My Big Night Out!

“Why did I bother?” I say to myself, shaking my head, “I won’t meet anyone tonight.”

It’s Saturday night in the summer of 1996. I’m in my bedroom in the huge house I’m sharing with 4 other people. It’s a new situation for me. I’m trying it out, but It’s difficult. I don’t like having housemates. I like my privacy and quiet, but the opportunity arose for me when I was looking for housing, and I thought, why not give it a try? At least I’d save some money.

I walk down the hall to the shared bathroom to shower before I head out. Sharing a bathroom is the hardest part of this living situation. I take my clothes off and lean in to the stall. As I reach for the knob to turn the water on, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a mass of dark curly hair blocking the drain. My stomach flips and I gag. That hair belongs to the 18-year-old kid who lives down the hall. He turned me on to Rusted Root, and I love him for that. But who raised him? Geez, man. Clean up after yourself. I’m not your mother.

It almost puts me off taking a shower. I’m resentful that I have to deal with this and my jaw clenches as I try to shove my feelings down. Armed with a handful of tissues and retching slightly, I reach into the shower, turning my head a little––so I don’t have to see––and feel for the bird’s nest below. I grab it, and pull it all out, and quickly toss it into the garbage.

“Okay,” I say to myself “try to remember why you’re showering at 8pm on a Saturday night…you’re going dancing.” There’s a new gay club that opened and I want to check it out. Maybe I’ll meet someone, I think to myself. I want to meet someone. Showered and dressed in my favorite club outfit, which consists of my black high-waisted stretch pants with white polka dots, my sleeveless black turtleneck, and to finish the look, my favorite part: a hot pink cropped linen jacket, shoulder pads and all. Yes, it’s very 80s, and it’s the mid-nineties now, but I like what I like, and I think I look hot. I do look hot, dammit!

I get to the club way too early. I can’t help it; I’m not cool that way. There are two other people, and we wander around the open dance floor, avoiding eye contact. It seems like we don’t want to acknowledge each other’s awkwardness. It feels so desperate, showing up before the deejay. I roll my eyes at myself, and survey the space. I buy a ginger ale and find a wall to lean against and wait for the other people who are looking for love (or sex) to arrive.

The cute gay boys begin to trickle in, two and three at a time, and the dance floor fills. I’m shy and tense. “Why did I bother?” I say to myself, shaking my head, “I won’t meet anyone tonight.”

I treat myself to a real drink. A shot of crappy bottom shelf tequila. Slugging it back, I want to feel softer, less stressed. It relaxes me a little, burning my throat as it moves into my bloodstream. I’m not much of a drinker. I rarely have more than one because I have to get myself home.

As I’m spinning possible horror stories in my head about what could go wrong because I’m shy and kind of nerdy, a woman walks in. She’s dressed in white, wearing a v-neck tee-shirt and jeans. She looks like one of those people who don’t need to obsess about the way they present. She looks casually perfect to me. She’s cute. No, she’s beautiful. There’s disco playing, and she’s dancing on a platform. Her hair is blonde, and cut blunt to her jawline. Her teeth are perfect, straight, white, and oh…her smile. Her smile is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s bright, she seems so happy, so self-assured. She’s dancing alone, and projects confidence in her solitude. She seems like she’s in another world. I stare at her from across the room for what feels like a very long time, too long maybe, but I can’t stop watching her. She looks up, coming out of herself to take in the room, scanning the crowd and her gaze lands on me. I freeze inside, but somehow my smile takes hold of my face. I have a great smile too, though my teeth are not as white or straight. It’s a big smile that lights up my face. There are times when I lose control of my smile, it's authentic, and I can’t and don’t want to shut it down. Smiling makes the rest of me relax a bit, though I can feel my heart beating more quickly than normal.

She sees me smiling and smiles back. We hold each other’s gaze for a while, until my shyness returns and I break the spell, gazing downward. We approach each other from opposite sides of the space and dance together. Between the two of us, there’s an awful lot of smiling going on. It’s fun. We barely speak to each other, it’s so noisy inside. I can feel the bass line pounding, matching my heartbeat. Trying to stay present to the moment I’m in, I can’t help but wonder…what if she’s the one? Ugh. I do this every time. Tied up in futuristic thoughts, I lose track of what’s happening right in front of me.

We agree, wordlessly, to go outside to take a break, and get some air. Leaning against the building we talk. I like her. She’s smart and very, very funny, and she’s got a great laugh. It feels easy and exciting. As we’re chatting, some guy drives by in a rusted-out Buick that needs a new exhaust pipe, and screams “Fucking dykes!” at us. We look at each other and burst into uncontrollable laughter, saying “fucking dykes” over and over again. It’s hilarious. Swapping phone numbers, I fly home, filled with hope. Even though I’m nervous, I call her the next day. She’s an organic farmer living in a small antique Airstream on someone else’s land. She’s got her own plot. I’m a massage therapist. I swap a massage for cucumbers, tomatoes and way too much zucchini.

We begin to date, move in together, probably way too soon (not in the Airstream). But this “roommate” is one I can happily share a shower with. It only lasts about a year, I’m not ready for love, I don’t know how to do intimacy, and I leave. But later, after the hurt heals, we become best friends.

Almost 30 years have passed since the night we met. Sometimes, we tell each other that story, sitting on her deck, drinking water and getting high. We look at each other, and at the same time, yell “FUCKING DYKES!” and laugh and laugh and laugh.

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