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1988
The Twin Cities
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KATIE WATCHED THE prairie fly by and turn to asphalt of St. Paul, then concrete, then off-ramps, the spaghetti junction of interstates, storefronts, and finally the high-rises of Minneapolis.
“I can’t believe this is really happening.”
“Me neither,” Mark said from behind the wheel of his RX-7. “Wow. Why am I so nervous?” He took a swig from the fifth of vodka and passed it back to her.
Katie knocked back a long gulp then coughed.
Once in the nightclub, they debated the clever things they would say to the first person from their small town to rise to such a pinnacle as First Avenue—the very same stage on which the Great Purple One (Prince himself!) had risen to fame. Mark made use of his youthful good looks to flirt with an older man who bought them rail drink after rail drink. The energy of the crowd further heightened their anticipation.
When the Hypnogogs took the stage, Lucy looked petrified—painted blue by the lights, dwarfed by her bass guitar. She seemed electrocuted into place while the lead guitarist and singer strutted around in torn clothes, spiked hair, and makeup. When Lucy sang backup into the microphone, it was so off-key that Mark turned away, grimacing. But Katie kept on staring. She didn’t care; she was simply in awe that Lucy was living out her dream.
Mark and Katie did not stay for the main act and instead waited at the side door along the sidewalk for Lucy to emerge. There they leaned against a brick wall painted black with silver stars—in each star, a different band: Hüsker Dü, The Replacements, Soul Asylum, and Prince, of course. The Hypnogogs would get a star one day, didn’t Mark think? Maybe.
Eventually, the band poured out the door, eager to light up. The lead guitarist had his arm around Lucy, comforting her about her performance as she hid behind her dark, shaggy bangs. The two intermittently sniffled and wiped at their nostrils.
Lucy’s first look at Katie was one of alarm. And then a wincing smile.
Before Katie knew it, she was hugging Lucy tight. She smelled different, like a head shop.
Lucy pulled away politely as if Principal Juhl were still watching them, ready to expel her all over again. “Wow. Thanks for coming, guys.” She gave Mark a slapping hug, then lit a cigarette. She pulled on it wryly, more Bogart than Bacall, eyeing Katie’s too-new jeans and frilly shirt with a raised brow.
“You were so fantastic.” Katie could not contain her grin. She hoped it conveyed every single thing.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “It was great, Lucy.”
“Thanks.” She shrugged, cringing a bit. “Was a little nervous.”
“I baked you a cake!” Katie blurted. The sidewalk seemed to tilt at that moment.
Mark coughed and closed his eyes.
“Huh?” Lucy said, head cocked.
“For your birthday?” Katie’s belly cramped and a clammy fever swept across her.
“That was last week.”
“I know that, dummy. Chocolate cherry chip. Your favorite, remember?”
The other band members turned away, squeaking and snickering.
Lucy chuckled. “Well, where is it?”
“Oh. Well, I—I ate it.”
It seemed to take years for Mark to drive home. He kept pulling over, rolling down her window, pleading with her not to throw up on his upholstery. She hated Wicasa Bluffs that night, hated her Lee jeans and Fleet Farm blouses. The next day, with a stinging hangover, she vowed that she would never think about that night again. And she was determined to be a woman of her vows.
B L O G G I N G M Y S O J O U R N
One Woman’s Journey from Gay to Straight
For a while, Sojourn was my own little purgatorial detox facility. I guess because I wasn’t born with Jesus constantly at my bedside or there on Sunday mornings, it just wasn’t taking. I mean, I’ve always been my own personal savior so it seems a bit nosy of him. He mostly seems like a misunderstood hippie and anything good he might have said has passed through the longest game of telephone imaginable. And the bible? Eh. Although I do like this part:
Behold, thou art fair, my love.
Behold, thou art fair.
Thou hast ravished my heart.
Nevertheless, I was willing to see this process through as long as the kids around me were sure that’s what they wanted too. But they all just had that look, like: this is a dream, right? We’ll all wake up, right?
Before that man from my hometown came to speak, before I learned Sojourn had funneled money into his wife’s campaign, I’d started pretty neutral on the whole thing. But then Charles sat me down one day to tell me what he figured out was going on in accounting. There were four kids with rich parents. One’s dad was a high elder in the Mormon Church. One was the son of a TV minister. One was the daughter of a conservative politician and another was the son of radio show host. All of them were paying at least three times as much as the rest of us. One even paid six figures.
Maybe the payment scales by income, I said. Charles said, no, he had researched the other parents. Plenty had money. But these parents were all in the public eye. They all had a lot to lose by having queer kids if the truth got out. And the further back in the books he went, long before we ever came, the more he found.
If the truth got out.
Patrice commented:
Why are we quoting Song of Solomon? It should not even be in The Bible.
Rolf68 commented:
Something tells me this ain’t about Solomon, Jesus or any other dude. Proceed with caution Liesl!
Yaweh commented:
HELLO LIESL, THIS IS GOD.
NO. REALLY, IT’S ME. TRUST ME, I’M GOD.
LIESL, YOU HAVE BEEN A VERY BAD GIRL.
ALTHOUGH I DO FIND YOU AND YOUR FOLLOWERS QUITE ENTERTAINING.
KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK.
I WILL EMAIL INSTRUCTIONS SOON!