July 27, 2004
Misty, Watercolored Memories
Reading the first paragraph of this entry from the Cutie Down South reminded me of a memory that I cherish to this day. When I was in the Navy, I was only 19. My roommate at the time was my age, the big queer (BQ). His boyfriend on base was in the Army, an older man (OM). OM used to go to the After Dark, Monterey's gay bar at the time. Even though the two were "in love," BQ was intensely jealous of OM and his frequent trips to the bar. One night, BQ tried to weasel his way into the bar with a fake ID he got from who knows where. The door staff at the After Dark were a little more quick than that, and they quickly denied him entrance. That enraged BQ. He came back to the barracks fuming at how he was humiliated and how his fake ID was confiscated. He's lucky he wasn't arrested by the paranoid Monterey police, let alone discharged for being a big ’mo. (That would come later.) Our mutual friend Marge (not his real name) and I tried to persuade him to give it a rest. It was not a good idea to try to infiltrate the gay bar, especially when we all had so much on the line. We tried to convince him that OM wasn't really all that, and if he were fooling around, well, who cared? We were all young; there would be plenty of time for true love and all that.
Anyway, after the big refusal, he went back down to the bar and this time circumvented the front door and ID check and went around to the back of the bar, scaled the wall of the bar, and dropped in on the Back Lot. It wasn't as graceful as that, either. No James Bond moves, no Catwoman twisting around to land on her feet, just a silly, inexperienced queen trying to one-up the man who was cheating on him.
The Back Lot was the best part of the bar, if you could say there was a "best part." It was an outside, garden-like attachment to the main bar. There were two fire pits that provided heat on those cold summer nights, and freedom from the annoying steam/mist/fog machines in the front of the place. The plants and bushes provided for discreet places for people to revist their last meals should the need arise and if the head was occupied. I speak from experience and don't know what use anyone can make of this little tidbit.
Anyway, that night, BQ found OM in conversation with something else, and BQ went off in a rage. He started screaming and yelling and name-calling and everything else undignified and unbecoming of such a Southern belle. He was promptly escorted off the premises and ordered never to return, regardless of his age.
Because I wasn't there, I only know of this from BQ and other queer sailors who were there at the time. DLI was a hot bed of gays, I'm sure I've mentioned this before. The Navy barracks alone were like a bathhouse: leave your door ajar, and sooner or later someone would bite. I kid, although, it could happen, I'm sure.
Somehow, the two of them made amends, both chose to leave the service, and moved in together in Monterey. I didn't keep in touch with them too much. I never liked OM. I had plenty of reasons not to, and maybe I'll share them at a later time. Last I heard of OM, he OD'd on Benadryl (if that's even possible, and how tacky if it is). As for BQ, he moved back to Louisiana, whence he came, and went back to school. Good for her.
BQ gave me lots of good, sordid memories while we were at DLI. I think of him fondly, and almost wish that we were still in touch with each other. But then again, I have enough drama in my life to make up for the loss.
Without getting all sentimental and philosophical, I think it's incredible how so many of us have such similar life experiences. Sometimes it's like we all have the same obstacle course to run in life and it's cool to see how others solved the same problems, or perhaps how we could have done it different or better.
