at the pile of pots and pans he’d hoped to include. “I want my saucepan, but do I need it more than my brown shoes?”
“Take the saucepan,” I say. “You’re straight. Doesn’t matter if your shoes match your outfit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s the trade-off. Gay guys don’t have to worry about getting anyone pregnant, and straight guys don’t have to worry about accessorizing. We all get a little something special.”
“That’s fantastic,” says Nelson, as he goes to the Prius to remove the shoes.
The next morning, Nelson is on the road and Preppy’s sound asleep, and I’m sitting in my office tapping away at the next script that will take up six months of my life and make me no money. A little window pops up alerting me that I need to update my anti-virus software. I click “OK” and keep typing.
And that’s when the shit hits the fucking fan.
The desktop disappears. My blood pressure goes up ten points. Fifty pop-up windows fill the screen. A strangled screech forms in the back of my throat. Then the screen goes blue and a message tells me the computer is beginning a “system dump.” This is the entire spectrum of panic, including levels that only dogs can hear.
“Noooo!” I scream. “Don’t dump! Don’t you dare fucking dump you piece of crap I hate you so much! Eee-yaaaa!”
I remove the battery, and sit panting at my desk. You can’t dump if you’re not on, right?
I call my friend Joey, who’s good with computers. It’s important to have someone in your life at all times who’s good with computers. If you’re curious, you also need: A friend with a truck, a stylish friend who wears the same size as you, a friend who can talk about sex in graphic detail without getting weirded out, and a friend with tools. That’s just off the top of my head, I’m sure there are others.
“You fell for a Trojan Horse?” says Joey. “Really, Topher, have I taught you nothing?”
“Apparently not. So really, this is your fault, because you didn’t teach me.”
“I’ll look at it tonight. If you can access your files, get some CDs and save whatever you don’t want to lose forever. We might have to scrap your system and start over.”
I only have one blank CD. Curse all those mixes I burned from I-tunes! Did I really need Best of the 90’s Volume Three that badly? Well, yes I did. Sometimes singing along with Pearl Jam is the only thing that keeps my shit in one sneaker, okay?
“Alright, ya bastard,” I say, restarting the computer and entering the viral minefield that was once my desktop. “What do I really need?”
All of my writing is safely stored for just this scenario, so we’re really talking about photos, music, stuff like that. And much to my surprise, there isn’t all that much I can’t live without. I don’t actually NEED the crappy Nelly Furtado/Bon Jovi mashup, or the naked pictures of famous people.

Well, okay, maybe a few of those.
That night, I bring my sick Dell over to Joey’s perfectly staged home. He’s got it on the market now, following the recent demise of his six-year relationship. After all those years of nesting, he’s cutting his losses and hoping for a studio apartment to simplify things.
“Let’s see if we can save this baby,” he says.
“No worries if you can’t,” I say. “I’ve got what I need.”
It’s like that question of what you’d grab if your house was on fire. We live with an abundance of stuff in our hard drives and houses, which we really could walk away from if what’s important had to fit in a CD, a Prius, or a studio apartment. And that’s actually reassuring.
It’s been said that you can’t take it with you. But if you really examine your life, often you realize you don’t really need to after all.

The Scarlett Effect

“Okay,” I say as I rummage through the pantry. “I’ve got a few cans of corn, some vegetable broth, six cans of tuna...”
“Why the hell would you need six cans of tuna?” my sister Shannon asks.
“It was on sale, and it lasts for like thirty years.”
I’m on the phone with my sister, trying to come up with something for dinner. My fiancée will be home in an hour, foolishly expecting food. I emptied my wallet into my gas tank this morning, so I’ve gotta make do with what we’ve got. Six weeks into my great experiment determining whether I can make a living as an artist, my life has devolved into an extended episode of Good Times. Every time a bill arrives in the mail, I half expect Esther Rolle to amble into the kitchen saying “Damn, damn, daaaamn!”
But there are good things that’ve come from the whole scenario. I’m a much more creative cook than I used to be. I’ve found that you can mix just about anything in the world with sour cream and call it a salad. If you’re looking for a hot dish, just put marinara on top of it, call it “Italian-Style”, and you’ve got yourself a fine meal for two. And through it all, Preppy has not complained, which is really to his credit as a person. When he calls and finds my cell phone disconnected, or has to take cold showers for a week because the gas is turned off, he takes it in stride. I have a little manila envelope on the bulletin board above my desk, labeled “In Case of Emergency.” Inside are applications for Starbucks and Home Depot. So far, he has not let me open the envelope.

Preppy just tells me to keep writing, even if we end up eating Italian-Style sawdust while living in our car in Hobotown.
I’ve grown to despise several items in my home, because I now picture not buying those items and having the cash instead. The chief offender in my mind is a damn crystal decanter I paid forty dollars for in 2003. It seems absurd to me that there was ever a moment in my life that I was doing so well financially that I could blow forty bucks on a decanter I would never, ever use. Every time I look at it, I picture having the forty dollars back, as if I would have kept the cash in a little box someplace for five years, waiting for a moment when it was needed.
I’ve read stories about myriad problems having too much money causes for folks. Well, I gotta tell ya, that’s a risk I’m totally willing to take. Bring on the wealth-related stress. I would find a way to soldier through that hardship.
I think some people are paralyzed by lean times, unable to adapt to a scenario where they have to scale down there existence. For others, a previously unknown level of ingenuity kicks in- the part of you that needs a new dress, so you take down the curtains and get to sewin’. The Scarlett O’ Hara Effect rises to the surface, all your resourceful beauty is at full command, and then you figure out how to make a casserole using Ritz Crackers and whatever’s in the freezer.
My grandmother had the Scarlett Effect down to a science. She was widowed with six children, and would scrimp, save, and repurpose to keep them all afloat. She was like several Dolly Parton songs brought to hardscrabble life. Stuffed animals were made from old socks. A hand-me-down dress would clothe all four sisters before it was retired and sewn into a patchwork quilt. Once, my sister saw her accidentally pour orange juice on her breakfast cereal. Instead of throwing it out, she sat down at the table and choked down every bite.
The Scarlett Effect was passed down to her daughters.

My Aunt Barbara recently made a centerpiece out of a broken ceiling fan blade, and from all reports the results were just precious. And now I find myself tapping into my own Scarlett Effect, realizing that if I keep bubbling water in the Crock Pot on the kitchen counter, Preppy can still have a nice hot shave before he goes to work.
It seems like there’s a lot more people lined up at the CoinStar at the Kroger cashing in change jars than there used to be, and I can’t help but notice the number of people at the pumps putting two gallons of gas in the tank, so it’s not like I feel alone here. My old bar buddies stay home a little more than they used to, or cut themselves off after two drinks instead of six, which may not be such a bad thing.
But we keep the faith that all will work out in the end, and get creative whenever possible. And it does help one appreciate the minor victories.
“Holy shit, I’ve got RICE!” I shout into the phone, doing a little victory dance.
“Oh, you can do anything with rice,” says Shannon. “That’s a good find.”
She says something else, but I’ve stopped listening. My inner Scarlett is savoring this moment. I’m picturing myself backlit against an orange sunrise, clutching my tattered hat to my nineteen-inch waist and holding my box of Uncle Ben’s up to the heavens, swearing I shall never go hungry again.

Separation Anxiety

“She’s still out there,” I say, looking out the front window of the house. “Rolling on the doormat, lookin’ all cute.”
Preppy looks up from his work at the coffee table.
“Topher, I swear if you feed that damn cat she will never leave and there will be hell to pay. And don’t get any ideas about doing it while I’m at work because I already counted the cans of tuna in the pantry.”
“But she’s hungry, baby. And she’s adorable.”
“Of course she’s adorable, darlin’. She’s a kitten. That’s all a kitten knows how to be. But we’re not taking on some mangy stray, so let it go. You do this every time you see a stray cat or those orphans on TV, and you always forget how kids and animals get on your nerves after a few hours.”
All of this is true. Last weekend I worked as a technician on a film set. There was a baby in the movie. By the end of day two, I was fully prepared to become a parent.

Thank God I don’t have a uterus.

I know in my heart of hearts I’d be one of those trailer trash mothers who keeps getting knocked up just because she thinks babies are cute.
Even if I could talk Preppy into letting me feed the kitten, it’s not like I could take care of her. I’ve been cast in a play that’ll be touring the country for seven months, beginning in November. I’ll return just in time to get married in June, which I find more than a little alarming. I’d expected all of our wedding plans would be done spread out over the dining room table, the two of us carefully plotting each detail and arguing over cuts to the guest list. Now all that’s gonna happen via phone and e-mail while I’m lodging at a series of La Quinta Inns in minor Red State cities.
This is, quite simply, not the level of control I wish to have over the whole affair.
Being gone for so long worries me. This week, a couple we’re friends with broke up, and I honestly never saw it coming. It shook me up more than I expected. They seemed to really love and dote on each other, and I had every expectation that they were looking forward to a bright future together. When I found out, I asked way too many questions, because I needed to know what the cracks in their foundation were. Where did things go wrong? I couldn’t accept the trite explanation of, “Sometimes these things don’t work out.” I needed to know why. Those boys were seeing each other every day, and couldn’t make it happen. How will I maintain a relationship from hundreds of miles away?
I never got a satisfactory answer from either of them.
“You think you’ve got it bad?” says my sister Shannon on the phone the next morning. “My husband was at WAR, for God’s sake. For over a YEAR.”
It’s so unfair, Shannon being able to play the war card. No matter how bad things are for me, she’ll whip out that whole homefront drama while her husband was off saving America. How the hell am I supposed to argue with that? It’s like Sarah Palin with her damn special needs baby. Back that woman into a corner, and she’ll shift the topic back there somehow.

Jesus, lady. We get it, we get it.
“But how did you keep things stable while he was gone? And don’t tell me it was by thinking about his sacrifices and bravery, because that doesn’t make up for the fact that there’s nobody to watch movies with and it doesn’t make you any less horny.”
“Well, duh,” says Shannon. “That’s why you send naked pictures.”
“That did it? For a whole year? Adding photos to the spank bank kept your marriage alive?”
“Hell yeah. Get creative. The tricky part is getting into your pose in ten seconds, before the timer goes off, but I’ll bet you can do it.”
Since I met Preppy, I’ve placed a lot of faith in face-to-face contact smoothing just about anything over. If we argue on the phone, I know once we sit down and talk it out it’ll all be okay. And if I have a crappy day, I’ve got seeing him to look forward to. Taking this much time away from our life means giving up those things for a while, and having faith that everything will still be in place when I return. That whatever “doesn’t work out” in some relationships won’t happen while I’m not looking.
“I guess I’m just worried Preppy might forget why he loves me without me there to remind him every day.”
There’s a long pause.
“That’s so pitiful I don’t even know how to respond,” says Shannon.
“I don’t wanna leave town if it’s gonna hurt us. Preppy says it won’t, but how does he know?”
“All you know is what you want. And what the two of you want is to get married next June and grow old and ugly together. But you won’t find out what happens until you go. And you can’t stay in his face forever.”
“I know, but I was gonna try.”
I get off the phone and sign the contract for the tour. As I take it to the mailbox, I notice the kitten took the hint. She’s moved on, leaving me with the hope that she’ll be fine without me.