The Nomadic Life

Jackson, Mississippi

Chapter 16

The man I have been seeing convinced me to move to Jackson, telling me I can begin anew here and explore a side of myself that I had been forced to keep suppressed for many years. The allure of reinvention was too strong for the nomad within me to resist.

Moving to the capital city seemed like the perfect escape, but reality proved far more complicated. Adjusting to a new roommate and balancing work while dating a married man turned out to be messier than I’d imagined. The onslaught of life lessons over the next decade will shape me in ways I could never have predicted. What I learn from this adventure will prove a valuable guide to me for years to come. This is the Reader’s digest version of those ten years.

I moved to Jackson with big plans. I wanted to explore a new lifestyle and be a part of something good Christian folks considered forbidden. Both these goals came to fruition, but not in the way I imagined.

I took a job as a clerk at a convenience store right off Highway 55, and for a while, it seemed like the perfect fit. I worked the graveyard shift, and things were generally quiet until midnight when the Tyson chicken plant’s late-night shift ended. On Friday nights the parking lot became a makeshift party zone. That’s when my store would get flooded with hard-working folks who needed one thing, beer. I didn’t mind, but my steadfast rule was that they keep the noise level down.

Saturday mornings when the sun came up, and after cleaning up all the trash left behind by the revelers, I was drained. By The time I got home all I wanted to do was sleep.

I looked forward to the weekends. Those days were mine to do with as I pleased. I did not have to worry about a visitor coming at noon. John's visits, once a source of excitement, had turned into something I dreaded. Gone were the days of looking forward to a quick rendezvous. Instead, I was exhausted from a trying night at work, and the last thing I wanted was to entertain anyone, including him. Yet, out of guilt for all he’d done to help me get settled, I obliged.

On rare occasion he would take us to lunch after our tryst. I did not think anything of it at the time, but I would look back on this day and realize how much of a cad and slut this married man really was. I am, if nothing else, extremely observant. That day John paid for our meal, and as he dug in his pocket for change, I noticed something strange. There were coins the size of quarters but with a dull brass finish and images I couldn’t quite make out. It wasn’t until later that I realized they were tokens designed to operate projectors that showed 8mm X-rated movies in a local “dirty bookstore.” A naive country boy like me had no clue places like that even existed or that Jackson was home to three of them, one of which was disturbingly close to where I lived at the time.

Juggling a new job, learning my way around a new city and the occasional romp in the hey with John, I had little time to get to know my new roommate. Randy was a mystery to me. We did not talk or interact much. I did know that his job required him to wear a suit, and he was out of the house by 7:30 am. I met his mother once. She lived just down the street and seemed like a nice enough lady. Randy and I never quite clicked. There was something about him that always left me uneasy, though I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. If I had been able to, I’m sure I would have had to wash it off immediately.

For me, life revolved around my job and john and for a time I was content.

Being just seconds from the onramp to I-55 south, the store was the perfect target for shoplifters. On any given night, someone would run off with a case of beer. It had become routine, and I no longer got upset or tried to chase the people down. Instead, cops were called, a report was taken, and no more would be said about the incident. Looking back, I realize how lucky I was that I never had to stare down the barrel of a gun.

I could deal with the shoplifters and those who drove off without paying for gas, but the night a shooting happened in my parking lot would be my final one. No one died, but cops and an ambulance were called.

Once the scene had been cleared, which took my entire shift, my manager arrived. I performed my end of shift duties and did not hesitate to tell her that no job was worth living in constant fear and I walked away.

No job. No savings. No money. No place to stay. No boyfriend.

Within a matter of weeks my life crumbled. Randy rightfully wanted his rent, which I did not have, and John, well, when I told him that we no longer had a place for his expected “afternoon delight,” he vanished.

Unable to pay Randy without completely emptying my wallet I was asked to leave. There was no animosity, it was a business contract that had ended due to unforeseen circumstances.

It was a beautiful spring morning when I packed up my 1969 Chevelle with all my worldly possessions. Before leaving I placed the key to Randy’s house on the dining room table and called the person who I thought cared for me. But the phone call went unanswered.

I had nowhere to go, no money to waste on the comfort of a hotel room and no friends. This was my first brush with homelessness. But it will not be the last.

At twenty-one years old I would learn that words are cheap, and as it turns out, so was I. John said he cared, but when the going got tough, poof, he could not be bothered. A harsh lesson. Once things become inconvenient, people will desert you.

I have always looked back on difficult times, using those memories to remind myself that I have overcome hardships and that this is not a roadblock, only a bump in the road.

 The Texas debacle that happened years before was a painful chapter in my life. The repercussions of that decision ended up forcing me to drop out of school which set a series of other uncomfortable events in motion. And yet, it’s in those moments of struggle that I take from the pages of my mother’s book of survival. Though we were never close, I always cared for her. She showed me what it meant to endure. I watched her sacrifice everything for the chance at a better life. She fought relentlessly to make certain her children would have opportunities she was never given, and I’ll always appreciate her for that. She did not allow life to beat her down, she persevered, never looking back, only forward.

I live by the example she set. I am a survivor like her, shaped by the trials and tribulations fate places upon me, and using them to push through the hardest of days.

Not one to wallow in self-pity, I quickly found another convenience store job by the reservoir. It was a better shift, a better neighborhood, and for the first time in a while, things began to start looking up for me.

Then came the bars. Turns out, Jackson had two, and I was about to get a crash course in gay life. Jack and Jill’s, on High Street, was the first. You had to enter through the back, and an elderly couple sitting in what appeared to be no more than a ticket booth, greeted you at the door. They were there for one reason: to make sure no one wandered into their son’s gay bar without knowing what they were getting into. It felt like a rite of passage, and I became uncertain and nervous.

As I approached the bar, I ordered a rum and coke, but the bartender gave me a curious look. “We only serve beer and soda here,” he said. “If you want liquor, you’ll have to bring your own bottle, and we’ll sell you a set-up.” Disappointed and not knowing what a ‘set-up” was, I scanned the crowd to see what everyone else was drinking. Bud Light was the clear favorite. To blend in, I ordered one. With beer in hand, I drifted through the crowd, soaking in the eclectic mix of chatter and music, while eavesdropping on the smoke-filled conversations that filled the air.

It didn’t take long before someone groped my ass. Now, where I come from, that is considered rude. I spun around, ready to land a punch, but someone grabbed my arm before I could swing. “You’re in a gay bar,” they said, “it’s just how things are here.”

I was furious. No one has the right to touch you without consent, period. I made sure to voice my anger loud and clear, and to my surprise, the response was a simple, “Chill out, man.” It was clear this wasn’t a place where everyone respected boundaries.

Most people here seem to know each other, while I stand back and as a stranger observe the crowd. I can no longer hide my awkward nervousness. After quickly downing a few beers, the weight of being the new kid in town and the outsider with attitude began to make me feel uncomfortable. Having had enough of the evening’s merriment, I leave, unsure if I will ever return.

Still a newcomer to a city this size and not knowing the streets of Jackson any better than I do, I get lost on the way home.