Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (11 page)

“By the way, has he got a brother?”

“Today, I told you we're taking it slow. I haven't examined his family tree.”

“Why not?” Sharlinda demanded, playfully throwing a pillow at me. “Honey, inquiring minds want to know.” She laughed as the pillow landed on my face.

“All I ask is that I be maid of honor at your wedding. And that you name your first daughter after me,” Today giggled.

“You better take your crazy butt on back to Maywood. Nobody's thinking about marriage, yet.”

“You heard her say, ‘yet,' Sharlinda.”

“Honey, Stevie has picked out everything, including the silverware by now.”

I threw the pillow and got Sharlinda upside her head, real good.

We'd checked out of our room. And it was time to say goodbye in the hotel lobby. Suddenly, I felt emotional.

“Stevie, what's wrong? You've got tears in your eyes, girl,” Sharlinda said, puffing on a cigarette.

“It's like the end of an era for the three of us.”

“Girl, why you say that? You'll be back in Chicago in another week.”

“Yeah, but you'll be out in the burbs, and Sharlinda might get that job in Milwaukee. It won't be the same. Remember all the Thursday nights we ordered pizza together?”

“Yeah, and how we used to borrow each other's clothes before Today gained weight from all that pizza?” Sharlinda laughed, exhaling.

“Stevie, you better hold me back before I hurt her.”

Today pretended to punch Sharlinda. It had been a cold thing to say, but it wasn't like Today was fat. She could just stand to lose twenty pounds, that was all.

“Stevie smoked her first joint with me,” Sharlinda reminisced. “I taught her how to inhale.”

“You didn't teach me nothing,” I lied. “You practically choked on it yourself. It was more like the blind leading the blind.”

“Well, I taught both of y'all the difference between cashmere and cotton, when it came to men,” Today sniffed.

“It will never be like old times again,” I swallowed.

“Y'all nursed me back from bronchitis.” Today sighed.

I saw the shuttle bus pull up outside the thick glass door. I pointed. “Well, I guess it's time.”

“Don't forget to call us when you get back to Chi-town and tell us all the intimate details.” Sharlinda winked and mashed her cigarette in an ashtray.

“Hey, how's about a three-way hug?” Today suggested.

I was sort of glad when the hug was over and Today and Sharlinda had disappeared into the airline shuttle bus. It was a relief not to have to pretend anymore. I felt sad that I couldn't be myself with somebody who'd taught me how to inhale my first joint, and someone I'd nursed back from bronchitis.

summer 1975

6

The next day Traci drove me across the Golden Gate Bridge to Mount Tamalpais in Marin County. We hiked for several hours. I complained every step of the way, but when we reached the top and looked out over the Bay Area, it took my breath away. Traci and I kissed and held hands. It was nice; I was really getting into her. I still wasn't quite ready to take that big leap, so I planned on sleeping in Kate's bed. But I'd be dreaming about being with Traci.

On Wednesday night, Traci made us a delicious catfish dinner. She and I sat in her room in front of a toasty fire. I couldn't believe that it was cold enough to need heat in June. But it was cool and windy out there tonight.

Traci wondered aloud if the roommate interviewee they were expecting was a no show. Then Jawea stuck her head in the door and announced, “She's here.”

Traci told me that I could learn a lot from Jawea because she was on a spiritual path. But I had my doubts about the slightly chubby white woman whom I imagined would be pretty if she ever combed her long, tangled hair, or ironed her rumpled clothes.

“I think this one is a separatist,” Jawea whispered.

“How could you tell already?” Traci asked, leaving the blazing fire.

“She asked me if Artemis was male or female. I told her female.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Good, because I want to live in a woman-only space. I don't want to put my energy into anything male.'”

“Tell her you're not sure about the turtle,” I joked as Traci and Jawea headed toward the kitchen.

I felt sorry for the two of them, and yet it must be interesting to interview prospective roomates; especially in San Francisco. Last night a woman had shown up with a black eye, explaining that she was into S-M. Another claimed to be an ex-Weatherwoman. She meant as in terrorist, as opposed to meteorologist. And a nice woman who did macramé said she had to consult her four children and three teenagers about the space. She nonchalantly explained that all seven beings lived inside of her body. So far, Jawea was leaning toward her, and Traci was partial to the masochist.

Traci reappeared in the room, rolling her eyes.

“I can't understand why somebody named George with a beard and tattoos up and down her arms can be so down on men!”

“Yeah, she does have a funny way of showing it,” I agreed.

“George says she was a part of a collective in Mendocino County. They gave away their boy children. She's a stone separatist.”

“Gave away their boys! That's terrible!”

“Well, look at it this way,” Traci said, standing close to the crackling fire. “The kids were probably better off.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, watching the embers burn.

Traci sat down next to me. “I don't know why Jawea is still farting around with her. Why not just come out and tell the woman this is not a separatist household.”

“Why didn't you tell her?”

“I tried, but Jawea is going on about how she supports women-only space. Hey, I support women-only space too. But I want a male friend or relative to be able to visit. George said she didn't want to deal with a man unless the house is on fire.”

“Wow, she actually said that?” I asked.

Traci nodded. “Maybe she's been abused by men. In all fairness, women who hate men, hate them for a reason.”

I nodded as we heard the front door close. Traci called out to Jawea.

“We both concluded that this wasn't the right space for her,” Jawea said, walking into the room.

“It took your pea brain all that time to figure that out?” Traci joked.

“Fuck you, Traci,” Jawea pouted.

“I hate looking for a roommate,” Traci groaned.

“Stevie, why don't you be our roommate?” Jawea asked, arching her eyebrows. “Then I can get to be a minority.”

“Sacajawea, you've always been a minority in this household.”

“How so?”

“You're the only white girl who thinks she's an Indian.”

“Fuck you, again, Traci.”

“Jawea, you're all talk and no action.”

“Traci, you're bad, you're sooo bad,” Jawea smiled, shaking her head.

I wasn't crazy about them flirting in front of me, but I could tell there was nothing behind it.

“Stevie, you should really think seriously about being our roommate,” Jawea whined. “My consciousness-raising group would be so jealous if you provided me with yet another opportunity to struggle with my racism.”

Traci and I had just finished washing the dishes. We'd known each other a whole week now. I was still sleeping in Kate's room. We'd only hugged and kissed, but Traci had made my love come down. I had a feeling that things would heat up soon. I was going back to Chicago on Monday night, so the next couple of days were critical.

“This is gonna be a big dance, huh?” I asked, washing out the wok. I had to remember to tell my family that I'd eaten vegetables stir-fried in a wok.

“Yeah,” Traci nodded. “Anybody who's anybody will be there. Too bad Jawea's down in Santa Cruz. Women of Power are playing; it's gonna be hot.” Traci walked over to the refrigerator and took out a can of beer.

“Then we gotta jump clean,” I said.

“Huh?” Traci asked, popping open the can.

“That's a term we used back at college. It just means you gotta look nice, you know, wear your best threads.”

“Hmm, you learn something every day.”

“I'm not sure what I should wear,” I said, drying the wok. “I have a skirt that I brought.”

“Hold it, you don't need to get all fancy,” Traci said, sipping her beer.

“I didn't bring anything fancy. It's just a simple rayon skirt. Besides, I thought you said this is a big dance.”

“It is, that's why it's gonna be at the Women's Skills Center. That's a big place.”

“Well, what's wrong with my wearing a skirt then?” I asked, heading toward Kate's room.

“Stevie, are you crazy? Nobody would be caught dead in a skirt at this dance,” Traci insisted, following me into the bedroom. “Besides, it would look like we were into roles.”

I opened my suitcase and rummaged through it. “Well, you can wear a skirt too, then nobody will think we're into roles.”

Traci sat on the edge of the bed, holding her chin.

“Stevie, I don't even own a skirt.”

“What about a dress?” I asked sitting down in the rattan chair. I preferred pants in general, but for special occasions, I just automatically wore a skirt or a dress. It was ingrained in me. But there was something bold and exciting about a woman who dared not even to own a skirt.

Traci sipped her beer. “I have a dress for funerals, you dig?”

“Don't you ever go to church?”

“Not to a church where I need to wear a dress.”

“So, the women are going to be dressed pretty much the way they were the other night?” I sighed.

“Yeah, pretty much; maybe a few more vests.”

I frowned.

“Hey, that's one of the things that's so great about being a member of the women's community. You don't ever have to dress up.”

“Yeah, but sometimes it's fun to get all dressed up. And wearing a dress makes me feel feminine.”

Traci wrinkled her forehead. “You sound like a drag queen, I swear.”

“Traci, aren't you ever in the mood to feel feminine?”

Traci shook her head. “Look, Stevie, just be patient, you'll get over these feelings. Now, throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and call it a day.”

“Can I at least iron my T-shirt?”

“We don't have an iron. Nobody I know has an iron, Stevie.”

I sat soaking in a hot bubble bath. I rubbed on some sandalwood soap. I decided to wear my Caribbean shirt to the dance tonight. It was colorful and roomy, so it'd be good for dancing. I wasn't jumping clean, and yet I wouldn't be looking bummy.

Actually I was glad that I'd entered a world where you never had to sit like a lady. I could uncross my legs all I wanted to. Who the hell needed to feel feminine when she could feel comfortable?

I remembered how relieved I felt as a little girl when I'd taken off my Sunday clothes. The stiff patent-leather shoes, that always had to be broken in. The cutesy dress, the scratchy petticoat, the lacy socks, the little white gloves. It all used to be part of being a girl. We weren't allowed to wear pants to school unless it was freezing cold, and then we wore them under our skirts. We used to have to take them off in the coatroom. I was in high school before we stopped being forced to wear a stupid dress or skirt to school everyday. It made me mad just thinking about it.

I rested my head against the inflated bath pillow and soaked in the warm, soapy water. A part of me was nervous about going to the dance tonight. It was like I was making my debut in “the Life.” Unlike last week, this time I'd be “with a woman.” I wasn't just a curiosity-seeker any more. Now I fantasized about holding Traci's body close to mine; without any clothes on.

The freckled-face woman who stamped our hands at the dance took one look at us and said to Traci, “Don't tell me this is the new link in your chain. I thought you liked vanilla.”

“Fuck you, Nancy,” Traci mumbled.

“What chain?” I asked.

“Her chain of fools,” the woman replied.

“She's just mad 'cause I didn't want her ass,” Traci insisted, walking away.

“Sounds like a bad case of sour grapes,” I agreed.

The big, dark warehouse was packed with women decked out in cotton, flannel, and denim. A racially mixed women's band outfitted in vests played a bluesy tune onstage.

“The sistah on harmonica is Pauline Trump,” Traci informed me.

“She's good,” I nodded. “Is she a friend of yours?”

Traci leaned up against the wall. “We're cool, but I wouldn't say we were friends. I know a lot of people. But I'm basically a loner, except for a few associates.”

“You wanna dance?” I asked Traci. “This song has a nice beat.”

Traci nodded. “This tune is called, ‘Sister, Woman, Lover.'”

We danced to three songs in a row and worked up a sweat. Unlike some people, we'd remembered our deodorant. The place was becoming hot and stuffy.

Two women approached us as we headed toward a bench to rest our legs.

Traci introduced the bald, black woman as Pat, and the serious-looking blonde as Gretchen. I'd never seen a bald woman before, but I had to admit that Pat was attractive, despite her Issac Hayes—looking head.

“We were on our way outside to get some air and to fire up a joint,” Pat shouted above the music.

“I could use some air,” I sighed.

“I could use a joint,” Traci added.

“Sounds like a plan,” Pat said, leading the way.

The four of us positioned ourselves on the steps of the building. It was refreshing to be out in the cool, foggy night.

“You all marching tomorrow?” Gretchen asked after sucking on the joint.

I looked at Traci. It suddenly occured to me that she might be expecting me to march. I could just see my family watching the evening news and seeing me stepping in the gay and lesbian parade. It wasn't a pretty picture.