The Nomadic life

TRIGGER WARNING

ADULT CONTENT

MENTIONS OF SEXUAL AND PERVERSE THEMES

EXPLORING THE RAW TRUTHS OF GAY LIFE IN THE MID-1980'S

A Bona Fide Fool

Chapter 17

My ignorance shines through with each passing day as I adjust to life in Jackson Mississippi. For someone who thought they knew it all when they were younger, life is showing me a world of surprises I never expected now that I am truly out on my own. I quickly face a brutal reality, no matter how good you are to people, no matter how much you care for someone, you are disposable. Out in the real world, alone, I anticipated challenges. But I did not for one moment think my life would come crashing down less than six months after making a major life decision that now leaves me homeless and questioning my very worth.

Being forced to live in my car is a harsh awakening. My Chevelle is a two-door, cramped and uncomfortable. Finding a new place to park each night has become increasingly difficult, and personal hygiene is of serious concern. I have heard about a motel just a mile south of Jackson that rents rooms by the hour, and though I need not elaborate on why they rent rooms that way, I find myself grateful for the hourly rate. It is a small luxury I afford myself. Usually staying just long enough for a hot shower, if I have time, I will also take a two-hour nap, allowing myself to appear well-rested for my next job interview.

It does not take long to find work at a quickie mart by the reservoir which caters to the social elite. In time I began to miss my old regulars at the convenience store in South Jackson. They were people like me, the everyday Joes who never considered themselves better than anyone else. The customers at my new job are a different breed, expecting service far above what the newly raised minimum wage of $3.35 an hour is worth. I cannot and will not bend over backwards to please those who treat me like a lesser being. Being looked down upon every day begins to wear thin. Often, I leave work with a sore tongue from biting back my frustration.

I keep telling myself, “This is temporary. Just temporary.” You must save enough to rent an apartment. Living in my car and spending what little money I have on motel rooms and take-out, leaves little at the end of the month. And on my nights off, I justify the money I spend at the bar telling myself I have earned it after dealing with snobs all week. I also consider it a chance to network, to meet new people, and to find my place in this world I never knew existed.

One night, after one too many drinks, I again find myself lost trying to find South Jackson. It is half past midnight, and only convenience stores are open at this hour. I have to find my way “home.” Tonight, I choose the street where Randy lives. Parking where I used to, in the same spot I had before, will draw no suspicion or unwanted attention from his neighbors. Last week, I made the mistake of parking in the lot of a pest control company for one too many nights, finding a note warning me I would be towed if my car was found there unattended again. Already low on cash I certainly cannot risk that happening.

I eventually find myself on Terry Road. I know that where Randy’s lives is just off Terry Road, but I keep passing it due to dim lighting. That is when I notice a business with several cars parked outside. I watch a few people enter and think, “Well, they’re open at least.”  Maybe they can help me figure out how far I am from Sarah Drive.

I see more cars parked on the side and behind the building. It appears most customers prefer the side entrance. I park my car and follow suit. Inside, I walk down a short hallway leading to another open doorway. It only takes a moment for me to realize what kind of store this is and the type of clientele it attracts. I am ashamed as judgmental thoughts fill my head. I have no right to make assumptions about others when, according to Christians, I am leading a life which has me on the path straight to hell.

The walls are adorned with colorful battery-operated items, and then I stop dead in my tracks. I have seen them in movies, but never in real life. Inflatable sex dolls, and beside them are various other products of a sexual and perverse nature. A few customers are browsing the magazines and X-rated videos, but what catches my attention is something rather odd. Many of the patrons are not interested in the merchandise so proudly displayed. Without hesitation they approach the clerk, handing him money and then disappearing behind a heavy maroon curtain. A sign next to the entrance reads, Minimum $2 to enter. This is all a lot to take in and I wonder if I really want to spend that much money just to satisfy my curiosity. But I cannot resist. I have to see what it is all about and why these men are in such a rush to get back there.

Nervously, I hand the clerk my $2. He gives me eight brass tokens with dull finishes, each imprinted with familiar images I have seen only once before. Now, I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, and maybe I came from the backwoods where big city ways are foreign, but one thing I am not, is an idiot. I instinctively know what is behind that curtain.

Preview booths.

I look down at the non-legal tender in my palm and think, So, this is where John came to get himself “excited” before our afternoon trysts. But what I am about to see and learn is far worse than anything I could have ever imagined.

As I enter the dark room, my apprehension grows. Curiosity is now replaced by genuine fear. Several men are just standing around, propped up against the brown painted particle board walls. Most stand alone, but a few are shoulder to shoulder and seem to know each other. Hushed whispers are drowned out by the sound of old 8mm projectors clicking in the background as music plays through a speaker just over the curtain draped entry. This place is an assault on nearly all my senses. The musky scent of men, the overpowering pine scented air, the dimness of the room which is causing my eyes to strain and the flickering sound of movie projectors pouring into one ear, as old disco hits fill the other.

In a haze of unease, I pull on the door of the first booth. It is occupied. I try another, and then another. This row of booths is full, and the panic within me begins to rise. I quickly round the corner to the next row, coming within inches of a large sweaty man, tokens clinking in his hand. Locating an open booth, I hurriedly enter, relief washing over me. Safely inside, I find it to be cramped and dark. I secure the latch, noticing half of the door is painted white to serve as a makeshift screen. There is a little flashing red light on top of a coin receptacle. Even a country bumkin like me can figure out how this works. Digging in my pocket I fish out a coin. The first is a real quarter so I dig deeper. With hand shaking, I finally locate a brass one. I place it into the slot, and the projector comes to life, flickering and illuminating the booth. There is no sound, only the annoying clicking of the film reel. The images are blurry, but I was not expecting much for my twenty-five cents anyway. I chuckled nervously until…

How had I not noticed it before? Just about waist high, I see a poorly carved hole in the wall separating the booths. When I entered, I saw no light and heard no noise coming from the room next door. I immediately throw myself against the opposite wall, and to my horror, I see a fingertip, chubby and pale, poking through the hole repeatedly. My heart races as I begin to shake with fright.

“Psst…” I hear.

And with that I fling the booth door open and bolt from this place, running as fast as I can to my car.

Once safely inside, I sit there, breathless and soaked in sweat. In less than a minute, I am completely sober. What the hell was that? Was it what I thought it was? There is a damn hole in the wall, and a person on the other side doing their best imitation of a leaking radiator, and that beckoning finger was one step too far. All of that was way too much for me to handle and I feel justified in the way I left. I am no mathematician, but even I know two and two put together add up to something of a perverse nature is going on in that place.

And then, a fire ignites within me. The true nature of tonight begins to settle in and I become furious with John. He had not been coming here to get “excited” before our time together. He was coming here to see if he could do better than me? Coming to me only “after” visiting this disgusting place? That means I was his third choice.

I can accept dating a married man, even though I know it to be wrong. All married or partnered men are the same. They have their way of convincing you that they are being denied sexual release and are not getting what they need at home. Some will expound on that stating that the physical part of their relationship has long since ended.  

School was certainly in session tonight and I have learned one of the most important lessons I will take with me throughout the rest of my life. Men are pigs.

I finally understand who and what John is as a person, and that infuriates me. Not only was I competing with a wife, but I was competing with a place where strangers hook up with one another at all hours of the night. I not only feel used, cheap and ignorant, but now I also feel like a complete fool.

When John left me after I lost my job, I thought I had hit rock bottom. But tonight, I learned just how much further I can fall and how much lower I can feel.