cowboys t shirt

Third Saturday of every month, right here in Oakland. I've missed it 7 times, but not last night. Hella Gay.

Nicole and I were watching one of the worst movies ever made, if not The Worst. It's called Martian Child, and let me just say, John Cusack should just stop right now. The premise: he's a sci-fi writer who writes about Mars, and he adopts a foster kid who thinks he's from Mars. Maybe they were trying to recapture the magic of Bid Daddy, but they didn't. They didn't capture anything at all.

After about 20 minutes of that nonsense, it was clearly time to rally for Hella Gay. I zipped a purple hoodie over my cowboys t shirt, washed out, and worn since mom (Alyson) was a longhorn, and we crossed six lanes to get to the other side of Martin Luther King Way. We needed juice for the gin I had bought for Sam before the whole ulcer thing. We were weighing the pros and cons of Orange Juice and Lemonade, but we agreed on Grapefruit. It was almost florescent.

A tall, dark, and unhandsome man stepped too close as we were paying, as he said inappropriate things to Nicole, then to me, and then both of us at the same time. Because Nicole has made friends at the corner store, Bill, right in front of us on the register, quietly told this guy to "step away from his hotness." Not the best start, but it took a turn for the best as we returned to mix in the gin.

It felt so warm in our kitchen, and when I unzipped, I realized that I had put my cowboys t shirt on over my head Wednesday, paired with spandex, so I could be comfy for flying. It was now Saturday. Same shirt. The bra went off and on for sleeping, and underwear changed like Roy G Biv, but Yikes. Nicole poured with no regards for measurement, and I took a block of ice that used to be a store bought plastic bag full of ice cubes out to attempt to break it into its intended form.

Tashina (The Other Roommate) was in her room, only separated from the kitchen by a sheer white cloth, so I moved my project into the living room. Arms by my ears, I slammed down the bag against the arm of the futon. I stepped back into the kitchen and plopped ice into Nicole's drink, but the rest of the ice had only broken in two. Fuck it, I thought, and I started hacking away on the side of the refrigerator. Enough ice worked it's way out, and so did Tashina.

We drank, well Nicole and I did, laughed, cursed, and when Nicole's cup reached empty she went to change in her room. I walked into my room, glanced in my closet, looked down at my t shirt, went back out to the kitchen, and poured another drink. I was drunk and it was time to dance. Brandy (Nicole's girlfriend) came over just in time to give us a ride over to the Uptown, home of Hella Gay. Zanetta (the Ebony to my Ivory) was already there. We bumped, shook, jumped, and gyrated until last call at 1:45.

As the Hella Gay goers poured onto the pavement, the spicy smell of sausages turning on the fire grill cart, made it feel like a backyard barbecue. A boy I was dancing with earlier came over to me. My height, brown hair, pale skin, and a black A Line tank.

"Hey. What's your name?"
"Amy."
"Hey Amy. Patrick," he nodded.
I hoped he'd walk away. Didn't feel like making new friends- gay, straight, or otherwise. But I was drunk enough that not wanting to move outweighed anti-social tendencies.
"Hey. How's it goin?"
"Good," and then he paused, beginning a smirk that stayed on his face until after I turned away
"OK." I said looking towards my sober friend with keys to her car in hand.
"You always know how to make me feel like a girl."
"Ummm... OK."
"But you have the boobs."