The Oklahoma Summer
By Tom Tiding
Copyright © 2012 Twisted Tidings LLC
All rights reserved.
This story is autobiographical and mostly true.
It’s been chopped up, re-arranged and occasionally embellished
so that it’s not as boring as real life.
Friends want different things from you. But they all want something.
Some just want to share their lives with you.
Others just want you to listen.
And still others just want to have sex.
But in the summer of 1995, I was willing to take any friend I could get.
I had just finished my junior year at Yale, and I was spending the summer learning Cherokee at a college in small town Oklahoma. The local students didn’t exactly take shine to me or my Yale pedigree—maybe because I never stopped talking about it. The Oklahoma City bombing was fresh in their minds, and they were distrustful of outsiders.
“Out East, there’s nothing but a bunch of homosexuals. Well, homosexuals and Bill Clinton”, one dorm mate observed.
I wanted to explain that Bill Clinton was a ladies’ man—that he wouldn’t stick around out East if he couldn’t get laid. But I wisely kept my mouth shut. It wouldn’t have helped things.
I was completely alone. The only local that showed any interest in me at all was Robbie. He was popular on campus because he was the leader of the school’s own Broadway theater troupe—the River City Players! He was 5 foot 8, had absolutely ripped arms and spoke in a Marilyn Monroe-like whisper— and he was the life of any party. But as a gay black man, Robbie stood out in this mostly white, entirely conservative Oklahoma town. The locals loved being entertained by Robbie, but they didn’t accept him. Despite his enormous popularity, he was even more of an outsider than I was.
After a few days of seeing each other around campus, he decided we were friends.
After a few beers at the bar, Robbie leaned over and whispered, “I’m performing at a secret show—a special show—this weekend. Are you free?”
Was I free? I had no other friends.
So that next weekend, Robbie picked me up.
The special show was at a gay club called Ron’s Place, but outside there was no sign or indication that this was a bar. That was the price of being a gay bar in a small town. You couldn’t even walk into Ron’s through the front door—you had to enter from the rear (years later, I’m still embarrassed to say that this fact made me giggle.)
But inside, it was a different world entirely: flashing lights, silver streamers and, above the raised stage, a mural of a unicorn leaping out of a rainbow.
Robbie took me aside “Is this your first time in a gay bar?”
I nodded.
“Well, if some guy comes up to you, whatever you do, don’t tell him you’re straight. It will just make you more of a challenge.”
“So what do I do?”
Robbie smiled. “Just say you only date black men.”
This sounded like pretty good advice.
“Anyway,” Robbie continued, “I’ve got to go get ready. Just remember: say you only date black men.”
No sooner had Robbie disappeared backstage that I heard a deep voice behind me: “Are you new around here?”
I rehearsed my line in my head: “I only date black men, I only date black men, I only date black men!” Then I turned around to face my suitor.
It was a guy, about six feet tall, in tight jeans, no shirt, and a cowboy hat.
He was black.
Shit. Now what?
In a panic, I blurted out “I’m straight! I’m straight!”
He just smiled and said “Hey, no problem! Enjoy Ron’s.”
I have to admit that, after Robbie’s counseling about not making myself a challenge, I was a little offended that the suitor gave up so easily.
Then the lights went out. People started to cheer. Music came on
And there was Robbie on stage under a spotlight. He had on perfect make-up, a bobbed wig, and a green evening dress. He made an absolutely stunning woman (but one with biceps that the Situation would have envied.)
He was lip-syncing to a song by Shania Twain—“Man I Feel Like A Woman”—and dancing remarkably well for someone wearing what must have been six-inch heels.
And the crowd loved it! Crumpled up dollar bills were flying onto the stage from every corner of the room.
When the song was over, Robbie came down from the stage. The crowd mobbed him, but he cut through them, shouting “Everybody! I’d like you to meet someone very special to me! This is Tom! Make sure you buy him drinks!”
And just like that… three guys gave me their half-drunk beers and began interviewing me about who I was, and oh-my-God, how did I know Robbie?
Going out with Robbie was like that all the time. It was like we were the Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie of rural Oklahoma.
And Robbie had a theory for everything. He had a well-researched and nuanced theory about the foundations of sexual orientation, which went like this: “Tom, the only difference between a straight boy and a gay one is… well, about four or five beers.”
This meant that, for Robbie, everyone was in play. He’d get jealous whenever girls paid any attention to me. And he’d periodically try to wear me down for himself. After a long night at the bars, Robbie’d tell me “Tom, it has been such a hard day. I can’t fathom how I can sleep alone. Maybe I can sleep in your bed?”
“Robbie, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, maybe we could just sleep head to toe?” He paused, with an angelic look on this face. “Then nothing at all could happen!”
And I thought “Is this guy serious? Is this his version of ‘just the tip’?”
But that was just how Robbie was, and he was my friend.
But his jealousy would end up testing our friendship. It was my last night in Oklahoma. We were all out at the local bar. One of the bartenders, Cate, had been giving me free drinks all summer. She’d apparently been dropping hints that she had a crush on me, but I was young and oblivious.
When Robbie was in the bathroom, Cate grabbed me in frustration and said “Look, you idiot, I’ve been giving you free drinks all summer. The least you could do is kiss me tonight.”
I found her logic compelling.
When Robbie got out of the bathroom, he saw us.
“Tom!” Robbie said in a whisper that sounded like he’d been punched in the gut. “How could you?”
He started to cry, and then he ran away.
That was when I finally understood that, for him, we weren’t Paris and Nicole—we were Jay and Beyoncé. He was genuinely hurt, and I was genuinely worried that I’d never see my friend again.
The next day, it was time for me to pack up my things and leave Oklahoma. I was just about to catch a ride to Greyhound when, to my relief, Robbie came by. He’d brought me a present—a pair of ceramic theater masks, one happy, painted white, another sad, painted black.
“If you can’t figure it out, the white one is you.” Robbie sighed. “And I’m still mad at you for liking girls.”
But he said that with a smile.
So we were still friends, and I was glad.
About the Author
Tom Tiding is a Washington, DC and Hong Kong-based storyteller and comedian. He writes for snarky greeting card company Twisted Tidings (twistedtidings.com), which makes cards for your friends-with-benefits and people who detest the holidays. Both Tom and Twisted Tidings can be found on Facebook.
This story formed part of Tom’s one-man show, Twisted – Greeting Card Moments Gone Bad, at the 2011 Capitol Fringe in Washington, DC.