Did you ever have one of those years? You know: you start New Years' day with a  hangover and everything just goes downhill from there? Well, it was one of those years. I was stuck in a job I hated and Chris, my lover of five years, was getting the seven year itch two years early. We'd been together ever since shortly after we got out of college, and each of us was the other's first real relationship, so I guess you couldn't really blame him. That, plus the fact that we lived in a gay ghetto, so the candy store syndrome made it easy enough to stray for anyone so inclined, and Chris became increasingly inclined.

But we were hanging in there, putting on the good old "perfect couple" routine  whenever anyone else was around and working on matching ulcers when they weren't. I was up to two-and-a-half packs of cigarettes a day and rising; Chris was devoting considerable time to adding to his swizzle-stick collection. All in all, a real fun time.

Chris was always a lot more into bars than I was, so it wasn't unusual for him to go  out by himself, though I noted that lately he'd been going out a lot more than normal. We did hold to our Saturday-night-out-to-dinner tradition though, after which we'd stop in at the Ebony Room, a nice little neighborhood bar close to home, for a nightcap. This particular night, however, Chris suggested we go to a new bar he'd found, "Bacchus' Lair," which he said had a great drag show. I should have put "great" in quotes, since I was never much for drag, but Chris got a kick out of it, so we went.

I should also point out that this was after Stonewall, but not all that much, and the  community hadn't completely gotten its act together in most cities. Blatant homophobia was the attitude of choice for most police forces, and ours was particularly noted for its less-than-tolerant methods. It was also a solid source of income for the city—bust a gay bar, haul in 30 or 40 gays too scared or too poor to fight it, charge them with "lewd and lascivious conduct," drop the charges down to "disturbing the peace" and slap a $350 fine

for a "no contest" plea. The city was happy; the police were happy; the lawyers were  happy. The gays weren't happy, but who cared?

"Bacchus' Lair" was located in a former loft upstairs over a discount furniture store on the edge of skid row. A lot of gay bars were in this area, probably partly because of the lower rents, and the smaller likelihood that neighbors would complain about the clientele. Bacchus’ Lair was decorated in Early Flamboyant—tables the size of dinner plates, purple tablecloths, purple carpet, purple stage curtains, wall fixtures with dangly globs of plastic that I suppose the management thought looked like grapes. Wall niches with little gold cherubs shouldering platters of plastic grapes. Oh, and a cover charge. And a two-watered-down-drink minimum. But you got to keep the little purple umbrellas that came with them.

There were a few people there we knew—I should say a few people I knew—Chris seemed to know a lot more. We were shown to a table—I asked for one by an exit—by lesbian in full male drag—a nice touch of equality, I thought. We ordered our drinks just as the canned music announcing the start of the show blared out across the room, making conversation impossible. The room lights dimmed, the curtains opened (revealing a stage about three feet deep), and the show began.

If you've seen one drag show, you saw this one. Not too bad, really; the usual standard numbers by the usual standard drag queens. Only one—a huge black drag named, if you could believe the M.C., Tondelaya O'Tool—did her own material and was really talented.

Intermission arrived with the inevitable, and inevitably "cute", announcement by the M.C. that "We'll be right back after a wee-wee break." The curtains closed, the lights came back up, and the waiters rushed throughout the room restocking the what-passed-for-liquor. Also as usual, some of the entertainers came down to mix with the customers.

"Well," Chris said, "what did you think? Great, huh?"

I nodded. "Great."

"Yeah," Chris said, "but wait until the second half—that’s when Judy comes on. She's fantastic."

I was willing to take his word for it. "I'm surprised how crowded it is," I said.

"Do I detect a note of the famous Dick Hardesty paranoia?" Chris asked. "I notice you insisted on sitting near an exit again."

"You didn't think it was paranoia when I yanked your ass out of the Bull Pen the night the cops raided it," I said. "If we hadn't been near an exit, we'd have been hauled in like everybody else."

"Well, you don't have to worry here," Chris said, leaning back in his chair.

"They've never had a raid."

"And how long have they been open?" I asked.

Chris shrugged. "I dunno. Two months, maybe."

"That long, huh? Maybe they should hang up a sign: 'A fine tradition of excellence since June.'"

Chris grinned and shook his head. "You're crazy, Hardesty."