Indy Dyke

Ubers always freak me out. I am from Indiana, where you drive everywhere. Under the influence or not. Ubers were very sporadic and were rarely taken alone because they cost an arm and a leg. Here in Chicago, you have to Uber or Lyft up north and back because the buses stop coming around after 10 pm. It is odd to practice modern-day redlining, yet here we are. Anyway, let’s not get off topic so early on in my recount of my best friend’s 1st ever solo art show. 

Ok, ok, back to the beginning. Here I am in the back of an Uber for the low cost of $11.50 (I do mean this, the price was far lower than I have ever seen it) to take me to one of the most memorable nights I have had in Chi so far. Arabella sits on the side of a busy street I am unfamiliar with. I fiddle with my hands while the driver finishes a call he is having with an invisible person. We finally arrive at the spot, and the worst part of the trip ensues. I hate when drivers try to parallel park for you to get out of the car. I want to scream, “JUST LET ME JUMP,” but I sat there looking at my cheetah print silk dress and my Slits band t-shirt I tied into a tight top. I love this outfit, I mean, I better because I wore it a few nights ago to an art gala where I again fiddled with my hands in anxiety. 

I stepped out into the chill of October, walked up to a door that ended up not being the one I needed. Against my embarrassment, I held my head high and walked over to the correct door and yanked on the handle. I am welcomed by a bored-looking “security” man. He asked for ID, and I handed over the best ID picture I have EVER taken. I look so handsome and masculine. This poor fellow had a hard time knowing the hard-looking “man” on my ID was, in fact, the devastatingly beautiful human in the silk dress that stood before him. After a long, pointed pause, he waved me into the club. 

I am met with high ceilings adorned in a beehive pattern. Bar to roof shelving holding liquor bottles, metal sailboats, dead flowers, and Halloween decorations. My favorite was a little dead girl in white sitting on a swing suspended from a chandelier. I am fast to clock this place as a gay club, and something in me settles. I am with family. I am safe here. We are one. 

I make it all of 10 steps in before I spot them. The entire reason I am here, my beautiful best friend. She stands there tall, slender, shaggy short brown hair framing their face easily, a wide and genuine smile, and a glass of white in their hand. We lock eyes, and the entire place quiets. I walk over to her in my square-toed heels till our bodies meet and we slam hug! 

“Bitch happy art opening. I am so proud of you.” I scream over the German DJ’s bass. They squeal and begin to pretend to bite my face in excitement. We do a little odd fancy dance to show our shared enthusiasm. Think of the weird birds on the Discovery Channel doing their mating dance. That is exactly what we look like here in this moment and in many more. All of a sudden, I notice a boy, well, I mean a man, standing next to her. Not moving on to seek others to speak to. So I look at him and say, “Hi, who are you?” After names were exchanged and I decided he was not a creep, I excused myself to go and locate Ticks’ art. 

Now look, Tick used to work with this Frenchman, the only Frenchman I think I will EVER enjoy. We will call him M. We love M. His entire life is flying around the world opening clubs and hiring DJs to play locally, nationally, and internationally. When he isn’t doing this, you can find his tall ass behind a reception desk at a boutique hotel. “It allows me the schedule I need to live my life the way I want to.” That was his answer when I asked why he worked at a hotel at all. In my opinion, he was too fabulous and had a much too important air about him to be at a fucking hotel. I soon found that this said hotel holds many cool employees that I did not get to know deeply, as I only worked there for under a month. That story is for another time. 

Anyway, M has a Sunday DJ party called “No Public Restrooms.” He flies in DJs from all over the world to share their cultures’ house music, and in the back of the club, they book local artists to showcase their work. Well, it was Ticks’ turn. She nailed it and will be an artist who can show all their work there for as long as there is a  “No Public Restrooms.” 

Period bestie. 

Whatever, ok enough background info, let’s get into it. 

I cut through the dance floor, past all the sweaty gay men who smell of poppers and dreams. I am standing at the top of a small staircase and decide this has to be it. The back of the club means her art should be near. I take a few steps down and am greeted by at least eight people I know. They are all Ticks’ friends and their boyfriends (boo). All the straights seem to have lucked out and got to hide in the back of the club near the art they intended to see. Not needing to interact with the mass amounts of gay men and Queens that swarmed the dance floor, bar, and everywhere else. Best not to make the straight men too uncomfortable, I mean, they get to be so violent when they are faced with their own desires. Especially in public. I smiled and said “hello” to the women I knew and nodded at the men I didn’t care to know at all. I asked Sam where the art is, and she laughed and motioned to the large skeleton in the corner. He was holding one of Ticks’ paintings! OhmyFUCKINGgod this is so cool. The club had decided to integrate her art with the flow of the space instead of making it a separate entity. I am over the moon and whipped out my film camera. I begin to snap shots of the room, the art, the people, the low-paint-covered ceiling. All of it gets a picture. Tick and I love to smoke the green, so we have memory issues even at our young age. So best to have photo evidence of it all. 

I noticed a booth carved out of the back wall and saw more faces I recognized. I pop my head in and say hello, and that gets loud, enthusiastic “heys” back. The girls scooched out to hug me tight. Many of them forgot I moved here 6 months ago, and were all the more excited to know this was me here to stay. I made jokes about acting like a Midwest mom taking so many photos of Tick, her art, and pretty much anything else I deemed necessary. The laughter was thick and genuine because I am just sooo funny. Out of the corner of my eye, a chair was calling my name. I needed to reload film and to settle in anyway, so I popped over to the overstuffed leather chair and claimed it. As I sat working on reloading film, I noticed my stupid “new”(heavily used) digital film camera was, in fact, broken and would not rewind on its own. I mumble in curses at this stupid fucking piece of SHIT for not working when I hear Tick behind me. I looked up, and I guess she had been talking to me for a while, and we both just noticed that I was not listening to her at all. We laughed, and she redirected my attention to two women standing in front of them holding large Hydrangea flowers.

I knew as soon as I laid my eyes on them that they were my family. Finally, more saphics. We fell into conversation easily, and the butch, of course, asked if she could help me try to reload my new roll into the uncooperative camera. I handed it over and admitted that Maude was my light when it came to film, and she was absent today. To no avail, the film was left unresolved. I was beyond over trying to fix the broken camera, and over others feeling obligated to try and help me. With one large fluid upwards motion, I ripped the entire roll out of the camera. I ended up rolling it around itself and covering it with a dollar to hide it from any light. Problem solved, for now. 

After the scene I just made subsided, along with onlookers’ shocked faces, Peggy, Cuihua, and I began to talk about life, the sushi spot Cuihua just opened, how they met, how Maude and I met, and where we want to move now that we see America is no longer a good option. After 45 minutes of talking like old friends, Tick had decided it was time to dance. Before I  allowed myself to bust a fucken’ move, I met their eyes and said, “Wait, not yet, I still have to give you my flowers!” I hold up a large rolled jay with a smile. We both look at the loud personal pre-roll and see our most favorite drug, treat, vice, friend, giver of life, taker of pain, our favorite flower. Mary Jane.

Tickle grins with frenzy, and shoots both her fists into the air and shrieks, “God, you so get me, bitch!” We make our way into the cold that is Chicago in October at about 1 am. As we spark up, we are yelled at by the security guard to not come in or out of the door we just used. We promised we would respect that rule, just as more of our stoner friends came out of it huffing the air and floating our way. Lol whoops. The four of us are standing around laughing and chatting about our lives, emotions, and whatever comes into our wine-soaked brains. When I see Tick’s O.W.L. making her way to our group. In a lesbian’s life, they could be lucky enough to have an O.W.L. they see in their day-to-day. Or at least communicate regularly. Many don’t get to find an O.W.L. (older wiser lesbian for those who are lost), or they have placed that label onto a person who is dead or seen through some type of media, solely. I wave, and everyone looks to see who is behind them. That is when the excitement begins. Vesna smiles with her black hair pulled to the side and wraps her arms around Tick. As usual, she is dressed in her black fitted jeans, pointed masculine black shoes, a sweater with a collared shirt under, and short, clean nails. I grin and point at her, exclaiming that she totally left me for dead after hiring me at the hotel as a way of greeting her. (Long story for another time, don’t get all weird about not knowing the details.) She smiled and told me how horrible she felt and that she was surprised and filled with joy to see me. We hugged and laughed at the silliness of it all. 

The jay was nearing its end, which was good because we were all ready to go dancing. M had been out here the entire time with us, nursing his cig. We were in a side embrace when he asked why I left the hotel in the first place. I told him that I won’t stay at a place where I get called a faggot by customers and staff. His eyes widened at the shock of it, and I waved it off as a “whatever.” As a queer, you get slurred regularly. It happens everywhere, but this is the Midwest, and no matter what city you are in, conservatives are near and ready to fire their venom. I found that I can live with this as long as it doesn’t upset my peace. M puffs on his menthol and decides that he is going to call me his “little faggot” from now on. I bowed and agreed that it is a fitting pet name for me, but only for him to use. As one, we roll our eyes at the gag of it all and move on. We had no more time to speak about it, as it was clearly time to go back inside. Thank the Goddess because my fingers were turning blue. Again, the warm air filled our bodies, and the DJ had ramped up the bass, and the dance lights illuminated all the creepy decorations that littered the stage.

The guy who came to the show to pretty much follow Tick around all night made the mistake of asking me if I wanted another drink from their bar. I smiled wickedly and said Of course I did and to get me another Cab. He looked at me like I was speaking a different language. I closed my eyes for a long moment to show it was taxing to have to explain everything to him. I kindly yet annoyingly reminded him that wine exists and that a Cab is a red wine, and that is what I wanted. Knowing it was $17 and I would not be able to afford another one so he was my ticket to a free drink. No flirting required, Tick-tack was taking care of that. While everyone is on the dance floor, I sneak away to go back to the art. I want to have time to actually look at them and feel what was being spoken in oil tones. I am swept away with cheerfulness at the sight of them all taking up space. After this initial emotion has passed, I really take time to sink into her brain. 

Do you ever surround yourself with your friends’ art and think to yourself, “how fucken cool is it that this human is mine? Is my best friend, my supporter, my inspiration, and I am theirs.” The pride I felt was palpable; the art is a commentary on the modern repercussions of humanity’s print left on the world. Sustainability Art is insane. At first, you think you are just looking at cool colors and layered details. Yet, when you mentally, sometimes physically, step back and think about, for instance, how awful nuclear energy actually is… The pretty green pool of water transforms into the waste byproduct that is human life. Water so polluted it won’t even evaporate. So stagnant that it should be teaming with bugs, bacteria, and mold, yet no life can last in the radioactive pool. Infection seeping out of a wound left untreated and marketed to be a “solution.” That’s what her art does to one’s thoughts. Critical thinking is taught. Tick is teaching folks to look at the world without rose colored glasses on. To think about the ramifications the Earth faces for you and me to live comfortably. 

Before I get lost in environmentalist rhetoric, dude shows up with my wine. I snatch it and thank him with a sultry grin. I laugh off his redened face, and we both go to the dance floor. Finally, here we are, the six of us, dancing to the beat of the music so loud it rattles our ribcages. Time slowed, and I felt as if I was seeing my surroundings in a new light. I was enveloped by folks who meant something to my person. I was encompassed by people who now mean something to me. I am also surrounded by hordes of gay men whose eyes are closed, hands raised, bodies moving in time to the tunes. I get a tear in my eye at how amazing my life is. How blessed by Lilith I am for the hard work that led Tick and me to this moment in time. Sweat dripping, wine gone, another song queued up. I stop moving for a moment to see who is left of the group. At this point, all that is left is Tick, Vesna, M, and me. 

Almost as if my attention brought on final goodbyes, Vesna turned to Tick and me to announce she must leave. I pout and hug her a farewell and a hope to see you soon. I stand there watching her tell Tick how proud she was of her and how amazing Tick’s art is. My heart aches for my own O.W.L., whom I haven’t seen since I moved away. I wear the ring she gifted me on our last day together (she isn’t dead, just over 100 miles away), and I speak to it, knowing her wise words won’t be spoken back to me. I crave her presence in that moment: her voice, her laugh, her dancing. I turn my attention to the stage to keep the crying at bay. I met eyes with a 4-foot-tall Halloween decoration of a possessed girl who had black veins running from her eyes all the way down to her mouth. It snapped the sadness away in a heartbeat. Now I am thinking about all these haunted creatures coming to life and chasing us all out of the club like an episode of Scooby Doo. I would obviously be Shaggy, but with a vagina and more thoughts in my head other than food and Scooby snacks. 

Tick bug shows up at my side a moment later, so we dance once more. Yet this time it’s just us, so the true weirdness of us seeps out into our moves. We dance in a series of jerks that quickly shift into sharp angles and long ebs. We are lengthy people, so I can’t imagine what our long ass arms must look like when we get down to it on the dance floor. Has to be similar to a toddler’s learning they can move their knees to a beat they can’t quite catch. After 15 minutes of cutting a rug, we move closer and closer to the side of the dance floor. We enter into a winding debate about our free will for the rest of the night. Tick looked at me and said with all the seriousness they could muster, and declared that we have 4 hours left of free will for the night before we call it quits. I nodded my head in agreement. I then counter with “What about 2 hours of free will?” She shakes her head in a yes and counters with 45 minutes before we both call a car to take us to our own homes. I dance in a responsible, “of course” laced in my hip movements. It’s safe to say we both were calling a car in the next 10 minutes. M comes around and asks if we want to come to afters. Luckily, Tick said we cannot, as we have called our cars already. M rolls his eyes and mutters something about lesbians being sleepy and hugs goodbye, and walks back into the crowd. 

Tick and I meet eyes and begin to uncontrollably laugh at how fast we went for 4 hours of free will to our cars will be here in 8 minutes. Arm in arm, we walk to the back and get all our belongings. Now that we have our coats on, flowers in hand, stupid camera back in my pocket, we head back through the dance floor because we didn’t dare use the back door we were warned to never go through. Once outside, I snapped more pictures of them holding her flowers adorned with a thin layer of sweat as I got into my Lyft. Tick yells at the driver to take care of me, or she will personally find them. As she spoke her threat, she narrowed her eyes and pointed two fingers from her gaze to the driver in an “I see you fucker.” I smile and shut the door. I look back at them as they stand in the shelter of the bar door, looking at me through its muggy window. She had both her hands smacked on the glass, pretending to lick it.. I return the odd dance by pretending to scratch my way out of the car’s window as the unfazed driver pulls away.