by Dick Mac
It was a night between Christmas and New Years, in December, 1976. I was living on Duval Street with my boyfriend, right across the street from Delmonico's. I had been drinking since 1971, and using drugs since 1973, so I had quite a buzz going.
Pre-AIDS Key West was a pretty amazing place: hookers and politicians and rock stars and celebrities and wanna-be hookers and wanna-be politicians and wanna-be rock stars and wanna-be celebrities. I considered myself all of those things.
My boyfriend would have breakfast at the Kress lunch counter so he could see, wave to, and hopefully get to talk to Tennessee Williams, who favored that establishment over Shorty’s, which I liked. He did meet Williams, and they chatted a few times. One late morning, after chores were done and the drinking hadn’t yet started, we were walking up Duval Street and my boyfriend stopped, waved an arm in the air, and called across the street: “Tennessee, this is Richie” and he was pointing at me. I was mortified. Williams was charming, tipped his hat, smiled and continued walking. I didn’t see his eyes actually roll, but as he turned to speak to his companion, I could feel his eyes rolling. My eyes were rolling. Why yell in the streets. Ever?
Other celebrities could be seen around town, and were generally with a handler or manager who would keep people at bay. Generally speaking, though, nobody bothered anybody. You said hello or you didn’t, or you smiled and nodded or you didn’t. People just got on with their business . . . well . . . their fun, really.
I was in my early punk phase: I still had long hair, but I had switched accessories from feathers, scarves and other faggy accouterments to razor blades, safety pins and different faggy accouterments, like spurs. I was 18, pasty white and weighed bout 98 pounds soaking wet. I had empty pockets and expensive tastes, and there is no better time for that combination than when you are 18 and pretty.
There were two “gay bars” but nobody called them that. The Monster, which originated on Fire Island, in New York, had opened a disco; and Delmonico’s was a combination of 70s dance club and 50s cruising bar. It was haunted by young hustlers and older gentlemen. You could drink heavily AND dance AND get a date. I preferred it because it was cheaper than The Monster, the people were nicer, and it was across the street from where I lived.
One amusing feature of Delmonico’s was the face-to-face urinals in the men's room. Was there even a women's room?
One particular night, well, this particular night, I am standing at the urinal taking a leak. I hear someone else arrive, I look up and see Paul Lynde standing face-to-face with me at the other urinal smiling. I did a sort of double-take, and in that Hollywood Squares punch-line voice, and with breath like a distillery, he laughed and said: "I know! Can you believe it's me?"
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| Hollywood Squares |
A common flirty, bold, ice-breaker, that might lead to a one-night-stand or thirty-year marriage was to stand on your tip-toes to look over that urinal. You couldn’t actually see over to the other side, but it was an effective move. Now Paul Lynde was standing on his tip-toes, pretending to look over the urinal and asking: "What have you got down there?"
We both laughed: him enthusiastically, me nervously.
Anyway, we finished our business and I held back hoping he would go away, but he was nattering on about something - probably himself - and no matter how long I delayed, he was still standing there. After drying my hands, we exited together: he went back to the bar with the old queens and I went back towards the dance floor with the punk queers.
It was one of those 70s dance floors where you'd start dancing with one person and then be dancing with another - not really caring who was there. Suddenly, of course, Paul Lynde was in front of me on the dance floor, dancing. He danced like my father - it was rather hysterical and I did my best to make my laughter seem friendly and not derisive. I’m certain I failed. I was a drunk, alcoholic, 18-year-old punk. All laughter was derisive!
He smiled and shouted over the music: "It's me again!" I smiled and nodded and looked around for friends. He kept talking and talking and dancing like my father, and I couldn’t hear a damned thing he was saying, nor did I care.
I realized he was asking me a question that I couldn't hear, so I sort of leaned forward a bit to make it seem like I was listening. He was yelling over the music and his face was getting red, a bit of spittle flying through the air. I shrugged my shoulders and held my hands palms-up, in that universal sign that says “I can’t hear you.” In this case it meant: “I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU, YOU DIRTY OLD QUEEN, AND I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU'RE SAYING."
Funny how each person interprets gestures differently in a loud club, late at night, with a few drinks under our belts. He interpreted this gesture to mean: Please get very close to me, put your hands on either side of my face, and try to kiss me on the lips.
I squirmed and I suddenly heard him scream. It was loud. You couldn't miss his scream of pain, even over Sylvester!
Dangling from a paper clip in my left ear was a double-edged razor. Schick or Gillette or something. It was old and used. Some people wore razor blade jewelry - well, I just wore razor blades, and he had managed to cut his thumb on one when reaching under my hair to grab my face or neck.
I pushed him away and screamed "DON'T BLEED ON MY CLOTHES!" and found a corner with some friends. He was furious. All my friends laughed. Then many of the old queens laughed as word spread through the bar about the incident. He was rushed back to the manager's office where she put a band-aid on his wound. And he eventually returned to his bar stool.
I wanted to make sure he was OK and walked towards him, but he was scowling at me, so I decided I really didn't care if he was alright. Perhaps he'd get tetanus or something! Who fucking cares? If he’d kept his hands to himself he wouldn’t have cut himself on my jewelry.
The manager came over to our group looked at my earring, laughed and ejected me from the bar. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so she did it very nicely; explaining that I was always welcome back but I should probably just go elsewhere for the rest of the night.
I probably went to The Monster, or a straight biker-club with a good jukebox and pool-table.
I guess he actually went to the hospital that night because his hand was seriously, professionally bandaged the next day. I saw him on the street a number of times. I would always smile and wave. Depending on his level of intoxication he would either smile and wave back or just scowl.
He didn’t get laid. I didn’t get to have a fascinating conversation with him about Hollywood. But I have this memory that I’m glad I shared with you.
Oh, and remind me to tell you about Robin Williams.
