“The Golden Girls,” I say. “Just so you know, the show was so popular that most gay bars on a Saturday night just like this would dim the lights, pause the music and dancing, and put the show on their screens so patrons could watch it together. The show and these bars were about found family, community, respect and safety.” I shake my head at him. “We’ve gained so many rights but lost so much of our history. It’s sad.”
“What’s sad is you,” he says. “You’re just angry because no one ever wanted to marry a nasty old drag queen. And now you’re going to die all alone.”
My rage builds.
And then he pivots on his toes, reaches out and tweaks my nose. “Are we angry because no one ever wanted to marry a nasty, old drag queen? And now you’re going to die all alone?”
I can hear my heart thump loudly in my ears, louder than the music playing in here. My thump is a soundtrack to our collective history—the history of my marriage, of Stonewall, of Streetbar, of every gay man who went to war so this entitled twink could get married—and it is now playing in sync with the disco music in the background.
Mario places a Cosmo on the bar.
I pick it up before the young man can and toss it into his face.
“You’re welcome,” I say. “For everything. And, yes, you can put that drink on my tab!”
I feel Ron’s hand on mine, squeezing firmly, urging me to calm down just as he does when he asks me to shut my eyes and pray.
The twink howls and storms away.
“That wasn’t nice, Teddy,” Ron says. He leans over and puts his head on my shoulder. “But it was necessary,” he whispers.
I kiss him on top of the head and slam my cocktail. “I must go be with my people.”
I walk out of Streetbar and cross the street, past a dance club and directly into a show tunes bar.
“Hi, Dorothy!”
Bob, the bouncer out front, gives me a kiss on the cheek when I arrive.
“Finally, the respect I deserve!”
I head inside. The first thing I hear is the crowd screaming, “No wire hangers!” A clip fromMommy Dearestis playing on the big screen TVs, the patrons roaring in laughter. In the blink of an eye,Oklahoma!begins to play, and the crowd roars again, changing the lyrics ever so slightly to fit the mood.
The bar is full, nearly everyone is over sixty. Televisions playthe same songs from the same old musicals over and over:Hello, Dolly!,Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,Mame,Wicked. It never changes. And that routine is comforting.
Keith, the head bartender, holds up a Rose Kennedy as soon as he sees me. When he hands it to me, I hear the crowd roar again.
“Oklahomo! So gay!”
I scan the bar for a seat.
A line of small tables sits against the back wall, a long banquette running the length of the wall before the windows, and I lift my tunic to prevent it from being stomped on as I slink toward the only open spot. As soon as I get settled and take a sip, I hear my name.
“Teddy?”
Larry and Phil are seated next to me.
I stare at them, unable—for once—to find any words.
Their faces look as surprised as mine must.
I haven’t seen either of them since John died. The two of them used to be constants in our lives: euchre nights, Church of Mary, Bill’s Pizza once a month. They were John’s friends when we met, but I believed they became mine, too, over time. In fact, I was the social conduit for the four of us, the one who scheduled our meetups.
“How have you been?” Larry asks.
How do I answer?
People always talk about which friends you lose after a breakup, when people eventually end up taking sides, but few talk about the friends you lose when a spouse dies. It’s a double death. I tried a few times to reach out to Larry and Phil in the weeks and months after John’s funeral. At first they offered weak excuses for not being able to get together. Then they stopped responding altogether. I was pissed, but figured that some people simply couldn’t revisit the sadness and grief that lingers likea fog when they see me, now a third wheel without my other half. Then I heard firsthand that Larry had been suggesting to our mutual friends that I had somehow contributed to John’s depression and suicide.
