THE GAY BAR

They called to invite the long overdrawn mentality that was their friend and co-worker out. Out of the densely lit townhouse. Out of the melancholy bass tune afforded by Millie Jackson. Out of the caustic environment performed by her teenage pubescent daughter. She had buried herself beneath the decision to get a divorce. The husband had been running the streets now, playing the field, noticeably... since months after marriage... hanging out with local clip artists who ran the alleys with armloads of fur coats half dragging behind them in the dirt. He had come in from his insurance debit route with infestations that "came off the couch" and the deep-seated bruises on his neck that he never knew were there. He ran from her insatiable sex throngs as though she were the enemy. He swore he would not be her "sex buddy." They had been married now for seven years. Seven years that now found him living between the street and his mother's small apartment for his decision made two years prior. He claimed not to have known about her sex drive. Not to have known prior to putting the ring on her finger, that she was what some considered to be a nymph. He had deserted her for the excuse of her "determination to work" and her decision to take a third job with the military. The National Guard would allow extra money and family togetherness. There was even an option to bring her family to the training area while she endured Basic and Individual training. She would not be allowed to live off base, but her two children and husband could be near her. He chose to run the streets, unemployed and a recent would-be father of her miscarried child. He had not stayed long enough to hear the announcement of her pregnancy, or the further news of it being lodged within her fallopian tube. When the tube ruptured, he was no place to be found. Instead, her cousins and a co-worker took turns calling EMTs and taking her to emergency at the hospital and to her original physician. The physician who had worked diligently with the husband and his patient to help them have this child. Dr. Ahmari had performed routine and news-breaking procedures for fertility. None had worked in the early years due to low sperm count. Now it had become an issue of her own conception ability. They had not been able to have a child together for the entire time. In the prior marriage, there was no problem with impregnating her. She had two beautiful and healthy children ...boy and girl.

Now it had come to this. She was left alone to heal from the scars of a broken marriage and from the ruptured tube; the evidence of his existence. Her options for childbearing were further reduced now to implant, test tube or surrogate. If she bore another child it would not be with this man, it would be with her next love. At twenty-nine she was non-impregnable. After the birth of her second child, scar tissue had formed from being hit in the abdomen frequently and over the duration of marriage, by the father of her children. Scar tissue that grew to choking consistency around her reproductive organs. Scar tissue that though unpredictable at age sixteen, had caused her to endure two surgical procedures to remove and straighten what skill would allow by the capable hands of Dr. Ahmari... son of an Arabic Tailor. He had been a family physician since before her marriage to the children's father. He had seen her through two husbands and was personally sympathetic to her demise. He had performed her first female physical.

It was late when the co-worker called. Someone was having a birthday and the girls were taking her out to a local club. A few of the girls were getting together for an unpressured night, and she was invited. "You've been in that house and at work doing absolutely nothing going noplace! Come on! get a life! We'll stop by on the way, be ready!" "Where are you all..." she didn't have time to finish the question. The co-worker and her lady friend had been good companions for early morning coffee and key lime tarts, tender delicacies from the local bakeries. Many weekends had seen her and the children stopping by in the early morning with apple cider and sweets from the Glenwood Bakery... Kiwi Custard ...Key Lime ...and Strawberry Tarts; enough for everyone in the house. There would be coffee, chocolate and hot tea to greet the guests and those who lived at the house in Chicago Heights. Weekend mornings lasted until noon with coffee "clutches" and videos to balance long and lagging conversations of spoiled relationships, children and poetry. She and her children left for the Hammond townhouse afterward with renewed drive for Sunday and the oncoming week.

This invitation was an open effort by the co-worker and her lady friend to break the observed depression seen lingering on the face of a friend. "I guess", she sighed and changed into a dress slipping on the low-heeled burgundy pumps usually worn with jeans. She whispered to her daughter that she would be back within an hour, doubtful that she would stay that long. When they arrived, she got in the car and rode with the three women a few short blocks to their favorite club. One step inside told her there was something unusual about it. There were no guys. Women were dancing in the one large smoky room. Others were standing or leaning on the bar. It was like the cowboy scenes of John Wayne movies, only the long arms were female. She stepped in closer to the women who had brought her there. SKOOTERS was a bar for all women. It was the LESBIAN SCENE away from the prying eyes of onlookers. It was something new, so new she told them to take her home. "I can't ...uuuhhhh... I can't do this!" the other women looked at her with disbelief. "We haven't even sung or said hello to the birthday girl, we can't leave right now." "Stay a little while, let us tell our friends hello maybe dance a dance or two then we'll take you home." They were unrelenting. As they mingled, she sat at one of the round tables near the sidewall. By the close of their second dance, a short woman approached her table and sat down. "Hi, I'm Barbra, who are you?" The woman inhaled a deep breath of smoke from a small cigar ...a tiparello with a cherry scent. "What's your name," she grew more insistent in making conversation. "I'm uhh... " she felt around for an answer, "My name's ...Giselle." It was a good response, her cousin used her name in sticky situations, it was high time she played the reversal.

"Do you come here often Giselle? I haven't seen you here before." The woman attempted to make light conversation then asked her for a dance. Barry White groaned into one of his seductive epitaphs for lovers as she lingered upon the question. "Maybe uhhh, the next record. I'll dance on the next one... after I finish this drink." It was not what she had expected. This night out was totally opposite from everything she had learned since age fifteen. The co-worker returned to the table before the next record finding her sitting alone. She started, "Jon, can we leave now... before the next record?" then added, "I don't like it here!" in a whispered yell. Jon had begun to enjoy herself. The beer bottle in her hand was finished except for what would amount to a final gulp. "You're almost done with your drink, why not take me home and come back. Tony won't mind, I asked her." The Co-worker looked at her squarely, "Do you really expect me to stop in the middle of what I'm doing? I just started having fun. If Tony wants to leave then we'll go." "Fine!", there was going to be no resolve unless she walked home from the bar. They had not been out for an hour and already she felt pressured by the strain of no escape. The music stopped and the short woman returned as did Tony and a few other women with Gladice. Gladice had ridden with Jon and Tony as their usual companion. She beamed from the attention paid to her by the women at the bar. Tony had a slightly different display, she was on the prowl. Her tight cargo pants, wide leather belt and low collared oversized breasts was advertisement for any who had eyes. She flashed smiles and quick glances at the various women around the room as she pulled Jon toward the wall. The music started again, upbeat this time. The short woman pulled her by the hand out to the dance floor in the middle of the crowd of arm-flinging sashaying women. "Okay... okay! I'll be right back." She stepped back to the table grabbed her snifter of Drambuie and sauntered back to the short woman. They danced through the record before Jon and Tony noticed and moved to her side. The room broke to a myriad of line dances on the next record then spun off into couples as another slow song started up. Her glass, emptied at the first dance, was refilled by a hotpant wearing blonde woman who appeared from nowhere. "Oh no!... I don't .." the waitress was gone before the words of refusal could be heard. Tony heard her and stepped to the rescue, "I'll take that!" She took the snifter and bottomed the drink before dashing the glass back onto the table. "It's not good to mix drinks Tony!" she tried to warn her friend. Tony had been sipping dry wine since stepping through the door. When a crowd of women swarmed over to surround them, the guest pushed the door open and stepped outside. The night air was clean and fresh. The smoke-filled room had become just a little too much with the bumping and grinding of females wall to wall and threat of an unwanted touch lurking at the end of every spoken word. She stepped outside and drew a long deep breath not thinking of why she had stepped out or how she was going home; only that she was leaving.

The street was lit up with nightclubs, it was as though she had never seen the area before. On each side of the women's club, there were bars, pubs and taverns. Now and then a single body could be seen in either direction stepping up to then disappearing into the walls of any of the spaces down the road. The door opened behind her and Tony stuck her head out, "What ya doin out there?" She had a whimsical expression on her face that caused the guest to laugh. "Oh! I'm funny am I !?" Tony stepped outside. "What's so funny?" She responded with, "It's your face!" and an even louder laugh, "...Your expression." Tony relaxed a little, "Oh. Well, we were wondering where you went. You ready to get out of here?" The guest responded, "I don't..." Tony cut her off, "You don't like it here, these women, the atmosphere. I know. It ain't your kind of scene." She headed toward the door again, "I'll get Jon, we'll take you home." As Tony disappeared into the smoke, she realized Jon was more at home here than at work. She blended in with these women the way the "Giselle" blended in at the jazz clubs on the arm of a man. They truly were different animals. Tony reappeared with Jon in a matter of minutes. "Gladice is riding with Barbra, we can go now."