I Came Out for This? (16 page)

“Use protection,” I said.

After everyone left, I actually felt pretty good about Nicky and Jerome. I like my friends to get to know one another, as long as they don't make me feel left out. Not that Nicky and Jerome can include me in all of their, uh, activities. But eventually they'll always come back to mama.

November 2000

It's the day after the election and nobody knows who the
president
is. Isn't that a hoot?

Yesterday I went to Kimba's house for an election night party. She lives in Brookland, a Northeast neighborhood that has a provincial charm and reminds me of Little Italy in Cleveland except it's racially mixed. Kimba invited five women over, including Bette. We sat in Kimba's small living room with its cozy old furniture and sports souvenirs and ate Safeway deli sandwiches and drank beer and watched the returns.

At first the networks reported that Gore was about to win Florida and if that happened he'd have the whole deal pretty well sewn up. So we were all celebrating, dancing around and high-fiving. Even though I'm not exactly enamored with cardboard Al, I was
so
relieved that at least the danger was passing of having that smirking imbecile in the White House right down the street from where I have to shave my legs and brush my teeth. But then, a couple hours later, the networks made
another
hysterical announcement. They said, “Hold everything! We made a mistake! It looks like Al does
not
have Florida in the bag! It seems they are actually neck and neck!” We all started shrieking, “What! What kind of bullshit is
this
?” And then, around 2 a.m., Tom Brokaw said, “We have a final tally in Florida. George Bush has won Florida. George Bush will be the next President of the United States.” God. We all just sat there and stared in disbelief. Just imagine having that
cretin
as President of the United States. It would be a disaster. Even people who voted for him for some demented reason, like they are enamored with their gun collections handed down by their great-grandpas or they've seen too many films of fetuses being yanked from uteruses in gooey chunks, even
they
have to admit that should this man become President they would have to play the Scarecrow theme song for him instead of “Hail to the Chief.” And anyway I personally cannot stand him. He represents everything I detest. And here were all those media idiots excitedly blathering about Bush getting ready to make his victory speech and Al preparing his concession speech. Everyone went home feeling so dispirited. I went to bed hoping I'd never get up again, because I didn't know how I could endure waking up in a lonely little teeny tiny room with that horrid Dubya as the President-elect.

This morning the phone woke me and it was Kimba. She said, “They're saying the election is now too close to call.” I screamed with joy, not only at the news itself, but because a national crisis could take my mind off my stupid nervous breakdown that I've been having for the past two months. Kimba stayed calm, as she always does. She kept making little jokes about Florida, which is the contested state. She said there are some problems with the dimples
or the crimples or something in the Florida ballets and they have to recount them. Kimba's twin sister lives in Florida and Kimba has been down there many times and she said they don't know how to do things indoors. She was serious. I haven't laughed that hard in two months.

Actually, everyone in town is laughing. We may not know who the fucking president is for days or even weeks. It will take them that long to figure out who won Florida. I'll bet Bill loves this because he can still be the Big Kahuna in there as long as it lasts. They'll have to drag him out of there, won't they? He's having so much fun being President.

I love Bill. I don't care that he can't keep his weenie tucked in. I think he's adorable. Imagine Dubya addressing the Human Rights Campaign, the national gay advocacy organization, the way Bill did! If he did, he would stumble all over his words and act all uncomfortable and be terrified that one of the men might get within a foot of him and turn him into a queer.

Was that stupid or what—for all those TV networks to announce his victory when he hadn't even won? They make me sick too. They're always trying to call attention to themselves. They think an election is like a spectacular Broadway play with
them
as the narrators and principal characters—kind of like Tom in
The Glass Menagerie
—and they are compelled to say “Good night, Laura, put out your candles,” at the end of the night. “Good night, Al, put out your candles.” They were afraid they would have to stay up all night and still not have the big news to report, so they just made it up! They wanted to be the big heroes, instead of big nobodies that went home with
a goose egg. So they said that Dubya won before he even did. And they really screwed everything up, because now
Al
is the one that has to prove himself because everyone has in mind that
Dubya
won, but they just have to make
sure
.

It probably will be that idiot Dubya. God help us all.

It's Friday after Thanksgiving and I am home for the holiday, in dear little Cleveland. The most extraordinary thing occurred on Wednesday night after Tommy picked me up at the airport. We drove through downtown on the I-71 overpass and the ignited skyline appeared up to our left and I was
enchanted
. Tommy said, “Oh shut up, Werm. It's the same pit stop that it always was.” But I saw it differently now that I'm not
stuck
there, like he is. The city looked beautiful. It's a great city on a Great Lake, and I've always thought it does itself a disservice by comparing itself with the behemoths flanking it, New York and Chicago, instead of measuring itself against smaller cities like Toledo or Indianapolis and looking like a winner. There was my exquisite Terminal Tower, and the corporate skyscrapers surrounding it like proud parents (even though they're newer—the child is father to the man), and the radiant embrace of Jacobs Field, and beneath us hissed the wild underbelly that characterizes so many great cities—the industrial flats with its railroad tracks and smokestacks and trash heaps and flotsam and the notorious Cuyahoga River (which once caught on
fire and burned the mayor's hair) running through it like healthy bubbling piss. What a glorious town!

I'll be here for a few more days and then I'm going to my storage locker to meet my movers that I hired to transport the rest of my stuff to my new suite at the rooming house. Yesterday at Thanksgiving dinner (which was wonderful—my
meshuggena
family does holidays well), everyone tried to talk me out of it. “Come back to Cleeblands!” my mother beseeched. (She likes to call it “Cleeblands” in honor of the malapropping ballplayer Minnie Minoso.) Dad said in his halting, post-mini-stroke way: “Uh, Joanna, why don't you come back here, do some writing, and get more established, and then make a decision where you ultimately want to live?” (It took him about five minutes to say this, but nobody interrupted him.) Robbie said, “You're just going back there to chase after that woman!” and Micky chimed in with, “Yeah, Jo. You're really making a big mistake.” Queen said in her motherly way, “You're going to get hurt again, Peeps.”

The only one who made any sense was my older sister, who has not been corrupted by the family system because she didn't enter it until she was forty after I discovered she existed and contacted her, saying it was ridiculous for Dad to have kept her a secret and she should be one of us. Kathleen pounded on the table in her dramatic way (she was once a working actress) and announced, “Listen, you're all full of crap. Joanna made an excellent decision getting the hell out of here and it will do her no good to return and get sucked back into that depressing rut she was in. Furthermore, this city is gray. It has one of the lowest average days of sunlight of all major American
cities. Joanna is susceptible to depression and needs to be in a more hospitable climate. I do agree that this woman is poison for her, but she just has to discover that on her own.” Then Queen said, “Kathleen is right. Peeps should go back to DC.” Mom and Dad just stared at my sisters in disappointment, and my brothers clumped off to watch the game.

But in spite of Kathleen's vote of confidence, I'm feeling depressed about the whole thing. I just let them yammer on about Terri instead of reminding them that it's all over and that she's with someone else. Why are they even still talking about her? They probably think I haven't given up on her. But I have. Then why am I going back there, when my reason for going there is down the tubes and I'm completely out of place among all those people running to meetings in their little suits, and that awful Dubya is going to be my neighbor?

I suppose I'm going back because it's where I
live
now. What am I supposed to do, stay here? That's out of the question. Getting out of here was the best thing I ever did, in spite of all the consequences. I've discovered one of the great ironies, that the way to go back “home” is to get the hell out in the first place. Then you can come back and be enraptured by the skyline and all of a sudden the city becomes part of the stuff you're made of, it enriches you and makes you more complex.

I wonder what DC is doing to the “stuff I'm made of.” Maybe it's putting all kinds of crap in it. But if it is, so be it. One thing I can say is that I have no regrets about moving there. No regrets at all.

December 2000

I've been in my new place for two weeks, and on Saturday I had a housewarming party. Bette suggested it. The place didn't feel at all like home when I moved in, the way the little room down the hall did when I first came here. So Bette said that I should invite some people for a “grand opening.” I said what the hell, and invited a bunch of people, and they all came, including Karrie, Kimba's twin sister, who was visiting from Florida. Kimba, Karrie, and Bette helped me set everything up. We arranged appetizers from the Safeway on my round coffee table and whipped up a kickin' rum punch, and Kimba got the idea to put a ribbon across the door, to be cut by the first guest, who turned out to be Pia from the potluck group. My friends oohed and aahed at my little apartment, which is rather nice with its French-style bay windows, lemon-yellow walls, new carpet, bookcases, and adornments like my cityscape futon cover, papasan chair, and my brother's paintings covering the walls. We laughed and gossiped and played CDs and danced. Besides Kimba's twin and the potluck group (aka “The Ditches”), my guests included Beanie and Samantha, two of Kimba's
friends that I hit it off with at the election party, Johnny and Guillermo, Calliope (who just came for the free food and probably didn't even know whose room she was in), and Jerome and Nicky, who strolled in together. Nicky looked as though he'd just been blasted to the moon in a star-spangled rocket ship, and Jerome looked triumphant. Of course, I'll have to be around to pick up the pieces when Jerome starts depleting Nicky's bank account and cheating on him with men he scoops out of the gutter, but what the hell. That's what friends are for.

I always thought Bette was wilder than Kimba, but it may be the other way around. The two of them did a little ass-bump dance, and it was so burlesque, Kimba's tight little ass shimmying down to meet short Bette's voluptuous ass, and then Bette got tired and sat down and Kimba started yelling at other people to come up and dance with her, and Nicky danced with her for a while, but then everyone was all danced out, so Kimba just kept dancing by herself. She dances like a cowgirl, because she's a country-western dancer. After everyone left and Kimba was helping me clean up (Bette had to go to a benefit), she told me the funniest story about the “dance police” at the lesbian country-western dances she attends, these severe women who two-step according to timeworn rules and accused Kimba of “zigzagging.” I said, “So did you stop this zigzagging after they chastised you?” And Kimba said, “Of course not.”

Kimba has the cutest smile. It's different from Terri's. Terri has a big grin that stays on her face when she's in a good mood. Kimba smiles almost in spite of herself. When she realizes she's smiling, she stops. I think it's so
cute. I don't know what I would do without her. I'm still kind of discombobulated. I kept missing Terri at the party. It didn't feel right that she wasn't there. After everyone left I cried, thinking about the e-mail Terri sent after I called her and said “Fuck you,” in which she said she was sorry I was in so much pain and she heard I was in the hospital and hoped I was better, and she wished me “all the happiness you deserve.” As nice as the party was, I felt as though it was missing its center. But when I finally settled down in my futon-bed, the last thing I pictured was Kimba and Bette doing that jaunty dance, and when I fell asleep I dreamed about being on a train, clackity-clacking down the road, and wheat fields were all around me, and the Little Rascals were running through the car with that adorable pitbull named Petey. It was a nice dream, far nicer than that awful recurring dream I was having not long ago that I was in hell. It was hell, too. Literally. And I've got news for you, puppies. Hell is
not
hot. It's chilly and damp and looks like a basement. There's even a washing machine down there. Imagine washing your clothes with Adolf Hitler. Wouldn't that be creepy? So you'd better mind your P's and Q's.

Yesterday, the one-year anniversary of my move to DC, I went with Kimba to buy Christmas decorations for her house. We decided to get them in my neighborhood, so I met her at the U Street Metro. I showed up first and waited for about a minute, then she appeared at the bottom of the broken escalator. She stomped up the steps in her blue parka and a Cleveland Browns knit hat, smiling at me the whole way. It wasn't her typical shy, fleeting smile. It was a hell-raising smile, showing her teeth. It was a smile that said, “I'm gettin' ready to kick some butt. How 'bout you, woman?” I was utterly charmed.