Blackouts and Breakdowns (11 page)

ÒYes, all the time. Every business I frequent, I found from the gay phone book.”

ÒWow,” I said, wondering what all of my cool friends in New York were doing. “What do you do?”

“I work on the Hill.”
This was a typical response to this question.
All “power gays” in D.C. work on the Hill.
The first time someone had told me they worked on the Hill, I misunderstood them and thought that they worked on the TV show
The Hills
.
Much to my disappointment, they meant Capitol Hill.

“Oh, what do you do on the Hill?”
I asked.

“I work for a Republican Senator from Tennessee,” he replied.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You work for a Republican? But you’re gay, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then, why do you work for someone who is totally against everything you believe in?”

“It’s a job. I want to work in politics, so I have to make concessions.
He does not know I am gay, so it’s totally ok.”

“Even if he did know you were gay, it would still be OK.
He can’t fire you because you are gay. Are you even a Republican?”

“Yes.”

“Really?
Why?” Chuck fascinated me.
He was everything I never wanted to be.

“Because I believe in the Republican way of dealing with finances in the government.”

“What about your basic human rights? Most Republicans don’t really like gays.”

“That’s not true.”

“Dick Cheney doesn’t even like his own daughter and she’s a big fucking dyke!”

“It’s not true, there are a lot of Republicans who are gay-friendly.”

“Just because they are gay-friendly doesn’t mean they will ever support gay-rights.”

Chuck looked at me with anger.
I guess no one had ever called him out on his bullshit before.
It absolutely amazed me that this guy would go around pretending to be something he is not to get a job, working for someone who would most likely rather see him dead than alive.
No one in New York ever pretended to be something that they weren’t. Except rich.
Everyone pretends to be rich in New York, but that’s status quo.

“I don’t really want to have this conversation right now,” Chuck said as he walked away.
I was not having a good time making friends in this city.
I knew that the best way to feel bad about yourself was to be in a room filled with gay men, but nothing had prepared me for this.
I couldn’t believe the ridiculous shit that went on in D.C.
The gay phone book, the AOF, the gay Republicans. I couldn’t find Jonathon so I left without him.
I couldn’t be in a room with these people any longer. I had to walk home by myself and it took me an hour because I got lost seven times.

“That’s what you get for hanging out with a bunch of homos!” my co-worker Andre said the next day. Andre was the graphic designer for the gay phone book and was one of the most racist, homophobic black gay guys I had ever met.
“You know, the gay guys down here really need to their priorities straight,” he continued, “they had to lay off half of the staff at the AIDS clinic down the street due to lack of donations.
But, the gays down here have enough money to throw a gay pride pet parade.
They threw a God damned gay pride for their pets.
What the fuck is that about?”

As I listened I sat with my head on my desk.
How was I supposed to make it work in D.C.?
People down here were from another breed, I really did not know if I was ever going to fit in. In New York, crazy people are crazy; shady people are shady and assholes are assholes.
In D.C., it seemed as though everyone was fake but made you think they were your friend before they talked shit about you behind your back then give you their business card and told you to call them.
I wasn’t sure how long I was going to make it.

“And as far as the A.O.F. goes,” Andre continued, “that’s just typical D.C. homo bullshit.
I wouldn’t let it bother you.
You’re better than that.”

He was right I was better than that.
Who did these homos think they were? I lived in New York for eight years.
All of these boys had come from the back woods of Kentucky and West Virginia where no one liked them because they were socially awkward.
Now, they were in the “big city” and thought that their shit didn’t stink because they worked on Capitol Hill and made twenty-nine thousand dollars a year.
Well, I had a news flash for all of them. I came from New York, which automatically made eight million other people and me, cooler than anyone that lived in D.C.
After only having lived in D.C. for a few months, I was already ready to move. D.C. was not for me as I hate politics and that’s all anyone seemed to talk about.
It was as if no one had a life of his or her own.
Everything revolved around something else. Politics, occupations, other people’s gossip and problems, it was as if no one had anything important to say.
Never was I at a loss for conversation in New York. Everyone is so colorful and has a story to tell up there.
As I left work that day, I was planning my getaway.
I figured if I had spent just a few more weeks in D.C., and saved some money, I could leave and never come back.
As I was plotting my escape, I was walking up 18th street toward Adams Morgan. Adams Morgan is a neighborhood in D.C. that must be what the eighth circle of hell is like. Every night, underage college kids congregate in Adams Morgan to get black out drunk and make complete asses of themselves.
It’s a constant shit show, with girls throwing their brains up on the street, frat boys getting into petty fights over girls and pimps whoring out their latest prizes.
It’s an absolutely disgusting display of what the bottom wrung of humanity looks like, but it was on my way to the subway and I had to get home immediately to plot my escape from D.C.

I walked up the hill to get to the top of 18th street so I could get on the subway.
To my left, I saw two bitches in tight tube-tops squawking about how one of them had stolen the other’s boyfriend. In front of me, I saw the lights of the bars in Adams Morgan.
I hoped to bypass this neighborhood completely, but the other Metro station was broken, as usual, so I had no choice.

As I was walking up the street, I was suddenly shoved down onto the concrete.
My forehead hit the pavement and my nose smashed up against the curb.
Two men came in front of me and started kicking me in the stomach repeatedly.
I could not get up so I just tried to cover my face.
After all, it is the moneymaker. I could taste blood in my mouth.
Just as quickly as the beating had started, the men were finished and ran away.
I lay on the pavement in pain, wondering if anyone was around to help me.
Strangely, it was as if everyone around me had disappeared.
No longer were the slutty girls fighting over a guy; the pimps and whores had vanished and I was alone.
I got up, with blood dripping from my nose and face.
Of course, the one night I leave my rape whistle at home is the night I get mugged.
I began to scream for help.
I could see that there were cops across the street giving parking tickets but either they could not hear me, or did not want to help me.
I had to get help from someone and I didn’t know what to do.
As I walked up the street, I began screaming for someone to help me.

“HELP ME!!!” I yelled, but no one listened.
Everyone just went about their business.
After screaming that D.C. sucked and everyone who lived there was going to hell for not helping me, I decided to do what I do best: ruin it for everyone.
I knew from experience that all bars and restaurants are, by law, required to have first aid kits.
So, with my face dripping with blood, I entered the first restaurant I saw.
As I entered, I could see horror in the diner’s faces. Everyone stopped eating and looked up to see me, battered and bruised.
I yelled for someone to help me, and a lesbian barkeep came around from the bar and took me into the back room.
I told her what had happened and she tended to me.
She took the piece of glass that was stuck in my forehead out, bandaged my nose, which was broken, and cleaned the blood off of me as best she could.
She was so sweet, and had I not been in such a rage, I would have been a bit nicer.

“Everyone in D.C. should die and go to hell!”
I yelled at the lesbian barkeeps face.

“You must be a New Yorker,” she said.

“Yes, I am, and shit like this never happens in New York. People look out for each other.
I was walking up the street and no one would help me.”

‘This is a rough neighborhood, hun,” she said as she continued to bandage my face.

“Had I not walked into your restaurant looking like the Bride of Frankenstein, no one would have helped me,” I cried.

“It’s ok honey.”

I was sobbing like a baby that had just been thrown against a wall.
The lesbian barkeep took such good care of me.
When I finally left her restaurant, I told her that she was pretty nice for a lesbian and that I would be back to spend a lot of money on booze in a few weeks.
But when I did eventually go back, the restaurant was closed.
I guess that’s what you get for being a caring, good-natured lesbian in D.C.

I walked home that night, bandaged and very angry.
After each step I took another obscenity flew out of my mouth.

“FUCK EVERYONE!!!” I yelled until I made it to the subway.
I went home and didn’t go into work for the next week. I was bruised and swollen, with a broken nose and a broken spirit.

After a week in seclusion, I finally went back to work.
The gays at the gay phone book were really nice and thoughtful and felt awful about what happened.
Of course, Andre had to chime in about what happened:

“It was probably a bunch of fucking black guys,” he said, “Typical.”

“But you’re black, why would you say that?” I asked.

“Because all of the crime in D.C. is usually linked to black people.
All they do is create problems.”

“Ok,” I replied.
After a few minutes back at the office, other gay Mark pulled me into the office and told me that the gay phone book was going through a series of pay cuts because business was not doing well.
I guess the gay guys in D.C. finally realized that they could go online and get any information they needed with the click of a button instead of using a phone book. I told him I understood and that they were just doing what they needed to do to survive, but I was going to have to get a part time job in order to make ends meet.
I was never going to be able to get out of D.C. after taking such a huge pay cut, so I began looking for jobs.

I found an advertisement in the paper for a restaurant down the street that was hiring.
It was a small French cafe with a patio, located at the bottom of 18th street right next to the infamous Diner.
I had my doubts about ever walking down 18th street again, but I really needed a job so I took my chances.
I went in for my interview and was greeted by one of the most fabulously flamboyant men I had ever met.
He was tall and extremely thin with a large head and spiky highlighted hair.

“I’m Jim,” he said as he greeted me.
We introduced ourselves and sat down so he could interview me.
“I see you are from New York. I am too!
What made you move to D.C.?”

“I really don’t know,” I responded.

“Not taking to D.C. are we?” he asked.

“Not really. I find people down here boring and pretentious.
I am not really sure why everyone has such a huge stick up their ass, but I am trying to get used to it.”

He laughed: “Yeah, I hate it here too, but my partner and I really wanted to open a French bistro and it was just too expensive to do in New York, so we decided to move down here.”

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“No,” Jim said, “but I love this restaurant, and I try to get out of town about once a month.”

“Well, I can see why you like your restaurant,” I said as I looked around.
The cafe was cute, if nothing else.
There were several chairs around several round tables scattered throughout the cafe. In the center, there was a huge oak bar with a brick wall behind it. Colors danced against the glasses behind the bar as 80’s music played in the background.
I looked up and noticed a huge disco ball hanging from the ceiling.

“What’s with the disco ball?”

“Well,” Jim said, “We’ve been known to get down here after hours.”

“Really?”
I asked as my eyes lit up.

“Yes.
I dance on the bar and put on a show as everyone gets wasted. I try to keep the working environment as fun as possible.”