Valencia (8 page)

Iris chose a really cool font for her anticapitalist tirade. It looked very handsome folded into the book and was my favorite page. Bobby wrote a funny bitch about the O.J. Simpson thing, Laurel wrote a love manifesto for a girl she had a crush on, George xeroxed his tongue and wrote about stealing from his job, and Suzanne wrote about waiting in line for food stamps. It was a great zine and it took us 'til six in the morning to finish it. I was just so blasted, moving around the office filled with cigarette smoke, collating the pages, and then boom the xerox machine ran out of ink and I went into some kind of mania, determined to finish producing this zine that we had put so much earnest love and creativity into. There didn't seem to be any more ink cartridges. A bunch was actually on the shelf right above my head but I never looked up. Instead I found a plastic jug filled with the leftover toner of other dead ink cartridges, a fine black powder, some inches of it. I removed the
spent cartridge from the humming machine, and I stabbed a good-sized hole into the plastic. I made a crappy funnel, and I poured in the recycled toner. I did this in the back room that served as a storage area for volumes and volumes of historical writings on socialist and anarchist labor politics, and also cardboard boxes full of t-shirts, which my friends stole. They were pretty cool shirts, they had black cats on the front and said An Injury to One Is an Injury to All. I was so bitter and disillusioned with the union I didn't much care about the theft, and I took one as well. But in this back room was a little porcelain saucer of a sink, above which I transferred the toner, creating small but potent clouds of toxic black dust that settled in thick clumps to be washed into the bay. A bunch got on me, too, on the red calico dress I loved even though people said I looked like a Deadhead in it. I had chopped the dress up here and there to give it an edge, but it still looked kind of crunchy. I patched up the gash in the toner cartridge with masking tape, plugged it back into the machine and finished all the zines. The head of the union called me for weeks afterward, needing to “talk to me about something.” I never called him back. Ultimately he changed the locks and that was the end of the zine parties.

I thought maybe I would fall in love with Iris. She was new to San Francisco. Of course. Everyone was. She came from a little part of Georgia where she'd been constantly fighting the way you constantly
have to fight when you're queer in a small place, starting direct action groups, getting up in the middle of the night to vandalize the town, things like that. Iris had some good stories, but most important she was revved up for love. That Pride Weekend we went to a party up on someone's roof. It was small, a group of girls sitting around on the pebbly tar paper drinking their small bottles and chatting. I had my big bottle and Iris close enough to give me shivers, and I was much too manic for such calmness. Nearby, thousands of dykes were convening to march through the city. It was exciting. The beer made me glow so I felt like a god, that powerful, up high on a roof with the city stretched out beneath me. We were cuddly, holding hands or walking with arms slung around each other like we were girlfriends already. We left the roof party and met up with a gang of girls in front of the gay cafe on 16th Street that wouldn't let us use the bathroom. A big problem. Fucking elitist cafe. We were dykes, we had to pee. George had made long neon stickers that said Assimilationist and we were sticking them on the cafe windows, and also on any nice cars we came upon. There were also stickers that said Trash and Smelly Dyke and those got stuck on asses and t-shirts. The march took so long to get started. We were standing in the street at 18th and Castro surrounded on all sides by millions of lesbians, trapped. Everyone needed to pee or else needed to get more beer and you just couldn't move. It was almost too much. Someone handed me a drum, a bucket on a rope, and I beat it with a wooden spatula. Iris was getting me winks of approval
from friends and acquaintances. I showed her off like a new tattoo. She was awfully cute, and her southern voice drove me crazy. It sounded both tough and charming, and then there were her slinky blue eyes, and her big lips like a crimson pillow with a pearly corner of tooth poking out. She had that rakish look I die for, and when she opened her mouth, forget it. We were marching around, slapping on the fake drum. I could see Willa's glowing head bobbing in the crowd up ahead. The need to avoid her perfectly tempered my bliss with drama. We were trying to be friends that weekend, but I couldn't handle it. I'd think that I could and then
whomph
, right in the stomach. Why hadn't she loved me the way I wanted her to? Had I given up too soon? It had been such a manic breakup, it almost felt like I'd imagined the whole thing. And there was a post-breakup law in effect that I couldn't be affectionate with anyone in Willa's presence until her adjustment period passed. This was understandable but also mean because she bartended at the only bar worth going to, so I might as well have stayed home.

The march wound its way back to a stage set up in the middle of the Castro, it was amazing. The night stayed warm, and all these dykes were jumping around in the street. Girls were performing on the stage, there was a fisting demonstration. A dramatic green-haired girl did a convulsive dance until she fell off the edge. I had my shirt off, I was sweaty, blitzed, everyone was. Girls were tugging down their pants and squatting to pee in the middle of everything. I had moved from beer to wine and back. I figured I could make
out with Iris if Willa wasn't paying attention and of course that got sloppy. I opened my eyes in the middle of a big tonguey one and Willa was standing right there. Naturally she acted like she didn't care, why bother, everyone was having such a great time. I think she bummed a cigarette from me. I remember a highchair right in the middle of the street, and a really drunk woman locked in it, banging on the tray, making people feed her Coronas. The lesbians started to disperse, but we decided to take the party back to Iris's house. We were looking for a cab to deliver us to the Mission, and there was Willa, kind of sulking, very drunk and wanting to come along. Well, Ok, If You Think That Would Be All Right For You. She was moping, quiet, her face wrinkling down toward the ground.
Well
, do you
want me to go?
She was so indecisive, it drove me crazy. Listen, Do What You Want, But Make Sure You Can Deal With It. She climbed into the cab like a kid being taken to a hospital or her grandparents', someplace awful. Then there was this strange woman in the cab with us, no one knew who she was, she just wanted to join us so we let her. She was older and had a long drunken story about her ex-lover and a Greyhound bus and how she had no place to go. I think once she opened her mouth we realized it was a mistake to let her come along. She had the driver stop at a store, where she jumped out and returned with more beer and a
Hustler
. She was showing us all the pictures and asking what we thought.
Check her out, that one's hot
. She was like someone's drunken father. At Iris's we threw the magazine out the
window while she was in the bathroom.
Hey, where's my
Hustler? Laurel gave her a lecture about how
Hustler
was gross, not suitable dyke pornography. We all started arguing about politics and this woman was definitely the target. She was for all the Wrong Things. Willa slumped on a chair looking rather autistic. Eventually she got up and sat by herself in the hallway. People were looking to me for an explanation. I shrugged. She wasn't my responsibility anymore. Someone finally called her a cab and she left without saying goodbye.

I spent the night at Iris's. Her futon was beneath a windowsill that these pigeons lived on. They made loud cooing noises the whole night and I was enchanted. You Have Pigeons, I said. It was like being in the wilderness or something, sleeping beside this pack of loud birds. The awkwardness of not knowing someone's body, I had no idea what to do. I shoved my fingers into her.
You can do it harder
, she said, and I did. These girls. I couldn't believe I wasn't hurting her. I remembered Petra, the last place my fist had been. The vagina is not a delicate place, I was learning this slowly. I worked my hand into Iris, who sucked and chewed on the inky red heart that marked the place my real heart churned. She was so intense.
I feel like you're squeezing my heart
, she said. I pressed myself against her and bit her neck, my hand grasping. Things with Willa had been much more intellectual than sexual, so this was a nice switch.

We must have slept only an hour or two when Iris's roommates woke us up. There was a brunch, and then we were all supposed to ride with Dykes on Bicycles in the Pride Parade. I was still drunk when I woke up, sick but with all this hazy energy. I had to go back home to change. Laurel had spent the night on the extra futon in Iris's kitchen and she was still drunk too. We stumbled home through the Mission together, stopping for coffee and carrot juice and a bagel I could hardly get down. Out in front of Esta Noche, drag queens were teetering into a decorated convertible. Their makeup was detailed and flawless. They must have gotten up at dawn. Back at my house I found a message from Willa on the answering machine, saying venomous, unbelievably mean things. It was horrible, the things she was saying.
Why don't you write a fucking poem about it!
I was so upset, I sat on the toilet crying and Laurel assured me that yes, my ex-girlfriend was crazy but I should just get over it because we were late for the parade. I got up and wiped my face and changed into my marvelous Pride Day outfit, a yellow terry cloth sundress, strapless, with rainbow elastic that held it to my body. I had big purple hair, a green studded collar and roller skates. I looked insane. The guy at the BART station wouldn't let me on wearing the skates so I had to ride the train in my socks.

Market Street was mobbed, it was wonderful. I was overwhelmed with tender feelings for my community, but I also hadn't slept and was seriously worried about not making it through the parade. Laurel had her bike and no shirt on. She had stickers saying
This Is Sexist stuck over her nipples. We waited at the front of the parade and watched Dykes on Bikes roar by, then jumped in with Dykes on Bicycles, pedaling behind the motorcycles like little sisters. Ashley had a milk crate rigged to the back of her bike. I grabbed it and she pulled me the whole length of Market Street. We were a fabulous team, people were cheering. I managed not to wipe out, though it was scary going over the grates. Iris was there on her bike, topless, turning around and grinning at me. Willa was also there, pretending I didn't exist. Fine. If she wanted to act like a child, that was fine. Down by the water where the parade ended I drank more beer, got stoned, managed to digest a veggie burger and some rice, and left. I went home to change into something less ridiculous, shoes without wheels. I dragged Iris with me. She collapsed on my futon with an astrology book. She was reading Aquarius and verifying my personality. She wanted to take a nap. No Way, I said, and put on
Live Through This
, loud. There was a free Tribe 8 show back at the parade, we had to catch it. Come On, Get Up, You Just Need Some Coffee. I threw on a housedress with a Strawberry Shortcake pattern. You know, the cartoon character. Come On Now, Get Up. Iris looked kind of sick, but I was determined to get the most out of this weekend. We got tall cups of iced coffee and headed back down toward the water. We stopped at a liquor store, which was out of beer, amazing us, but I grabbed some whiskey and stuck it in the pocket of my housedress.
I can't believe I'm with a girl in a Strawberry Shortcake housedress with a
pint of whiskey hanging out of the pocket
, Iris smiled, like she was dreaming an entertaining little dream. I was happy to be with a girl who appreciated such things.

What a blurry weekend. We missed most of the concert, went back to the Mission for more beer and coffee. I changed again and we went to Willa's bar in the lower Haight. A real dive of a bar, dark and cramped with girls. Something was always wrong with the toilets. You'd wait in line forever, bursting with piss, and once inside the smelly little room you'd see that the bowl was thick with soaked clouds of tissue. One time I pulled up my skirt and sat on the little porcelain sink to piss there, and it fell right off the wall, a heave and a croak and I fell onto the mucky floor, the sink hanging from a broken pipe that spurted water. I pulled down my skirt and left the bathroom. That particular bathroom also had a urinal. One time a girl named Robin Hood tried to teach me to piss into it standing up. It was gross. She did it so well, whipped down her jeans and reached into her pussy like there was a secret button hidden among the folds. She pulled the skin tight, bucked her hips, and piss shot out in a fine, strong stream. Wow, I said. I knew I couldn't do it. Robin Hood was telling me about a certain muscle up inside me, groggy and underused. If I could find it I could piss a hard arc like she did, and I'd also be able to ejaculate during sex and all kinds of fun stuff. I pulled down the black cotton leggings I wore beneath my dress, a fashion staple since high school. They hung in saggy loops at my ankles. I reached down between my legs and grabbed
fingersful of skin and hair, yanked it taut.
Come on girl, you can do it!
Robin Hood and the five other drunk girls who had crowded inside to witness the spectacle cheered me on. There was an initial, promising squirt and then an infantile dribble of pee that splashed down my thighs and puddled into my leggings. Eeew. Someone handed me toilet paper and I mopped up.
Keep practicing
, Robin Hood advised, and I did for a while, in the shower and stuff, but I couldn't get my parts to work right.