Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (7 page)

“Remember we're on a tight budget,” I said, not wanting Today to feel bad about her aunt. We were already here; we might as well make the best of it.

“Yeah, it was this place or the YWCA. At least here, we have a private bathroom,” Today reminded Sharlinda.

“Yeah, but how can we go back and hold our heads up if we didn't even have a view. What are we going to tell people in our postcards?” Sharlinda wanted to know.

“I don't know about y'all, but when Miss Thing finishes describing this place, folks will swear we were at the Mark Hopkins, up on Nob Hill, honey,” Today laughed.

“Well, I just hope this bad boy don't have no roaches. Then I can share your fantasy,” Sharlinda smiled.

“We're taking turns sleeping on the cot. So don't you all get too comfortable,” I warned, getting up to unpack.

The Deluxe City Bus Tour had kicked my behind. We'd gone some of everywhere: Chinatown, Golden Gate Park, and Twin Peaks. The next day we rode a ferryboat over to Sausalito and bought souvenirs. On Thursday, Today visited with her aunt over in Oakland. Sharlinda and I rode the cable cars out to Fisherman's Wharf. And today we took a bus tour over to Muir Woods in Marin County. The giant redwood trees were spectacular. It had been an exciting week. Tomorrow we were hooking up with Today's cousin Brian and two of his friends for a night on the town. Come Sunday, we'd fly home.

I knew that Today was self-conscious about the ten pounds she wanted to lose. But in my opinion, wearing a tight skirt that looked like it had been painted on drew even more attention to her weight. The bottom line was, we were all in competition. Sharlinda had lost weight recently, but she piled on the makeup, partly to cover up her zits and also, I suspected, because she was nervous. At one time, Sharlinda's light complexion would've given her an edge over Today and me. But this was 1975, and there was no guarantee that every brother would prefer Sharlinda's pale complexion to our brown ones.

The room smelled like fried hair. Today was straightening her naps in the bathroom mirror with a hot comb. She didn't travel anywhere without it. Sharlinda had fine, limp hair that she swore she couldn't do anything with. She'd recently traded her natural in for a perm.

“Stevie, you think they'll like naturals?” Today yelled from the bathroom.

I continued to pick out my Afro in the dresser mirror.

“How would I know? I've never met them. Brian is your cousin.”

“But I haven't seen my cousin since I was ten.”

“The natural's not as popular as it used to be,” Sharlinda cut in.

“So?”

“So, some people say the Afro's on its way out.”

“Stevie, you're welcome to use my straightening comb and curling iron if you want to be on the safe side,” Today offered.

I stared in the round mirror above the dresser. I was proud of my recently sculpted 'fro. Too bad if they didn't like it. I had no intention of straightening my hair just to please some man I'd never even met.

“No thanks. I'll take my chances.”

“You're brave. Most women aren't willing to sacrifice style just to make a political statement anymore,” Today said.

“Maybe I'm just not
most
women,” I said as the phone rang. “Besides, I don't feel like I'm sacrificing anything.”

“Today, it's for you,” Sharlinda announced.

“Who is it?”

“Who may I tell her is calling?” Sharlinda sounded like a secretary.

“Oh, hi, Brian this is Sharlinda,” she said in a breathy voice.

“Give me the phone, Miss Thing,” Today said, grabbing the telephone.

Sharlinda headed toward the bathroom. She began rubbing acne medication on her face. I would just wait and put my eye shadow and lipstick on when she was finished. I wasn't big on makeup. I didn't wear much and I didn't wear it often. And I could apply it in two minutes flat.

I opened a drawer and pulled out my blue and white striped top. I decided to wear it with my new white pants.

“Bad news,” Today reported, hanging up the phone.

I turned away from the dresser, and Sharlinda walked into the bedroom with zit medication all over her face.

“What is it?” she asked.

Today plopped down on the bed. “Brian's friend Rodney can't make it.”

“That's too bad. Wasn't he the one you said would be perfect for Stevie?” Sharlinda asked.

“I said, we'd just see who naturally gravitated to who.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We said we'd just let the chips fall where they may.”

“Well, my mistake. So, what are we going to do now?”

“I don't know,” Today sighed. “I mean we could all go and just see what happens. See which one of you my cousin falls for. Of course, I've got first dibs on Kyle. I mean you two can fight over Brian.”

“Well, Stevie, you want to flip a coin or draw straws?”

Suddenly, I remembered the stewardess. Maybe it was time to put myself in a situation where I could check out my feelings toward women. With a few phone calls, I could probably find a women's bar. This was my chance. I was away from home and no one would ever have to know. My heart raced at the thought of entering such a forbidden world.

“No, Sharlinda, you and Today go 'head on.”

“Stevie, we wouldn't feel right about us going out to dinner and partying while you're cooped up in this room. Right, Sharlinda?”

“Well, I would feel better if she at least had a view.”

“Who says I'll be cooped up anywhere?”

“Well, where would you go?”

“She could take the Chinatown at Night tour,” Sharlinda suggested.

“Look, I have the tour guide. I'll figure something out. Don't worry about me.”

“Stevie, are you sure? I mean, won't you be lonely?”

“Or scared?” Today cut in.

“I'll be fine. It will be an adventure.”

“But won't you be scared out there alone?”

“Look, Today, you're forgetting that I'm a sistah from the South Side of Chicago. Now, if I can't handle San Francisco, then I oughta quit. Don't you think?”

“Hey, I heard that,” Today agreed.

“‘Miss Thing,' I owe you one,” Sharlinda winked.

“That's fine by me. You can start by taking my turn on the cot tonight.”

Sharlinda and Today had finally gone. I could hear my heart beating fast. I felt relieved to be alone with my plan. I thumbed through the
People's Yellow Pages
, a progressive, nationwide reference book I'd had sense enough to bring along with me. The San Francisco Women's Switchboard … hmmmm … the book said that they dealt with lesbian issues. What should I do, just call and ask where the women's bars were? I supposed that would qualify as a lesbian issue. A bar—I wished there was some alternative to a bar. I wasn't much of a drinker, although I'd probably need a few drinks in a lesbian bar.

I really wanted to talk to somebody, not just sit around some dive. Maybe I should go to a shrink instead. But why should I have to go seek psychiatric help? I was one of the sanest people I knew, sort of. And besides, talk was cheap. No, it wasn't, not that kind of talk. Anyway, I was ready for some action, sort of. I reached for the phone and dialed the number of the San Francisco Women's Switchboard.

“What kind of scene are you into?” The woman who'd answered the phone asked cheerfully.

I hesitated. How did I know? I'd never even been inside of a lesbian bar before.

“There are several women's bars here in the city.”

“Oh, well, I guess I'd like to go to the best one, then.”

“That's probably a matter of opinion. You see, it depends on what you're looking for. Some women like Maude's in the Haight, 'cause it's a friendly neighborhood place. But, if you wanna dance; you might prefer Peg's Place or A Little More.”

“This is my first time. You see, I'm just visiting San Francisco. I've never been to one of those kinds of places before, anywhere. So, I'd like to go where I'd feel the most comfortable.”

“I see. Well, it's not all that easy going into any bar alone. But it's a lot easier than in a straight bar. Actually, I'm straight,” the woman whispered.

“Oh, wow, you could've fooled me.”

“Well, I wasn't trying to fool you.”

“I just meant that you sounded like you had a lot of firsthand experience, that's all.”

“Well, most of my friends are lesbians, and I do go to women's bars and dances. You see, I love to dance and I hate being hassled by men.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling relieved that you could go to a lesbian bar and not necessarily be a lesbian.

“In fact,” the woman continued, “I'm going to a women's dance tonight.”

“Oh, is it open to the public?”

“Sure. I didn't mention it before because it's in Berkeley.”

“Berkeley, is that far?”

“Not really, I live in Berkeley. I take BART and it's not a bad commute. It's only about a half-hour ride.”

“That's nothing. It takes longer than that for me to get from my house to downtown Chicago.”

“Sounds like you might be game, then.”

“Yeah, actually a dance sounds better than a bar.”

“I can give you directions. But you have to remember to get into the BART system by the stroke of midnight.”

“Or I'll turn into a pumpkin?”

“Or you'll have to take a cab back, which costs about twenty-five bucks. Unless of course you get lucky and meet someone tonight and get picked up by her.”

“I'll manage to get into the BART system on time or else spring for a cab. I don't think I'm ready to go home with anyone just yet. It'll be a big deal for me even to get up enough nerve to go inside the place, believe me.”

“Well, good luck, here are the directions.”

Taking BART was an experience in itself. I'd read in the newspaper last year about the Bay Area's new transit system. Yet I was startled when the shiny silver train with blue trim sneaked up on me. Its sleek design reminded me more of something out of
The Jetsons
than Chicago's creaky old el trains. BART even put the newer trains that ran along the Dan Ryan Expressway to shame. BART was computerized; machines gave you your ticket to get in and out of the system. The ride was amazingly quiet; the cars spacious and almost squeaky clean.

I liked what I saw as I walked along the streets of Berkeley: Comfortable-looking houses, quaint shops, harmless-looking hippies. If I got lost, it wouldn't be hard to walk up to one of the several smiling people strolling with backpacks and ask them for directions.

Even though the night air caused me to fasten my sweater, I marveled at the number of people wearing down jackets in June. After eating dinner at Kentucky Fried Chicken, I wiped my mouth good and sucked on a peppermint Life Saver. I didn't want to look greasy or blow chicken breath in anybody's face.

It still tripped me out that a lesbian dance was being held at a church. But that's what the woman at the switchboard had said. Maybe the parishoners envisioned prim and proper ladies waltzing with one another or something.

The closer I got to the dance, the more nervous I felt. What kind of women would be there? I wondered. The few known lesbians I remembered observing during my childhood were never anyone I'd aspired to be like. Take Lois and Gwen from my 'hood, for example. Lois walked and dressed like a man. Gwen was just as feminine as Lois was masculine. And Lois referred to Gwen as “my woman.” Melody, a girlhood friend, had lived upstairs from the couple. She told me that her mother had to call the police on Lois and Gwen more than once. Judging by Gwen's bruises, Melody concluded that Lois also hit like a man. I never saw any advantage in Gwen's being a lesbian. She had two children from a failed marriage. And it baffled me that she would substitute a woman for a man without gaining any ground. What was the point of kissing some woman's behind who hit you whenever she got ready? Not to mention that you got ostracized by society on top of it. I decided that if it was my lot in life to be a lesbian, I wouldn't be
that
kind of lesbian. I would be the kind who'd heard about Women's Liberation.

I turned up the street that the church was supposed to be on. I spied a group of women milling around in the distance. I was shocked to see two women in flannel shirts all hugged up against the church's
CALL TO WORSHIP
sign. I could hear Mama now. “What if the trumpet were to blow at this instant? If God brought an end to the world, you'd be surrounded by the daughters of Satan!”

I breathed in the pungent odor of marijuana and the fragrance of flowers as I hurried past three happy-looking women smoking outside the church. I was greeted by the sound of sweet soul music as I hit the doorway. I tried to act as cool as the music, but I was nervous. My hand shook as I gave the small, wiry woman at the door a dollar bill.

My ears were filled with the sounds of Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. My eyes searched the dark, crowded room for a place to buy a drink. This is an experiment, I reminded myself. If you don't like it, you don't have to stay. I made a beeline for a table with a jug of wine on it after checking my sweater.

I dug out fifty cents from my pants pocket and handed it to the big woman behind the table. I clutched the Styrofoam cup like it was my security blanket.

I slouched against the wall in a corner where I could observe the action. Occasionally I peered over my wine to watch the room full of white women dressed like farmhands, bouncing up and down.

“Are you into rolls?”

“Huh?” I asked, suddenly looking into the face of a cinnamon-colored stranger. I stood up straight. I was almost as tall as this woman, although she was about ten pounds heavier. She was wearing a vest, jeans, and cowboy boots.

I was intrigued by her style.

“I asked you, are you into rolls?” The woman repeated with just a hint of irritation in her voice.