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If there's one thing that always throws me for a loop, it's
she-males. I suppose I ought to have a more laissez-faire attitude
about. It's not for me, but who am I to judge?
When my friends Shane and Ann invited us to Michigan for their
son's christening, and my wife and I decided to caravan with Hound Dog
and his wife Kathy. This was the first time I had been invited to their
new place in Detroit, so I let Hound Dog take the lead. After all, he
had been there before, and he had directions from Shane scribbled on a
napkin. What could go wrong?
We left after work, and sometime around 9:30, Brian pulled off
the highway in a town called Bellville.
"This don't look right."
"Do you have the directions?"
"Yeah, this is what the directions say, but none of this looks
familiar."
From what I could tell, we were in a sea of industrial parks and
factories, just outside of Nowhere. In search of a payphone, we
drove down a two-lane highway till we came upon what seemed to be the
only activity around: a strip plaza. At the far end of the plaza,
a bar called Granny's.
My wife went into the bar to use the phone while we waited in
our cars. About 15 seconds later she came back out and said, "Um, you
guys gotta come in with me." She led the three of us back into
the bar, only saying, "Wait till you see this." The even mix of
trepidation and excitement was too much to resist.
What's odd about Granny's is the layout. You walk in the front
door, and directly in front of you is a hostess station. To your right
is a stage. It's not really to your right, it's more like you are
standing in the wings, waiting for the director's cue. Why would a dive
bar in an industrial park need a hostess? Because it was packed. Why is
it packed? Because, as the cheery hillbilly hostess pointed out, "It's
a drag show! First Friday of every month!"
The payphone was on the wall directly behind her, so making nice
with her was necessary to get to use the phone. My wife called Shane
and tried to explain where we were, what exit we had taken, and try to
directions to get back on track.
Onstage, a manly "woman" in a blue sequin cocktail dress belted
out a version of "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" that would have made Pat
Benetar proud. In front of the stage were the usual collection of
square tables, packed with flannel-clad, work boot-shod crowd typical
to any dive bar in an industrial town. Not your typical gay-bar, drag
show turnout. Along the back wall was the bar, with a neon sign
that read "Granny's" in iridescent blue.
We huddled next to the payphone where my wife was trying to
explain to Shane where we were, what exit we had taken, and find out
where we should be. She kept shouting, "Bellville! We're in
Belleville! Do you know where Belleville is?"
When she explained what all the noise was, and that he would need
to speak up, the only "directions" Shane offered were, "Run! Run like
the wind!" His sense of humor is a frail thing. Apparently we
were tying up her party line, because the hostess took the phone and
told Shane, "She'll call you back, sweetie," and hung up.
[We would later learn that Shane turned to Ann and said, "I think
they're in some kind of gay bar or something. Pass me those
Chee-tohs."]
As she finished her number, the MC returned to the stage and announced,
"It looks like we have some visitors!" S/he approached our little
group with a microphone, and we became the between-the-sets
entertainment. S/he started by asking us each our names,
thrusting the microphone in front of us one after the other.
"Who are you, and where are you from?"
"Eric, I live in Kent, Ohio."
"Kathy, I live in Akron. Woo hoo. Akron."
Hound Dog announced, "I'm from Belleville, Michigan, baby!."
The MC didn't miss a beat, "Uh uh, honey, I've had everyone in
Belleville, and I don't know you."
Our question, naturally, was, "Who are you?"
The MC batted his/her eyelashes and said, "I'm just a chick with
a dick."
After the introductions were done, and we had been begged to
stay and have a good time, I was back on the phone getting the
directions from Shane. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Dog take
the stage with the MC and engage in a discussion about the size of his
member.
"Let's see it, honey."
The crowd agreed, "Yeah, get it out! Let's have a look!"
He's done it before, and I have no doubt that he'll do it again.
That night, though, it was not to be.
Kathy ran out of patience. She ran to center stage and drug him
out of the spotlight and into the parking lot with his pants
unbuckled. As we said our goodbyes, the singer in the blue dress
once again took the stage, delivering a ragged rendition of "I Get a
Kick Out of You."
Out on the sidewalk, in front of a strip plaza in an industrial
zone, a drag queen loses her luster. There was something a little sad
about pulling away as she stood there waving with the moths fluttering
around the fluorescent lights.
When we got to Detroit, Hound Dog stepped out of the car, shook
his head, and said, "I just can't stop thinking about that woman...
man.... whatever."
Me, I couldn't get "Hit Me with you Best Shot" out of my head.
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