Chapter 3
THE FRISKY CRICKET
There it was: an old, shabby, completely unremarkable building.
It had cracks in the cinder block, a sun-stained awning draped across the entrance, and neon beer signs lighting up the windows.
It might have been a filling station back in the day, a roadside oasis where weary travelers stopped in to replenish their gas tanks and grab a Coca-Cola from the ice chest. It was easy to overlook if you were just driving by, and yet two beacons confirmed I was in the right place: a weathered old Pride flag flying by the front door, and a faded sign of a cartoon cricket wearing a bow tie.
I loved it immediately.
I had followed my GPS to the edge of town, where strip malls and apartment buildings gave way to farmland. Then I pulled Dad’s truck into the parking lot, stepped out onto uneven gravel, and breathed in the sight of my inheritance.
Inheritance.
The word danced around my brain, old-timey and fanciful like something out of a Dickens novel. It was impossible to process the idea that this shabby little secret now belonged to me, all because Uncle George had signed a piece of paper that made it so.
The front door banged open, music and laughter spilling into the quiet night.
Two older men strode out, ribbing each other about a joke I didn’t catch, one of them raking a hand through his thinning hair.
The other paused beneath the building’s overhang and lit up a cigarette while his companion looked on.
Their dynamic was flirtatious, playful but cautious, like two schoolboys finding each other for the first time.
Was Uncle George—had he been—? I wondered again.
I was still working up the nerve to go inside when something brushed against my legs.
I jumped, nearly tripping in my funeral heels, and looked down to find a skinny black cat winding her way between my legs.
She had white markings across her mouth and a long, languid tail.
I reached down to pet her, but she scampered toward the door.
Okay, I thought, I hear you.
I took a deep breath and followed her.
When I was seven years old, I fell head over heels for the Disney cartoon movie Robin Hood.
I watched it every day, stretched on my stomach in front of the TV, wishing I could be one of those anthropomorphic foxes or rabbits or bears who made a home in Sherwood Forest. The one scene I played over and over was when Robin Hood led Maid Marian behind a waterfall, through a cave, and into a secret clearing where his band of outlaws threw an impromptu party.
I was enchanted by their songs, their lutes and barrel drums, their joyful dancing, but above all, by the open secret of it all, this idea that you merely had to duck behind the right waterfall to find your people.
I had been looking for that waterfall all my life, and here it was.
People were drinking, laughing, twirling each other across the floor, their faces ruddy, their eyes bright.
They were young and old, scraggly and polished, dressed with flair and blandness, of every color and body type.
The logical part of me understood these were just ordinary human beings, but the instinctual part of me chimed with recognition, with belonging, with kinship, because these were queer people, people like me, right here in Rustin, dancing behind the waterfall.
All I wanted to do was join them, to step into their glow and hope they recognized me as one of their own, to call this place home as surely as they did.
Uncle George, I thought. Does this exist because of you?
The obvious place to go was the actual bar top in the left corner, so that’s where I went, squaring my shoulders to appear confident.
I set my hands on the scratched wooden counter and waited for the bartender to catch my eye.
When he did, I gave him a casual chin nod the way I imagined a regular customer might.
“What are you having?” he asked, flipping a dishrag over his shoulder. He was a short Filipino guy with the swoopy hair of a nineties teen heartthrob. He wore a fitted black T-shirt with a shiny trans flag pin on the collar.
“Beer,” I blurted out. I glanced at the taps and chose something at random. “Er—Abita Amber. Please.”
“Sure. Can I see your ID?”
I had hoped this was the kind of place that wouldn’t card me, but at least I had my fake ID to get by.
I made a mental note to thank my friend Gus not only for convincing me to get one, but also for helping me to choose a fake name.
I didn’t want this bartender to see Wade, guess that I was related to Uncle George, and start asking questions.
No, tonight I wanted to be anonymous and alone, just a random person stumbling upon the waterfall and soaking up the joy.
No baggage, no shitty homophobic family, no complicated relationship to this town.
I fished the fake ID out of my wallet and handed it across the counter, trying to seem like I was used to the whole routine.
The bartender’s eyes flicked over it. “South Dakota, huh?” A note of doubt crept into his voice. “That’s a long way from here.”
I smiled casually and pretended I got this comment all the time. “Moved there a few years ago for college, but I grew up here. It’s always nice to come back. Grounds me, you know?”
He peered carefully at me, then seemed to decide I was telling the truth. He nodded and stepped away to grab a pint glass, and I exhaled in relief, grateful I hadn’t drawn any attention.
Behind the bar was a wall of decorations, layered in a way that told me they had been added over time. Most of the top corner was covered by a Progress Pride flag, but kitschy little gems could be found across the rest of the space. The sign directly in front of my eyeline read:
GAY OWNED
GAY OPERATED
SO HAVE A GAY OLE TIME!!!
“Gay owned,” I said under my breath. Uncle George. Was this proof of what my family wouldn’t tell me?
The bartender handed over my beer. “Leave it open, or close out?”
I could hardly process the question. My brain was still stuck on Gay owned. “Hey, do you know the owner?”
“Which one?”
I stared at him. “Huh?”
“Which one?” he repeated. Then his face paled, and his eyes went unfocused like something had just occurred to him.
“What?” I asked.
The bartender shook his head. “Sorry—I, uh. I guess you haven’t heard. One of our owners died last week.” He gestured around the crowded bar. “That’s why everyone’s here tonight. To celebrate him.” He lowered his eyes. “I keep forgetting it’s real.”
One of our owners. Did Uncle George have a business partner?
I deflated, realizing my grandfather might have been telling the truth about Uncle George investing in multiple properties that bore no reflection of his own identity.
Maybe it was the other owner, or owners, who was actually gay.
Maybe this bartender could tell me more.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Who was it?”
“George Wade. You know, the famous football guy? He was a big deal around here.”
I swallowed. “Was he—um—” I steeled myself. “Was he, like—” I gestured between the bartender and myself, hoping he would understand.
The bartender gave me nothing, but his posture tightened. “Was he what?” he asked, and there was an edge to his tone now.
“Was he queer?”
The bartender gave me a hard, searching look. He looked torn about something, like he wasn’t sure whether to show his cards. “Who wants to know?”
We stared at each other, and then I looked away. “Sorry—never mind. It’s none of my business.”
I put a $10 bill down and slipped away without looking back, carrying my beer to the opposite side of the room.
I busied myself with studying the décor on the wood-paneled walls.
Dozens of crinkled dollar bills were pinned there in what seemed to be a customer ritual.
On one of them, someone had drawn long hair and makeup on George Washington’s face and written Washingtina in scratchy handwriting.
There were framed photographs, too: bowling teams from decades before, a gaggle of drag queens posing with books, and a parade of women on motorcycles.
A photo booth strip of two young men kissing was stapled next to a Polaroid of an interracial lesbian couple with their arms around each other.
A more recent picture frame showed a small group of Rustin University students marching behind a banner that said STAND UP FOR TRANS RIGHTS, upon which someone had stuck a Post-it note that read trans people are hotter than you! !!
The whole thing was a neighborhood shrine that told the story of people like me.
I was riveted. I also felt like I hadn’t earned the right to be here.
It was as if I’d stumbled upon a beautiful banquet that other people had prepared, lovingly cooking the food and setting the table and lighting the candles, and it didn’t feel right to simply sit down and eat without having contributed. And shouldn’t I be contributing?
The minutes slipped by. I finished my drink and thought about ordering another.
The crowd was growing larger, rowdier, but somehow more intimate.
There were shouts of recognition each time the door opened to admit someone new.
People here knew each other. Maybe that’s why I felt eyes on me, trying to figure out who I was, how I’d ended up here in their communal home.
Two women in particular kept glancing at me.
Were they checking me out? But no, they were clearly older than me, and their expressions were full of concern.
When I dared to look back at them, the blond one cocked her head and gave me a challenging look, almost like she could see right through me.
My heart started beating faster. Did she know who I was?
Did she know I was underage? I hastily turned away and crossed back to the other side of the room.
“Back for more?” the swoopy-haired bartender asked.