Gay Elder
A journey to the promised land
Hey ya’ll. Let’s set the scene.
The great gay migration to the big cities was now under way. Starting in 1972, and growing exponentially. At the time even Minneapolis was a destination for gay boys and girls.
North Dakota, South Dakota, Iowa, Wisconsin, even from Canada. They were just taking a six-year vacation in the states. We love the Canucks! Even Canadian money was accepted at face value. About the same as the dollar. In those days, paying with cash was just the way it was. The Canucks even spoke the same midwestern lingo. They were even more polite than all the Swedes in Minneapolis. Just before credit cards got going. Well, Diners Club, big deal. If you were rich, then you were like Liz Taylor and Richard Burton. American Excess, no limit. Back to reality:
September of 1973, after several months of planning. My buddy Steve and I were going to take the plunge. That would be Steve, not Stevie from a previous article. The dye was cast, no turning back. We would be leaving our friends behind. Our little midwestern culture. We were going West. Money was always kind of an issue. Got to have it. So I put my really great stereo system up for sale. Amplifiers, huge speakers and my drums from the band. That was in the days of the Want Ads, in newspapers. I know ancient history. There was no Craigslist etc.
Bingo, on Saturday, I sold the whole lot. We would be leaving the next day. The guy paid with a check. No problem. Will cash the check later when the banks are open. There was still trust in those days.
So the plan was to drive to San Francisco. So we loaded up Baby on Sunday morning. Baby was the name of Steve’s car. Not a lot of room, so we packed the essentials. Clothes, makeup, tooth brushes, some pots and pans and dishes. Downing a shot of Southern Comfort with our gang. We got on the road. Fawk, finally!
Our first stop was Redwood Falls, Minnesota. Steve’s hometown. We stayed overnight. Steve got his dad to cash the check. As it turns out, Steve’s mom was a very strict Tarian Catholic. She was sure that all gay people would burn in hell! Many years later when her son Steve passed away, she would not even recognise him as her son. Very sad, and still goes on today.
Back on the road again! Cruising down the interstate. Got to Des Moines, we took a hard right. Well, we are now in Nebraska. Flat as a pancake. The interstate signs said, North Platte, 350 miles. North Platte, 250 miles. North Platte, 150 miles. Who fucking cares? Things just got better.
Now we are in Wyoming. Why? Pee break in Cheyenne. Dirty little city. You could see the dust as we peeled out of there! Our goal was to reach Denver that night. We made it. Both of us were pretty pooped. We were taking turns driving. Found the YMCA. Just not really fabulous. Oh well, any port in a storm.
Showered up and off to find the gay night life in Denver. Yup, found it. A couple of cocktails later, we dragged our tired little bootys back to the Y. Slept like a baby. Hey, were you expecting fireworks? That will come later!
Back on the road again. Why we made a stop in Salt Bleak City just escapes me. Maybe fewer interstates in those days. It has been over 50 years, cut me some slack. Just awful! One gay bar at that time. Beer only, no problem. We were thin and needed protein. We got out of town so fast, it would have made your head spin. We kind of felt bad for our cousins in Salt Lake City. Yes there are plenty of gay Mormons. They will go West too.
Reno, here we come! Found a motel. What a dump! Not only were there no little bottles of liquor, but no fridge either. So we went downtown. Gotta gamble. Reno’s motto is “ The Biggest Little City In The World.” We found the gay bars, then off we go to the casinos. Kaboom! Guess who wins a jackpot on the one-armed bandit? ME! How exciting, lights and sirens going off. People yelling and clapping. You beat the house! Steve and I had to get back on the road, so early to bed we went. Checked out and had to fuel up Baby for the final leg of the journey. Things were a bit tough. Opec was doing an oil boycott to the West in 1973. We got in line at a gas station. Four hours later, filled up the baby and we were on our way.
We drove into San Francisco from the north. Going over the Golden Gate Bridge was really incredible. We found the downtown YMCA. Shleped our luggage up to the room. Wow. Steve looks at me and says, “Welcome to Friscra!”
We both almost died laughing. We had made it to the promised land!
More to follow. Finding an apartment and jobs!
Barnard Street Tattler 