Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (25 page)

“I heard that,” I smiled. “And if the brotha says yes, I'll go check out that club I mentioned. And leave you to your own devices.”

Lester shook my hand warmly. “You got a deal.”

“Knock 'em dead.”

I wanted to be surprised, so I didn't look up for a while. But when I did, Lester was cutting up on the floor with Poindexter to Gloria Gaynor's “Never Can Say Good-bye.” It was time for me to book.

Wild Side West was a club in the middle of Italian North Beach, but it had a cowboy theme. There were pictures on the walls of women riding horses, and a lot of the patrons were dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, and Frye boots. But nobody patted my shoulder and said, “Howdy, pardner.”

I was the only black person in the dark, crowded, smoky club. This wasn't unusual for San Francisco. If I were going to make it here, I guess I'd have to get used to feeling like a fly in a pail of buttermilk, as Grandma would say.

I didn't come here to hold up the walls. So I decided to assert myself as soon as I spotted someone cute and had polished off a couple of beers.

I
had
to dance to LaBelle. I checked out a shapely brunette over in the corner. She was fashionably dressed, for a lesbian bar. She had on nice black pants and a pale-blue silk Indian-style top. At least she wasn't dressed like a rancher. I took a big swallow of beer and swaggered toward her.

“Would you like to dance?” I asked, wanting to rush her onto the small floor space to finish out the song.

The young woman smiled at me like she might be flattered. She tossed her head back and said, “Sure.”

I was a happy camper. It was the first time in my life I'd ever asked a stranger to dance. And she'd said yes!

I put my heart into it and we jammed on into the next song. We tore up the floor, rocking close to each other's bodies. The woman was even grinning up in my face the whole time. I thought she was cute with her turned-up nose and pouty-lips. So what if she was white? I could love 'em from snow to crow. Wasn't this a free country? And it didn't get any freer than San Francisco.

When the song ended, my dancing partner waved to some people coming in. She said she had to catch up with her friends. I thanked her for the dance like a perfect gentleman, and she was gone.

The next couple of tunes were tired. I couldn't see taking a chance on getting rejected behind some song that didn't even have it going on. Especially on my birthday. The woman I'd danced with was busy talking. And I didn't see anybody else that looked interesting. I decided to call it a night.

Walking along Broadway was really a trip. The streets were lit up with neon signs advertising naked women and sex acts. Barkers in uniforms outside the clubs tried to entice people to come inside.

“Completely nude, our ladies go all the way! Male to female, female to female. Come get it while it's hot!

“How about you, young lady? You won't see this back where you're from.”

I just laughed and kept on stepping.

“Girl, I'm so glad i tracked you down,” Sharlinda sighed after we'd exchanged greetings and discussed the weather.

“Your Mama said you out there living from pillar to post. Said you need to bring your butt back here to Chicago. What you out there for anyway?”

“I like it out here.”

“You ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. Everybody back here is working.”

“You gotta job?”

“Yes, ma'am. I got on with Head Start in Milwaukee.”

“Well, go 'head on wit yo' bad self.”

“You could get hired here or with Model Cities or something. I'm a black studies major and they got me teaching, girl.”

“How do you like Milwaukee?”

“I like that it's only a hop, skip, and a jump from Chicago. I got me a cute one-bedroom apartment. And I got my eye on a fine brotha across the hallway, too.”

“I'm scared of you.”

“What's happenin' with you in the dude department? Obviously that thing with Mr. Goodbar has fizzled out.”

“Yeah, it's dead. But all I'm tripping on right now is getting a job and a place.”

“Surrounded by all them fags, I guess you ain't got much choice.”

I bristled. “Sharlinda, I'm not comfortable with that word.”

“Listen at you. Don't nobody care what you comfortable with back in the Midwest. We tell it like it is.”

“Well, I'm telling you how I feel.”

“Okay, Miss Touchy-feely, I'm sorry. I ain't got nothing against gays. My favorite uncle is funny. I just don't want to marry one, you dig?”

I groaned. “So, Sharlinda, have you heard from Today lately?”

“Girl, I'm worried about the Beaver. No point in me beating around the bush.”

“Well, make it plain.”

“Today got involved with somebody.”

“So?”

“They talking serious, girl.”

“So, what's wrong with that?”

“Plenty.”

“Is he a drug addict or an alcoholic? Does he beat her?”

“Well, no.”

“Well, then what are you tripping about? I thought you said you weren't gonna beat around the bush!”

“I was just building up to a climax. Girl, Today is riding the bus.”

“Riding the bus?” I asked, not having heard the expression used like that since college.

“Yeah, girl, she's up with a hoogie.”

“Look, it's not the end of the world because Today is seeing a white dude. I mean, is his color the only thing you have against him?”

“You don't understand, Stevie. Sam's not only white.”

“Mr. Charlie's name is Sam.” I chuckled. “Well, what else is he?”

“You've heard that there's nothing worse than a stingy man, right?”

“Yeah, although I can think of worse things.”

“Well, this is worse.”

“What is he a murderer or a rapist?”

“No, he's poor!”

“Poor? What do you mean by poor?”

“I mean he's poor as in po'. He ain't got shit, OK,” Sharlinda replied.

“White and poor, huh?”

“You got it.” Sharlinda sighed.

I digested this information. White and poor, it wasn't even exotic. It conjured up thoughts of white bread and gravy, Cheese Whiz and endless recipies involving Spam and Vanilla Wafer cookies. Hadn't I heard that a white poor person could never really ever rise above it, unlike black people? Their poorness got under their skin, their pasty white skin, which couldn't even tan decently. Poor black people were at least interesting, expected to be colorful, have attitude, be able to dance and sing like they meant it. And black people had a debt to collect, a score to settle. We'd been wronged, dogged royally in this country. A white poor person couldn't play a sympathy card. My grandmother had told me about a black man who seemed to begin every sentence, “Now if I hadda been born white.” Grandma said he'd damn near be president of the United States if he'd been born a white man, to hear him tell it. But who could argue that a person born white didn't have a better shake in life, all in all?

“A business major and she ends up with trash.” Sharlinda interrupted my thoughts.

“Sharlinda, money isn't everything. Haven't you heard the best things in life are free?”

“That
sounds
nice, but I'd rather have nice
things
.”

“It's not about that out here. Plenty of folks have furniture made of crates and plywood and cinder blocks. They get their clothes from secondhand stores or even free boxes. And if they have a car, it's an old beat-up number. And nobody trips. In fact, people are worried about appearing too materialistic. They even have a name for it …”

“Yeah, stupid-ass white folks,” Sharlinda groaned.

“No, downwardly mobile.”

“Well, that might be cute if your daddy happens to be an investment banker. But if some folks start moving downward, they'll be picking cotton pretty soon. I mean, what was the struggle for, if you don't want shit? If white folks want to drop out and throw away everything, that's their business. And you can be a love child if you want to. But that hippy-dippy shit done played out in the rest of the country. Me myself, I want a piece of the damn pie!”

“Sharlinda, maybe the pie is sour. You think all these white folks are happy? These suburban housewives, popping Valium right and left, and these white men in suits with their three-martini lunches? I think a lot of them are as empty as all get-out.”

“If they are, it's their own damn fault.”

“The point is, maybe we can learn from their mistakes. Why adopt their bankrupt values?”

“You tripping, Stevie. White folks are miserable because it's just part of being white folks. They're a tired race of people. Let's face it, they never learned how to have a good time. They can't dance, they don't put any feeling in they songs, and most of them can't fuck.”

“In that case, let's hope Today has found an exception.”

“I wasn't gonna say it, but this makes me wonder about Today.”

“What do you mean?”

“Girl, haven't you heard folks say, ‘A white man is a step away from being with a woman?'”

“No, really?”

“Yeah, girl, so no telling what line she might cross next.”

“Sharlinda, you need to quit.”

“Girl, I'm just telling you what folks say.”

“Give me your new number, I gotta run.” I needed time to digest that.

14

Even the devil knew I needed a job by now. I couldn't be up under Sterling with no money much longer and hold my head up. We got along, but I still had to dance to Sterling's music. I mean that literally and figuratively. I'd grown to like disco, which was lucky, since he played it nonstop.

Sterling had a thing against football; said he didn't want any parts of it. Wouldn't even watch the Forty Niners play against the Bears. Sterling would've been a walking stereotype, except that he loved playing basketball. Sterling said he could talk as loud and smell as funky as the next nigga on the court.

But he was sure finicky about everything else. He even had his albums alphabetized. Sterling threw a hissy fit just because I'd put his Sylvester album in front of Donna Summer. I was reminded of what Grandma always said: “I'd rather be in my own shack, than in somebody else's mansion.”

Nobody in their right mind would tell a job interviewer that they were gay. At least that's what I thought. But Sterling had convinced me that “coming out” at my interview with the Personal Change Counseling Center would be my ace in the hole. I couldn't believe I'd agreed to do it. But Sterling knew more about the do's and don'ts in this crazy town than I did. So, if he thought coming out would get me over, it was worth a try.

I faced my two interviewers, Ellen and Mitch, with what I hoped was a warm and confident smile.

I'd already glanced around the tasteful, comfortable office. I appreciated the wood. I concluded that I'd prefer to work in a Victorian house than a modern office building any day.

Ellen, the assistant director, was pleasant-looking, with long straight hair and a big face. She was babbling on about how they were looking for a receptionist who believed in taking responsibility for her own destiny. I couldn't help but feel relieved. Here I'd been worried that I might have to take a typing test.

Mitch, the director, said that he was an est member. He was around thirty, tall, muscular, and dark-haired. He reminded me of a wild-eyed intellectual.

“We believe that everyone should take responsibility for his or her own life,” he insisted, tugging at his sideburn.

I nodded. No point in being controversial.

“Do you understand what we mean when we say that you are responsible for your own feelings?”

“I think so,” I answered cautiously. I might think he meant one thing, but he might really mean another.

“We mean that no one else can make you feel anything,” Ellen offered.

“No matter what they do?” I tried to make it sound more like a statement than a question. But I wasn't so sure I agreed. It seemed to me that people could trigger feelings in you.

“Ultimately, you choose your reaction,” Mitch insisted.

“For example,” he continued, “say you called me a ‘conniving Jew.'”

I looked at Mitch and realized that he was Jewish. I was glad he hadn't used me as an example.

“I can choose to express anger,” Mitch continued. “I could call you a dumb nigger, for example.” I felt myself getting hot. They'd better hire me after putting me through this bullshit, I thought. Mitch was probably just looking for an excuse to call somebody a nigger and get away with it. He wasn't fooling me. I was a minute off his ass.

“Or Mitch could laugh it off.”

“Yes, I could
choose
to laugh it off.” Mitch smiled.

“The point is, I
choose
my reactions. I can choose to let you get to me. Or I can
choose
to see you as a pathetic soul not worth my energy.”

I nodded in agreement. I wondered how I was going to work in that I was a lesbian. Despite my irritation, I needed a gig badly. Even a receptionist job that paid $600 a month.

“How much typing is involved?” I asked. It was better to have it out in the open. I was no typist. I knew the keyboard, had to in order to be a journalism major. But 30 wpm was about my top speed.

“We're not concerned about your typing ability.”

“You're not?” I asked with relief.

“No,” Ellen continued. “We're interested in the kind of energy you project. We want someone who is in touch with his or her feelings.”

Ellen gave me a soulful look. I remembered to make eye contact. White folks love it when you look them in the eyes. Otherwise, they think you're sneaky. I learned that in social psychology class. But in the South it was different. Black folks were taught to look down out of deference when talking to white folks.