Tripping to Atlanta
I can hardly believe all that occurred on the trip to Atlanta I took a while back with a busload of cross-dressing, drag queen gospel music singers. Honey, let me tell you for sure this excursion with the MCC (Metropolitan Community Church) was one bodacious ride into unbelief and not anything like any Sunday school outing or trip I ever was on with any group. Not from Covenant Presbyterian, First Church, The MPP (Myers Park Presbyterian) Church, Christ Episcopal, The CCOG (Central Church of God), the Methodists, the Baptists, or even the Pentecostal Holiness Church!
You know I'm very ecumenical and love to mix and mingle with all sorts of people--I collect interesting people--it just makes life so much fun! Well, the way I got into this trip was quite unexpected.
I was working one day at the office of a friend of mine who publishes three newspapers--two queer. His printer had run late, and there were about 30,000 advertising flyers to be inserted within one day into his monthly queer newspaper called Q Notes so that it would hit the streets on time.
My friend, whose name is Jim, rang me up late night and said, "Lana, if you possibly can, please come over tomorrow and help us get these flyers inserted! I'll pay you ten dollars an hour, buy you lunch, and love you forever! And you know you'll have fun with this bunch over here!"
"Jim, honey, I wouldn't miss this for the world! What time do you want me there?" I could hardly wait until morning.
When morning finally broke and I got to Jim's building I walked into the motliest crew of people with whom I ever had worked. Shawda Mawda! This bunch beat out even that wild and crazy bunch with whom I worked at Bush--Quayle headquarters!
Sitting at one end of the long worktable and inserting papers as she groaned and grunted was a 350-pound black man in drag named LooLoo. LooLoo, I came to learn as the day went on, was 48 years old. She was wearing a red flowing dress and a headdress that was a sort of turban with streamers that fluttered in the breeze of the fans. The headdress was bright red, too, as were her lipstick and dangling earrings. I noticed that on her enormous feet were black Reeboks. O, Lordy, I'd just love to present her to society at The Charlotte Country Club where I made my own debut in 1968, as a girl of 17.
As the day wore on, LooLoo kept complaining to us about being exhausted, saying, "Children, Mother is tired!"
Also in this razzle-dazzle crew of workers was a man named Morgan Brooke, who appeared to be "perfectly normal" except that he was just a tad on the swishy side. Morgan's wavy gray hair was separating widely in the middle of his head to reveal the mid-life bald spot he so obviously was trying to conceal by combing his hair with a lot of twists and flourishes and brushing it toward the middle of his gleaming cranium.
As the day progressed, Morgan and I 'took a real liking toward each other,' as we say down South. He revealed to me in our daylong conversation that only two weeks before he had told his wife after 25 years of marriage he was gay. Even though I could sympathize with him, I also could sympathize with his wife.
"Lana, she is being SO unreasonable!" Morgan lamented.
"Now see here, Morgan! You're the one who's being a little on the unreasonable side! After all, when a woman has been married to a man 25 years, had three children by him and put up with all his crap, and then he tells her he wants to have all his good times with another man, it is not unreasonable for her to be upset!"
I realized I was raising my voice to Morgan. And I didn't mean to be rude. I just didn't mince my words with him. But, too, of course, there's a lot to be said for honesty in an intimate relationship (and marriage is that), and if your partner is not satisfying you sexually, something certainly needs to be said. I know some married couples where the man and woman sleep in separate bedrooms all the time. Honey child, that is not a marriage! Even when Clavo gets so old his pecker won't salute and I get so old my love hole shrivels up, I still want to be able to snuggle up next to that sweet, hairy hunk of man! I pray God I can!
But now let me get back to how I got involved in the trip to Atlanta.
As LooLoo, Morgan, and I worked along with Rick (the drop-dead gorgeous black-haired, big blue-eyed, long-lashed 23-year-old doctoral student) and Sammy (the swishiest blonde queen in our "Queen City," so called for namesake Queen Charlotte, wife of George III), conversation got around to the trip to Atlanta. The rest of them all were talking about it; and from hearing their talk, I thought they were planning to go on some sort of sporting event.
"You know that Danny Boy really can throw it up high. He really hit some great highs and scored big the last time." Sammy was talking to the group.
Later on, I understood that "throwing it up high" did not refer to playing basketball as I had thought but rather to the pitch of Danny Boy's tenor voice. Morgan (called "Morgan the Organ" by the rest of the group) asked me to go with him to the break room for some coffee, and I did.
"Lana, go with us to Atlanta tomorrow," he begged.
"Exactly what is this Atlanta trip all about, Morgan?"
"Oh, this is the world-wide meeting of the Metropolitan Community Church. People from all over the world will be there! You know you want to go on a van with a bunch of drag queens and cross dressers who are all gospel singers!" Now I was interested!
"You mean that I can ride down with you all?"
"Why yes, Lana, honey. You can ride with us on the church van. Even though I'm not one of the singers, I'm going along. And you can go, too. In fact, you can stay with me in my hotel room because I've reserved a room and am planning to stay by myself."
For a brief moment the fleeting thought that maybe Clavo might not like it flew through my brain, but I quickly quashed that thought. What the heck, Morgan's not interested in a woman like me or any woman because he just told his wife he's queer. I later told Clavo I was going to Atlanta with some of the girls--because actually that's what the queens in this bunch consider themselves to be. I put some clothes into my valise, kissed Clavo goodbye, and made plans to meet the vanload of gospel singers early the next morning at the churchyard. After I settled into bed, I wondered why the nickname 'Morgan the Organ'.
The next day at 10 a.m. we were packed into that MCC van like sardines. I was on the back seat in the middle between 'Morgan the Organ' and Danny Boy, the tenor vocalist. It was hot, and the air conditioning hardly wisped through the back end of that long van. I had my duffel bag chunked underneath the seat I was on and frequently had to pull it out to scrounge for my smelling salts because I was so hot I was having hot flashes and almost was overcome with the vapors.
"When I get to that land, laand, laaand!" The words of a gospel song would drift back toward us from the front where the ringleader of the songs sat. She was called Queen Harriet. On the seat behind Harriet the bull dyke named Kassie would bellow in with "Oh, yea-aah, glory hallelujah! Oh, yea-aah, glory hallelujah!" Morgan would try to hum along although he couldn't carry a tune in a bag if his life depended on it.
Danny Boy, so pretty I wanted to squeeze and kiss him, would turn to me with a look of disgust on his face. "The heat in this van and your perfume are about to make me hurl."
"Well, Danny, honey, don't get sick!" I said, slapping him on his big strong thigh. He was such a cutie I could hardly resist hugging him. "Here, have a piece of my ice." I reached into my big thermos for one of the ice cubes that were the only things keeping me going.
"Oooh, Lana's back there offering Danny Boy a piece of her ass!" floated back from one of the black boy girls two rows in front of us.
"Oooh, but those damn drag queens make me sick!" Danny Boy said with great disgust.
"Now don't get sick, honey." I handed Danny Boy another piece of my ice. As he said thank you, he let out a great big fart.
"Shawda Mawda! Open a window!" I yelled. The two pretty boys, Tim and Jim, who were lovers sitting directly in front of us, turned around and said, "We can't open windows. We'll let out our cool air!"
"Dear God! Let me find my smelling salts! I'm about to go into a swoon!" I said as I grabbed up my duffel bag and hunted in it wildly. I found my atomizer bottle of Lilac Water and started spraying madly.
"I'm choking!" Lesbian Kassie yelled.
Tim and Jim were looking at me and hooting passionately. Morgan the Organ's hands were roaming freely all over the necks and shoulders of Tim and Jim as well as Danny Boy's left leg whenever Morgan could lean across me. Tim and Jim were turning around with looks to kill, and Danny Boy asked me to "smack the shit out of Morgan's face" for him.
Through all this turmoil Queen Harriet remained calm and stoic, singing loudly. "Sing. Sing, children." The queen had commanded. I didn't try to sing because I didn't know one word of any song they sang, and the scenario was such a hoot that I could hardly stop laughing when I wasn't panting for cool air.
Now Queen Harriet is quite an individual. A 42-year-old black man who stands six feet-two inches tall and weighs 225 pounds, she's really striking in her lavender spiked pumps with matching dress and earrings. She wears a wig with dark hair that must have been styled after June Allyson's, and even the thick pancake doesn't begin to hide her facial hair. Harriet has a very gentle disposition, but her looks attracted gawkers at every stop we made.
As she fumbled in her big purse for money to pay her check at a seafood house near Homer, Georgia where we had lunch, I noticed the waiters standing back and laughing vigorously. I was having so much fun being right in the middle of it all! Morgan the Organ said to me that men like Harriet must really hate women and want to give them a bad name because she was so ugly in drag. I felt that our bunch had taken a little metropolitan culture to Homer. Boy, did we ever give them something to talk about!
Queen Harriet was quite a slow poke. (It hurts like hell walking in spiked heel pumps!) I developed a genuine liking for her out of my own selfish interest because she took so long getting back to the van with each stop we made that I had plenty of time to go to the powder rooms, sip iced tea, and reload my thermos container with ice. I could take plenty of time, and always Harriet would be bringing up the rear.
It wasn't a bit easy climbing from the back of that van up the side to squeeze finally to that front door. The slender young queen who was the van driver kept saying, "y'all need to hurry up." Behind her back, he kept saying, "That Harriet is really gettin' on my nerves!" He fussed, but it didn't faze Queen Harriet one bit.
While the driver drove in circles in front of The Pantry convenience store on our last stop before arriving in Atlanta, Harriet sat on the edge of a stone planter and nonchalantly removed her shoes, massaged her feet with cream, and put the lavender pumps back onto her gargantuan feet. I sipped tea and laughed watching the whole scene.
"A girl's got to take care of her feet," I said to the distraught driver, who was yelling to Harriet if she didn't get into the van he would leave her sorry ass.
"Queen Harriet is just slowing us down too much!" piped in Paris, the 23-year-old good-looking black deacon from MCC, who was trying to lend moral support to the frantic driver.
When we finally did arrive at the Peachtree Westin and everyone got off the van, Paris told me he was exhausted. "That Harriet just tore my nerves up, girl! I've got to get to my room and relax," he said.
As we all unloaded our luggage from the van and started dragging butt through the revolving door into the hotel, it hit me that I still had to drag my butt some more to get to the hotel where Morgan the Organ and I were staying. I remembered that he had not made his reservation at the Peachtree Westin but at a Days Inn a lot farther down Peachtree Street in mid-town. "Shawda Mawda!" I said out loud into the air and to no one in particular. "I've still got to find out where our hotel is and either drag my stuff down the street or get a taxi." But first, I was so tired I wanted to just stash my luggage somewhere and slip into the bar for a gin and tonic. I started looking for Paris.
"Paris, honey, could I put my things into your room for a little
while until I can get ready to head to the Days Inn? I'm tired myself and want to rest with a gin and tonic before I go traipsing off again." Paris
agreed I could.
But before I got out of the lobby, the big white bed sheet Queen Harriet was using for luggage broke open, and the queen's things spilled across the floor of the Peachtree Westin lobby. Danny Boy scurried to retrieve her rolling bottles, and the queen started chasing down her clothes flying in all directions in front of the registration desk. Guests gawked. Bellhops were flabbergasted and didn't know whether to offer assistance.
I stood back to one side far away from the group and hooted like mad. Queen Harriet remained as calm as a cucumber. Morgan the Organ walked over and grabbed my arm and squeezed. "Lana, can you believe that?" He and I bent over reeking with laughter as tears rolled down our faces.
When I finally got my stuff inside Paris' room on the fourteenth floor, I plopped into a chair to rest my weary body for a few minutes. Paris said he did not want to go to the bar. Finally I dragged butt back downstairs and was seated at the bar with my tall gin and tonic. I began to feel re-energized. I had no idea where Morgan the Organ had gotten to. I still wondered what had given rise to his nickname. I wonder if it's that big? Surely not! I was thinking to myself. Just then a handsome man across the room looked at me and smiled broadly. I felt a slight stir and a tingle. I raised my glass and sipped, looked at the handsome face, and suddenly missed Clavo.
L