lgbt

I’m alive and I will survive,  show the world that I can take it

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I know I’ve shared about this before but it in 2025 it’s important to remember these things are still happening.  

In 2001, I was working for a little internet start up company.  Well, a smallish, to medium size start-up company. 

In May of that year, my little company was bought by the big company Pitney Bowes.  By the end of August all of my favorite employees had been let go.

For some reason, known only to someone more powerful than me, I was kept on. 

My friends all got six-month severance agreements.  Meanwhile, I kept going to an office that used to house 7 of us that now housed me. 

Then 9/11 happened.  

And if you’d read my post by 3:00 on September 11, 2001, I’d been ordered to report to Danbury, Connecticut on September 12. 

I said no.  And didn’t report until the end of the month.

I continued to commute to Danbury until the next spring. 

On Monday morning at 7:00 a.m. I’d arrive at the Hertz car rental on 34th street at Penn Station and rent a car.  I’d drive north and get to work just before 9:00.  

I’d spend the week at the Danbury Ramada Inn, which also housed an Outback Steakhouse.  I’d get to work at 9:00 a.m.  Do my thing. Leave at 5:00.  Go the gym.  Drive back to the hotel.  Order food to go from Outback.  (They always forgot my silverware). And be in bed by 11:00.

On Friday, I’d leave work at 5:00.  Drive back to NYC.  Return my car.  And take the subway home. 

My life was horrible. 

There is more to the story, but I’ll save that for another day. 

On May 9, 2002, I was called into the HR office, where I was told they were restructuring the marketing team and that my position was being eliminated. 

On the outside I was pissed, while on the inside, I was popping champagne.

They slid the severance agreement across the desk and said here’s what we are offering.

(I had just read a post in Men’s Health that said severance agreements are negotiable). 

I told them, I’d have to read it over, and that I’d get back to them.  

In the end, they paid me 10,000 dollars more than they offered, plus back bonuses.

However, I was happy, happy, happy to never drive back to Danbury, Connecticut ever again. 

Truth be told, 25 years later and I’ve never been back, although I’ve been told the restaurant seen is a little more vibrant now. 

It’s the end of May.  I’m unemployed, and my old boss calls me.  He tells me that he’s just been hired by a company in Chicago that is opening their first New York satellite office.  He wants to know if I want to join the team. 

I immediately say yes. 

My first day is on June 10, 2002.  I arrive and do my thing.  I’m office manager, and I’ve been tasked with setting up a new office.  We need computers, printers, internet, paper, phone etc.

I get to work.

All is well.  

My boss calls me on Tuesday, to let me know that the owner of the company, Marge, will be in town on Wednesday and wants to meet me.  She has arranged for us to meet for lunch. 

I get to work on Wednesday and get to work. We’ve received a million boxes and I get started opening them.  On my fifth or sixth box, I slide the scissors across the tape, only to slice my finger open.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck. 

It’s still bleeding at noon when I am needing to leave for lunch with the owner of my company.  

I wrap a paper towel around my finger, wrap rubber bands around it to keep it in place and leave for lunch. 

Lunch is pleasant enough. 

She’s nice.  She asks about my goals.  Where I see myself in five years.  I talk about theater, wanting to be a lighting designer.  It’s fine. 

When I leave lunch, I go immediately to the St. Vincent emergency room and get five stitches in my finger.  

The next day, I go to work as usual. 

Then Friday, I repeat the process. 

Around 11:00 my old boss calls and tells me to stop work.

Then proceeds to tell me what has transpired in the last 48 hours.

Thursday night, he’d had a meeting with Marge, and her assistant, where she said,   Mike (the assistant) I know you are gay.  Jeff is obviously gay.  Looks at my boss and says, I assume you are gay.  I won’t have my New York office run by all gay men.  Jeff has to go.

My old boss took copious notes.  Said he’d deal with it.  And left the meeting. 

On Friday morning, when he called me he was supposed to be on his way to a company wide meeting where, he’d be introduced to the company as the head of the new New York location.  Instead, he was on his way to the airport to fly home to New York. 

He told me to pack up any personal shit I had, take the new espresso make home with me, and get out of the office.  By noon I was on my way uptown. 

First stop, the NYC LGBT center.  I met with one of their employees, who gave me the number of a civil rights attorney. 

A week later, my old boss and I are sitting in his office, telling him our story. 

Fun fact, it’s illegal in NYC to fire someone for being gay.  

Now to the fun part of the story. 

On Saturday, after the firing, my old boss, talked to her assistant, who corroborated the whole story.  All the details, etc.  My boss recorded the conversation.  Mike never spoke to either of us again, but the damage had been done.  

The lawyer sent the transcript of the phone call to the opposing attorney.  

They asked for mediation.

Mediation was us sitting across the table from her, while she told me all the ways I was unqualified to do the job I’d been hired to do.  Simply because theater was my first love.  I’d like to say, that if you walked into any new office in NYC right now, half the employees at line level want a theater career.  They may never have it, but that’s why they are in NYC. 

Mediation ended poorly. 

By now it’s approaching the end of 2002.  The legal process is not fast. 

Sometime in late November, we were called and told that they other company was settling. 

Each of us would be awarded $250,000 each.  

Hehehehehe.  

We got checks in January. 

It’s the most money I ever made for the least amount of work.  

I took my money and promptly applied for graduate school. 

In the end Marge’s bigotry bought me a new red Mini Cooper 5-speed, moved me from NYC to San Diego, paid for my apartment and got me through my first year of grad school.  

It’s never nice of her don’t you think. 

The point is, I was fired for being gay.  

It’s still happening.

This is why we have pride month.  This is why we fight.  

Right now, my trans brothers and sisters are being asked to leave the military.  Men and women willing to die for your right to be a bigot. 

There are people still being fired.  Silenced. 

So fight.  Don’t be silent.  Don’t be complicit. 

Do the right thing. 

At remember, bigotry doesn’t pay, except when it does.  

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

In the winter of 2000/2001, I was working out at the New York Sport Club in the financial district in New York City.

Before any of you laugh, I weighed 185 pounds, and was in tip top shape.  

One of the physical trainers there was named Rich and he and I took a liking to each other.  He asked not if he could train me, but if I’d be interested in working out with him.  

I said of course, and we did.  

He was in great shape, was very sweet and fun fact, he was mostly deaf.  It was a new experience for me.  

We dated for a bit, but he was far more interested in me, than I was in him, and it didn’t last long. 

That being said, we worked out together for a bit, and stayed friends.

In early spring, he invited me to an event at his apartment in Chelsea, to discuss the bicycle ride from Boston to NYC to raise money for AIDS research.   

I went and thought what great idea.

The funny things is: he decided not to do it, and I decided to DO IT.  

The ride that year was from NYC to Boston, covered over 350 miles and was from July 19 to July 22.  

I spent the rest of the spring/summer NOT training.  

I rode my bike for a hot minute but I was not interested in the heavy lifting.  

The smartest thing I did all summer, was ask my friend Mike if I could borrow his road bike, instead of riding my mountain bike.  It did make all the difference in the world. 

I forget how much money I HAD to raise to do the ride but I exceeded the amount by about 1,000 dollars. 

Lots of my friends/family donated and this was before social media.

In fact, I raised so much money, that on the first day of the ride, I gave “away” some of my donations, so some fellow riders wouldn’t have to pay out of pocket. 

Finally, it was July 19, the first day.  

I had delivered my bike a couple of days ago so it could be delivered to Bear Mountain, New York.  

On July 19, I took a cab to the area for the bus that would take us to Bear Mountain to start the rise. 

Fun fact:  I left my cell phone in the cab.  It was the first and last time I lost a cell phone.  It meant that I couldn’t be in contact with any of the people tracking my ride or coming to meet me.  

I got to Bear Mountain, picked up my bike and with a blow of a whistle the ride commenced. 

It was 350+ miles from Bear Mountain to Boston.  I was disappointed it wasn’t from Boston to NYC as it had been before but I was sure to have fun.  

The way the ride worked, I’d ride my bike the specified route for the day, and when I got there, my belongings would be there.  I would sleep in a designated tent, but I’d also find food, shelter, showers, massage therapists, chiropractor, etc.  

I won’t go in to the details.  The ride was hard.  There were too many hills.  But I was determined to do the ride.  I didn’t walk my bike.  I didn’t ask for the van to take me to the next rest area. I didn’t complain.  

I rode every moment of the 350 miles.  

What I will say, is that it was the perfect idea of society.  There were people to help you.  There were people cheering you on.  When you got to the top of a particularly bad hill, you’d step off your bike, to cheer on the people behind you.  When you got to camp, it was a mutual admiration society.  People cheered you on as you pulled in to camp.  They asked you to join them for lunch or dinner.  They asked how you were doing. The insisted you go ahead of them to the showers etc if you had a bad day.  

To this day, it was four days of Eutopia and what we all want society to actually be.  

And on the last day, early afternoon, you passed in to the Boston city limits.  There were people lining the streets, screaming and the crowds grew as you got closer to the finish line. 

And sometime around 5:00 Sunday afternoon, I crossed the line.  I was tired.  Sweaty.  And beat. 

But I’d done it.  

And.

My friend Michelle and my friend Lou were there to meet me.  After we found each other, we went to the Cheers bar to have a beer, then went to dinner at a restaurant I don’t remember.  

The next day, I flew back to NYC.  And at the end of the week I picked up my belongings and my friend Mike’s bike.  

To this day, it still is one of the best moments of my life.  

A friend on Facebook, mentioned that he is working the crew on the ride in California this week and that it’s the last year it’s happening.  

I highly recommend doing it if you ever get the chance.  

Goodness gracious, that’s why I’m a mess!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

During the last weekend of April, in 2000, I flew to Washington D.C. from NYC and met my friend Michelle, her girlfriend Meredith and my friend Sam for the Millenium March on Washington.

It was the first real gay event that I’d ever attended.

The weekend was packed with events, a concert, protests, a march and a festival.

We all met there, and checked in to our very cheap, budget hotel.

It was a Friday morning and the fun, pride filled weekend lay in front of us.

There are a few things that stand about the weekend.

Sam was at the hotel for about three minutes, said he was off to meet friends, and I didn’t seem him again all weekend.

Meredith and I fought all weekend about the thermostat. She thought the a/c should be on 78. I thought it should be on 60. She won.

And I’m pretty sure when we said goodbye on Sunday night, it was the last time I saw her.

On Friday night, there was a huge concert at JFK Stadium, called Equality Rocks. We had nose bleed seats, but the energy was insane. It was sold out, and the crowd was going wild. So many amazing people performed.

Melissa Ethridge, KD Lang, George Michael, Garth Brooks, Chaka Khan, and the Pet Shop Boys.

The most moving moment of the night was when Matthew Shepherd’s parents took the stage. His mom spoke eloquently about the role of she’d been thrust into by the murder of her son.

She was everybody’s mom that night. She owned it.

It was late when the concert was over.

The three of us, started down from the top of the stadium. Taking one escalator after another.

On the third escalator, a man caught my eye.

Very much caught my attention.

He waited for me at the bottom.

We talked for a few moments, and then we both started our journey again toward the exits.

We got outside the stadium, and were now very much in love.

He asked me if I wanted to come home with him, and how better to celebrate the gay movement than by being gay.

I told Michelle, I’d meet her at the march the next day, and we walked to his car.

As he drove me to his house, he let me know that he was a police officer in Boston, and that he’d flown down for the March. He was in D.C. staying with his family, who very supportive of him.

We got back to his place, shared a beer and fell asleep.

Get your mind out of the gutter. This is a PG story. Plus, it’s been 25 years I barely remember that it happened.

We woke up the next morning, to breakfast cooking.

He asked me if I was hungry? I said sure, did you cook breakfast.

He replied, no but my mom did.

He’d failed to mention that when he said he was here with his parents, he meant at their house.

Ever hear of the walk of shame.

Well, I got dressed, and went downstairs and was introduced to the mom, the dad, the two sisters and the family dog.

We all had a hearty breakfast, while I pretended not to be embarrassed.

After breakfast, he drove us back in to DC, and dropped me off near the spot I was to meet Michelle and Meredith.

I found them, we marched.

At the end of the day, we all went our separate ways. Me back to NYC. Them back to Chicago.

Two interesting facts about the boy in question.

He has a very distinct name.

Two or three years later, I was reading a true crime novel, set in Massachussets, and the book mentioned him as a investigative police person in the case.

He was also booked on American Airlines Flight 11, out of Boston to L.A. on 9/11. He missed the flight and the rest you can say is history.

We stayed in touch for a bit. One of the last times I spoke with him was just before I moved to San Diego to start grad school.

And a quick google search has shown that he is now a very high ranking Boston police officer and makes a ton of money, because it’s public info.

I found him on Facebook.

He has a cute boyfriend.

And a dog.

I’d rather be sailing…

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I missed yesterday, so there are two posts today.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Most of my younger friends, would never believe that I have not always been an overweight middle aged man.

In fact, at one time you might call me attractive.

Might.

If your glasses were foggy and you hadn’t had cataract surgery.

However, I did okay for myself.

When I lived in Atlanta, I never really had a boyfriend.

Well, I had one for about 5 minutes. But that’s a story for another day.

I did date a bit. Although not much. I was too busy living my best life.

There are a few men who stand out in Atlanta. Matt, the boyfriend. Chris who tried to get me to like red wine. Dave, the artist. The guy whose name I’ll remember later, who went on to make a huge fortune in designing chandeliers. Tony, who I stayed in contact with and of course.

And Shel the furniture distributor.

This story is about Shel.

I have no idea, how we met.

I do remember our first date.

We had lunch, in the spring, at a café that over looked Piedmont Park.

He picked me up in his baby blue Mercedes convertible, and was the perfect gentleman.

He was easily 45, with a weathered appearance, that gave the impression he’d grown up on a sailboat. His face was tanned, and his hair was blondish grey. His eyes, were crystal blue and he spoke with a slight Norwegian accent.

The only thing I know about his wealth, was that he and his Norwegian family, owned a European furniture company and distribution center.

I never asked. He didn’t offer up much information.

We were never exclusive. We’d go out to mostly lunches, and early dinners. He’d drive me around town in the convertible and I felt like royalty. He was wicked funny, and very sweet.

His apartment, was in a high rise, and it had beautiful views of Atlanta.

One of the memories that I remember clearly was going to Neiman Marcuss with him where he was picking up and paying for pants that had been altered for him. When he paid, the register said $750. In 1988. What the fucking fuck.

He was in excellent shape and looked as good out of clothes as he did in his $750 pants. He really was beautiful.

We dated casually throughout the summer, and then our summer romance kind of fizzled. I don’t remember a conversation. I don’t remember a break up. I just remember one day I had a friend with a powder blue Mercedes convertible and the next day I didn’t.

Truth be told, I probably have his old phone number written in an address book in a box in my closet. And for the life of my I can’t remember his last name, which was Norwegian.

For a moment though, my star shone brightly.

So sue me, sue me…

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I could NOT sleep the other night. At 3:00 a.m. I was wide awake, lost in memories from my far past.

At one point, I picked up my phone and was scrolling.

I saw a post, and it reminded me of a friend I had in Lexington back in the early 1990’s. I’ve thought about him often, but that night I went down a rabbit hole of Google trying to find him.

It took a bit, but about halfway down the second page, I found his obituary. He died in 2003 and from the sounds of tributes on the page, he had not been well mentally or physically.

I had the breath knocked out of me. We had been buddies.

Which reminded me of something that happened, when I stopped by his work one day.

He cut hair for a living. I knew he got off around 5:00 and I met him at his shop. We went down the street to get ice cream and then walked back and sat on a bench in front.

We were chatting minding our own business when a man in a jeep drove by and called us f*gs.

I didn’t know what to say, but my friend was having no part of it.

He watched the man park a couple of stores down and go inside.

I sat there, as he went down to the jeep, pulled out his keys and etched f*g on the side of the man’s jeep.

He was almost back to the bench when the man started yelling.

We both ran into the shop, out the back door and hid.

We thought we’d escaped.

Except the next day, the police show up and they ask if he was involved. He assured them it was not him. A few days later, he is served with papers. The man whose jeep he keyed has decided to sue him.

When you cut hair, you know a lot of people.

In fact. Some of the people whose hair you cut might just be attorneys. Some of them might be very good attorneys who, tell my friend that they’ll take care of it.

The attorney, does a little investigation and discovers that the jeep driver is about as pure as you’d expect him to be. He has an outstanding warrant for his arrest, AND he owes several years back child support.

When all was said and done, jeep driver ended up in jail, the lawsuit was dismissed and hopefully jeep driver learned not to be a bully when your friend has a good attorney.

And as because it never ceases to amaze me, I was called a f*g today while driving, because I tapped my horn behind someone who was sitting in an intersection they had the light in.

It certainly told me all I needed to know about him.

Something bad is happening.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

By the time I graduated high school in 1983, AIDS was no secret.

It wasn’t getting the national attention it should have, Reagan was still pretending it didn’t exist, and gay men were dying across the country.

In Central Kentucky, I felt isolated. I felt protected.

I won’t say I was as careful as I should have been.

I went off to college, also in central Kentucky, and it was very much the same. Still not as much attention as it should have been getting. Reagan might have mentioned. it by then, and by this time the number of deaths were staggering.

Still, I felt isolated, protected.

In September 1987, I moved to Atlanta.

Suddenly, I wasn’t in little “ole” Kentucky.

Suddenly, I knew gay people. Suddenly, I was out of the closet.

I was much more careful, but not as careful as I should have been.

By the time I left Atlanta, it was a full-blown national nightmare.

I moved back to Central Kentucky.

I was terrified. I’d met men who had been diagnosed with HIV and AIDS, it was very close to home.

And yet. It was 1989, and I had never been tested.

I’d seen the posters around town. In the bars. On the bulletin boards at school.

Finally. I said I’ll do it.

I drove to the health department on Newtown Road. Around to the back. In a satellite trailer, similar to the ones they use at high schools now.

I went in, took a number.

I was scared to death.

I waited about 16 hours. Actually, I don’t remember how long it actually was. It seemed like a decade.

I was taken back. I was asked some questions. I was told the test could be anonymous.

The nurse was very sweet. Caring. Gentle.

She drew the blood.

I was given a sheet of paper with a number on it. As it was anonymous, it would be how I’d be matched to my result when I came back.

In two weeks.

What the fucking fuck?

If the wait to draw blood was a decade, the two-week wait was a century. Everything was in slow motion those two weeks. Work. School. Rehearsal.

Two weeks later, I made the trek back out to the trailer.

I was taken into a room with a counselor. I was told they always have a counselor just in case it’s positive.

The envelope was opened.

A breath was taken.

I was told

It was.

Negative.

The emotion that rushed over me, was immense.

How could this be? I was only kind of careful. Surely it was wrong.

But it was not.

Fast forward 35 years and I’m tested at every physical. It’s part of my routine blood work for cholesterol and my A1C.

I’m still not sure how I remained negative.

I spent almost 12 years in New York City. I was always kind of careful.

I’m forever grateful.

So many people in my generation were not so lucky.

The care has come a long way, but there are still people worldwide, who are suffering and dying from this horrible disease.

Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’m pretty sure I’ve shared this post before but it’s always worth repeating.

From 1995 until 1998 I taught lighting design at the Cincinnati School for Creative and Performing Arts. SCPA.

Who knew that a high school could have a teacher dedicated to all things lighting. It was a life changing adventure and I’m proud to say that my past students are spread to the far reaches of the US, still doing amazing things.

I had been mostly out of the closet before I moved to Cincinnati and I wasn’t about to walk back in and start hiding again. One of the first things I did was put a rainbow sticker on my car.

I’ve never been a huge rainbow flag person, but at the time, I thought it was important to own who I was.

First semester of my second year there, I was teaching an intro class to a group of 7th graders. I was taking roll, going through my grade book (I still have them by the way, if any of my students want to know how they did back then).

I got to a young girl, who said she was here and then asked me if the red escort station wagon in the parking lot was mine.

I replied, yes it was. I called it my family car. When I bought it, I couldn’t afford a truck and I needed a way to cart students and lights around to projects I worked on.

The girl started to giggle and and hid her mouth behind her hand and said, so is that the one with the rainbow sticker on the back. Hehehehehe.

I said yes it is. Why do you ask?

Hehehehe, I was just curious, she said, still giggling.

She was trying to be passive aggressive, emphasis on the aggressive and I was having no part of it.

I said, Do you know what the rainbow flag stands for?

She really started to giggle then and wouldn’t answer.

I didn’t wait long before I continued, the rainbow symbol was adopted by the great Reverand Jesse Jackson as a symbol to celebrate and encourage diversity. I have the sticker on my car, because I teach in a very diverse school and I want all of my students to know that I appreciate who they are no matter what.

She stopped giggling and stared at me.

I looked at the whole class and said, does anyone else have a question about the rainbow sticker on my car?

Then, let’s get started.

What are the four qualities of light?

I am what I am.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

The summer of 1984.

I worked at Wendy’s in North Park, in Lexington.

I had just finished my freshman year of college.

One hot, humid evening, a car pulls up to the drive thru. I’m on the register, and take the order. I ask the car to pull around.

When the car pulls up to the window, I lean out and give the guy driving the car the price. He’s super cute, and has a huge smile. He pays me, but keeps looking at me, and smiling. I hand him back his change (I’m not even sure we took credit cards back then), and he’s still smiling.

After a bit, I hand him his order and he asks me what I’m doing later.

I look around to see if any of my co-workers are watching. They are cleaning, cooking, not paying me any attention.

Since no one is watching, I ask why he wants to know. He says, he might want to come back later and see me. I tell him I’ll be off around midnight.

He replies, “Don’t be surprised if I come back.”

I didn’t think anything of it, and went back to work.

Sure, enough though, when I walked out to my car 90 minutes later, there he was sitting in the parking lot, waiting.

As I write this, all I can think of is Jeffrey Dahmer, but in 1994, all I could think was impure thoughts. He asked if I wanted to grab a drink with him, but I confessed I wasn’t 21. He said, how about a drink at my place.

Innocent Jeff, followed him to his apartment. And may or may not have spent the night.

The next morning, we got up and had coffee. He introduced me to his roommate, and we sat and chatted.

I said that I needed to get home, but he asked if he could see me again.

I said, of course. I’d love that.

What followed next was a stupid, infatuation on my part, that had no chance of going anywhere.

I was too young. He was too old at 26.

For a few weeks, though, I’d meet him at the Video Library on New Circle Road, help him close up, then we’d go back to his place.

What I didn’t know, when I met his roommate over coffee the first morning, was that his roommate was a drag queen by night. Confession, she was the first drag queen I’d ever met. I’m not even sure I had a word for it at the time.

The affair lasted about 30 seconds, and one day he told me it wasn’t going to work out.

I was devastated. I spent the next week mourning, while I was spending time at my aunt’s house, watching Grease 2 every day on HBO. She’d ask what was up and I’d just say I don’t feel well.

I of course got over it.

School started a month or so later.

Fall of my sophomore year.

The year when students were allowed to pledge fraternities and sororities.

I went through pledge week. And at the end of the week, I accepted the bid from the Phi Kappa Taus.

My friend Kara’s father is a Phi Tau, which is kind of fun.

That fall I did all the fraternity stuff. Parties, events, etc.

Then came hell week.

During hell week, the first chore was to put newspaper over the windows to the lobbies. Then lots of top secret stuff that I’d be killed if I shared with you.

Part of hell week was a scavenger hunt.

It was silly things really.

But one item stood out.

Get a signature from the bartender at Johnny Angels. The gay bar. Still in business today.

I volunteered to go in. It’s funny, it never occurred to me till right this minute that we didn’t get carded, which means I could have gone back at anytime. Alas.

Myself and a pledge brother walk up to the bar and ask for the autograph.

While I’m standing there, I look to my right, and there is the drag queen friend of my summer fling. She winked at me. Watched the proceedings. And then turned back to her friend.

We ran out, and got on with our evening, but at the time I so grateful she didn’t say hello.

I spent the next three years terrified of being found out.

Now, all of the people from that time know me as Jeff. Who lives in Maine with his boyfriend. His five cats. And his slew of lesbian friends.

Seems silly to have worried about it all that time ago.

Look over there. Look over there. Somebody cares that much.

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i’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Picture this!

Perhaps it’s time to rename my blog since I very rarely talk to the manager anymore.

Anyway!

Picture this!

Lexington, Kentucky. 1994.

I’m working at an Italian restaurant called The Italian Oven.

It’s a fun concept, in a strip mall off Richmond Road.

It features a wood fired oven, used to make pizzas, calzones and pastas.

I would often get the pasta carbonara until I discovered it was the dish with the most calories on the menu.

The owner’s name was Wayne. He was a bit crazy as all restaurant owners are.

He had an assistant, who’s named Nina, who was a host, then became assistant manager. She scared everyone but me.

For some reason she liked me, which I appreciated.

Turns out the concept, a franchise operation has gone kind of bust except for one location in Georgia.

Home

Same idea, except we only served beer and wine.

My ex-boyfriend Jim got me the job there, after I walked out of O’Charley’s when my manager was on maternity leave, and the replacement manager was a dick.

The concept included, black and white checked table cloths, with white craft paper on top. When you approached the table, you introduced yourself and wrote you name upside down in crayon. There was a small glass with crayons on the table for people to draw while they waited.

Fun fact, when someone who was artistically inclined we kept the drawings in the back on the walk-in.

We also were way ahead of our time, as we used pasta as straws, long before cities were banning plastic.

I worked there for two years, until I moved to Cincinnati to teach at the School for Creative and Performing Arts.

That was a long introduction to the meat of the story.

On a summer day, in 1994, I was at the restaurant for lunch.

Lunches were busy. Business was starting to wind down, when a table of four was seated in the back of the restaurant.

The server approached the table, we’ll call him Scott.

It’s funny. I can see his face, but for the life of me I can’t remember his name. He was an older gay man who didn’t even try to hide his gayness.

He walked up to the table, wrote his name upside down on the table, and before he could say more, a man at the table stopped him and asked for another server.

He responded, “Did I do something wrong?”

The man responded, “You are gay. We don’t want no gay server waiting on us.”

Scott said, “Of course, I’ll be right back.”

We were all hanging around in the front when Scott approached us, and told the three or four servers as well as Jay the manager what was said.

Jay said, “I’ve got this.”

He walked through the dining room and approached the table and said, “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

The man at the table spoke up and said, “We don’t want no gay waiter. Give us somebody who ain’t gay.”

“Well sir, that’s going to be a problem. See that woman over there. She’s gay. See that man standing beside her, pointing at me, he’s gay too. See the guy with the beard making pizzas in the kitchen, he’s gay. In fact, I’m the manager, and I’d offer to wait on you, but I’m gay too. So if you don’t want no gay person waiting on you, then I guess you’ll have to just eat some place else.”

With that he walked away.

To be honest, I think they stayed, but I don’t remember.

The thing about Jay was, that if you’d asked me when I started, fuck if you’d asked me 24 hours earlier, I’d have sworn he was a little homophobic. But that day, he did the right thing. I’d never loved a manager more.

This was 1994, conservative, Lexington, KY.

The times they were a changin’.

So when my spirit starts to sag, I hustle out my highest drag, and put a little more mascara on

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

The summer of 1984, I worked at Wendy’s in North Park.  It was an awesome job, making $3.35 an hour, that I saved,to pay for college each semester.  Yes, it paid for college, with the bare minimum of loans.  

We were open late, and often got a crazy late crowd.    

One night a car drives thru, I’m working the drive thru.  It pulls up to the window, and I tell them the charge will be 9.76.  The driver pays me cash, and we chat while he waits for his order to be ready.  

The chatting becomes flirting, and then he forwardly asks me what time I’ll be off work.  I tell him around 1:00.  He says, he’ll come back then.    

And he did.  

And we dated for about 6 minutes.  Yes, minutes.

And I use the term dating loosely.  

I would drive to Lexington to meet him at closing time at the Video Village that he worked at on New Circle Road.  Fun fact, turns out my friend Todd Lacy, also worked at that store, with this guy.  I found this out about 8 years later.  

I also saw him long enough for me to meet his drag queen roommate, who was very funny, very gregarious, and very sweet.  I’m pretty sure she was the first drag queen I ever met.  

After about 6 minutes, he told me that he didn’t think it would work out.

I was very hurt.  For about 3 days.  

Then I moved on with my summer. 

Fast forward to the fall of 1984.  

I pledge a fraternity at my very conservative, liberal arts college.  

And why did I pledge a fraternity.

Because living in the dorms, meant always watching your back to see if someone saw you drinking.  Or someone saw you out late.  Or someone saw you doing anything that the Bible deemed sinful.    

I pledged the Phi Kappa Tau fraternity.  

And thus started the pledges life.  

Just before Christmas break, the windows of the house were covered with newspaper.  We brought ou mattresses from our dorms.  

And hell week started.  

What happens in hell week is super top secret, so if I told you, I’d have to kill you.  

One thing we did, was have a scavenger hunt.  Get a menu from here.  Get a ticket stub from there.  

Get the autograph of a bartender at Johnny Rockets, the gay bar in Lexington.  

Fun fact, the big gay bar in Lexington has been in this location for decades.  Its right next door to the police station.  And the city has tried for years to buy the building, but the owner has never budged.  

So there we were, driving all over Lexington collecting our souvenirs.  

And it’s time to go into the bar.  

I volunteered along with one of my pledge brothers, but I don’t remember who.  

We walk in, and approach the bar.  

I go up to the bar and wait for the bartender.

I look to my left and I see my friend’s drag queen roommate.  

She smiles.

I smile, while saying a prayer that she doesn’t acknowledge knowing me.  

She’s not dumb, and plays a long.  She says something sassy, and winks at me.  

We get our autograph and go on with our evening.  

I was very grateful that she did not out me.  

It was my first time in a gay bar.  

But certainly not my last.