I got permission to take Yessie on a little field trip last night. We didn’t go exactly where we told them we were going. I said we were going to a Valentine’s Day party at Navy Pier. We did go to a Valentine’s Day party, but it was at a hall on the West Side where a group of lesbians I know throw a party every year. There are usually three or four hundred lesbians there, and I’d be singing.
I think Yessie is too cool for school. She’s my girl. She’d been on me about when could she come hear me and my band. I told her what the scene was gonna be too—like, just women. All types of women, who are all types of lesbians. Now Yessie acts like the world is her yo-yo, okay? But the truth is she’s just a kid. You know. She’s seen a whole lot of hood life in her young years but not too much of the gay scene, so I was a little nervous.
I came to pick her up at ILLC at about seven and she was waiting in the lobby, all made up and wearing a tight, sleeveless, low-cut top she bought at the Dollar Store. It couldn’t have been more than twenty-five degrees outside and do you know that girl was not wearing a coat? I had to get out of the car and go into the building and say, “Yessie, where’s your coat at?” She looks at me all innocent. “I don’t need a coat. I’m warm enough.”
“Oh, really?” I said.
“I don’t need me a coat! I’m a warm-blooded person! It runs in my family. We don’t none of us ever wear coats because we gots a very high, high ability to stay warm. I’ll be uncomfortable all night with a coat.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you’re gonna have to be uncomfortable because you’re not leaving this place without a coat.”
When she did finally go back to her room and get the coat, we went back and forth a time or two about her putting the coat on, but she finally did.
I folded up Yessie’s wheelchair and stashed it in the trunk and we took off. I said, “So how you doing?” and Yessie says, “Do you know this is the first time since before I was a convict that I been out in the night going someplace other than the hospital? Girl, I am ready.”
“Wow. That’s crazy,” I said.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“Course you can.”
“When you’re not working, do you always dress like a man, or is that your costume for singing in? ’Cause I haven’t never seen you out of your uniform.”
Now you might be thinking these are the questions I wanted her not to ask, you know? But I wanted her to ask. That’s another thing about Yessie I like, is that she asks questions. So I answered her. “Well, I always wear men’s clothes, but I only wear a suit and tie when I’m singing at something more formal. Like I might not wear a suit if I had a gig in a bar. But I might. It depends how I feel.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Just ’cause I feel more comfortable dressing like a man doesn’t mean I want to be a man or act like a man. You see what I’m saying?”
“I think so. Just ’cause I like to dress like a hoochie don’t mean I wanna be a hoochie.”
“Yeah, okay, something like that, I guess. Yeah.” The girl cracks me up.
“Can I jus’ say one thing though? You look good in that suit, Jimmie girl. For a female you make a fine-looking male.”
“Thank you. You know who got me this suit?”
“Who?”
“Joanne.”
“Who’s that?”
“You know Joanne. Joanne! Who works at ILLC? She’s in a wheelchair?”
“Oh, hell no! She your girlfriend?”
“No, no, no. Joanne’s a friend.”
“I guess so if she’s buying you suits.”
“She got me this for my birthday because she knew I didn’t have anything to perform in.”
“She a lesbian too?” Yessie said.
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
“You know people who are straight can be friends with lesbians and vice versa. Just like you and me are friends.”
“I guess if you like her, I might like her too.”
“I think so,” I said.
“You got any ciggies?”
“No, I don’t got any ciggies! What you want cigarettes for?”
“I like one every now and then. That’s all. I’m not a addict.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
It started to flurry a little bit, so I turned on the wipers. When I went through the process of getting permission to take Yessie out tonight, I realized I didn’t have my story, you know, what I was going to say, okay? I put in the written permission and next thing I know, Beverly’s asking why don’t we take a whole group of the kids together? She thinks we’re going to the pier, right? And I like Beverly, Beverly’s cool. And under other circumstances, like, if I was telling the truth, I would’ve said, “Great, let’s—let’s go.” I hate lying. I don’t like myself when I’m doing it, and it’s like, once you’ve told the lie, you have to—to make sure you don’t get tangled up in it. I was ready to tell the one lie about where we were going, but then when Beverly asked can she go too I had to improvise and—that’s just, once you start improvising, anything could come out. You know what I’m saying? But I think I managed to keep Beverly off the scent.
Yessie said, “So there won’t be no eligible men there tonight?”
“Uh, not the kind you’re lookin’ for.”
“Oh, that’s nasty. You’re horrible.”
“Like I said, just women.”
“I know. It’s just a shame how I’m looking so hot and won’t be no males there to fall in love with me. Ain’t I looking fierce?”
“You definitely are.”
“It is a crime to look this fine.”
“You are too much,” I said.
“Uh-uh, but for real, Jimmie. I look okay?”
“Yeah, you do. You look really great.”
This is the first big gig I’ve had since coming back from New York. Maybe I should’ve been nervous but I don’t get nervous. Not before a gig. Singing has always come naturally to me and going onstage—it’s hard to explain—I mean, it’s different onstage than in church, okay? It’s weird because in church, I do get nervous sometimes. It’s like, being onstage with the band is for my glory. But in church it’s for God’s glory. Whole other thing. But I knew I was gonna give it tonight, I was gonna really open up. Making our way to the dance hall after parking the car with little Yessie keeping me laughing, I felt about as good as I’ve felt in a very long time.
When we went inside, it was like walking into another world. Everyone dressed up, the DJ working the playlist at top volume, twinkly colored lights all over, and oh my goodness, the women. Women everywhere. Femmes, studs, men trans-women and vice versa, women you didn’t know what they were, and a few drag queens to liven things up. All colors, sizes, and combinations. I looked at Yessie to check how she was doing and she looked a little, I’m not sure, I think she looked kind of—worried. I said, “You okay?” and she said, “Uh-huh.”
Before we got to move too far into the lobby, this older black woman who was one of the party organizers grabbed my arm and said, “Jimmie?” We followed her to the backstage area, weaving our way through a whole mess of people dancing or standing around talking and drinking. I was trying to clear the way for Yessie’s chair, steering women out the way with a hand on their lower backs. It was too loud to ask anyone to move.
Our first set didn’t start until eight thirty, so we sat down and Yessie had some pop and I squeezed a couple drops of Singer’s Throat onto my tongue. The rest of the band had just finished the sound check and they were getting their last few minutes of chill time in before we went out.
“Did your mama know you was a lesbian?” Yessie says.
“Yeah. I told her when I was about fourteen but I think she knew before that. She still made me wear dresses to church though.”
“You in a dress? I don’t think so.”
“I know. But my mom was cool with it. After a while. I mean, it wasn’t her first choice. But she got past it.”
Yessie got escorted back out to the main hall so she could watch the show, and me and the band hung just offstage while we got introduced. I looked out at the crowd and that place was packed. I can’t even say how many people were out there cheering and clapping. We always open with “I’m Every Woman.” Always. Then we mix it up with some Pattie LaBelle, or Gladys Knight, some Chaka Khan—I sing everybody. I love Anita Baker—“Givin’ You the Best That I Got,” “Sweet Love.” I saw Yessie dancing with three other women at once, young black hip-hoppie lezzies. Yessie was as good a dancer in her chair as everyone else was on their feet, showing off her salsa moves. When I sang “Midnight Train to Georgia,” Yessie was right up front, looking up at me with a big smile on her face, so I said, “Hey, everybody! I wanna give a shout out to my very good friend Yessie,” and Yessie screamed and the whole crowd laughed and clapped. “That’s Yessie! That’s my girl!”
“Go, Jimmie!” Yessie shouted up to the stage, and then the crowd went nuts and I sang “You Are My Friend.”
Backstage I mopped the sweat off my face, sipped on a bottle of cool water, and stood in front of the fan. There were a gang of people backstage already and I tried to make it over to Yessie, but oh my goodness, if you could see the women coming up and crowding around, I mean it was crazy. Then I hear Yessie’s voice over the crowd and she’s yelling my name and telling people to move out the way and they actually do. The crowd just parts for her. I bent down and gave her a big hug and introduced her to everybody even though I didn’t know who all of them were.
The band had a break for an hour, so we went on out to the main hall. It was like stepping into the Wayback Machine—so many people I knew from back in the day. Meanwhile I’m getting hit on by more women than I know what to do with. I must’ve been full-out propositioned like fifteen, sixteen times? Two of ’em were couples. Do you know I can’t remember the name of one of those women? I’m pretty sure there was a LaTanya or a Tawanda in there somewhere.
When we were driving back to the center Yessie said, “Jimmie, you better get yourself some female repellent spray.”
“Aw, come on now. Did you have a good time?”
“I had the best time I ever had in my life! I had so, so, so much fun.”
“You’re not traumatized?”
“I’m not turning into a lesbian if that’s what you mean.”
Getting to know her is—I feel I understand her, you know? My mom is dead and her mom is dead. Yessie is—basically she’s on her own. She’s got a lot of relatives but nobody close. And her family is so much like mine. She has crackheads and crack hustlers in her family, and I have crackheads and crack hustlers. We both have family in prison. My oldest brother, Richard, is in prison the rest of his natural life.
It was late, so I decided I better walk her up to her room in case she ran into a houseparent questioning where she’d been. The clock was still running on my lie. We got off on two and by then I was pushing her chair because she was dragging. She’s got used to a seven or eight o’clock bedtime at this place.
We didn’t run into any houseparents. I know Candy is on tonight and Adrian and Victor. And Jerry. Yeah, it’s Friday. I am not trying to run into Candy. I helped Yessie get into bed and get comfortable, hung up a few of her things because I know she likes everything neat and tidy. Most of the time she picks out her clothes for the next day before she goes to bed, but tonight the girl was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Walking back to the elevator I heard a couple of the girls talking in their room, so I dropped by to say good night. They were all like, “Jimmie! Jimmie! You on tonight?” It was Demetria and Krystal. Demetria was half-asleep sucking on her thumb—she’s sixteen years old—and Krystal was wide awake. I put an extra blanket on Demetria’s bed and gave them both a pat on the head. When Krystal turned over I saw that the bald patch she’d made from pulling out her hair was getting bigger. I’m gonna have to start giving her a comb-over.
I settled the girls down and headed out. During the day you can’t hear yourself think, but when they’re all asleep you could hear a rat pissing on cotton. That’s how I knew I was coming up on Candy. I heard her flick her lighter on. When I turned the corner to the elevator, there she was, leaning back against the wall and sucking in on her ciggie, cheeks all pulled in and one eye squinted against the smoke.
“Hey, Candy. You might wanna think about putting that thing out. We got children on oxygen here, remember?” She looks at me and, I swear to God, aims a stream of smoke right at my face. “Right back atcha,” I said, and I stepped on the elevator.
Oh, Candy, Candy. She’s a whole sack of bitches.