Hibiscus Films was a small, indie production company established by the woman at the corner of the table. She had seen multiple crews beneath her wings. Released a few award-winning documentaries that kept the funds coming in, but would never make her rich. This was a woman who had given up meals to keep her studio afloat during the lean times. Granted, a “studio” those days meant a decent computer, some audio equipment, and a couple of cameras. Most of them were one-time investments she could make when funding came through. Otherwise, Dahlia spent her time networking, editing old film on her hard drive to see if she could turn it into something, and working part time jobs to keep a roof over her head.
Her last documentary release, The Lives They Lost, had been about a Native American reservation in Washington. The stories they unearthed had been heartbreaking enough to not only garner national attention, but to cement funding for Dahlia’s next production. She had done dementia, racism, women’s rights in the south, and tensions between Israeli and Arabic communities around New York. (Or, sometimes, the lack of tension that threw a wrench into her script.) Dahlia strived to be both current and to shine light on little known issues that greatly affected the people suffering them. When she first heard of Paradise Valley on the news, it was during the bru-ha-ha over some actress dating a local. It had been the nation’s first exposure to a living, breathing town founded by the lesbian community. Women? That had been done before. LGBT groups in general? Old news. Lesbians? Out, proud, family-having lesbians who gravitated to a slice of rural Oregon in the hopes of finding their people? That had intrigued Dahlia. After pitching it to her crew, they agreed it might be a good lead for their next film.
The first step after establishing oneself in a community was to try to blend in. If the locals immediately caught whiff that they were a film crew out to tape and interview them, people got… scarce. This also wasn’t a reservation or a single neighborhood. This was a whole town that functioned like the rest of small town America. They had a mayor and a city council. They sent most of the kids to the local school district. They received state and federal funding for this and that.
They were also, according to the last official census, 53% lesbian identified. That was just lesbian. Bisexual women made up another ten percent, although Dahlia suspected that the next census would skew the percentages a little more. Gay and bisexual men were another ten percent, with the remaining 28% made up of heterosexual men and women. When her head cameraman Wayne asked her, “Did they ask about sexuality on the last census?” Dahlia did some digging and discovered it was a census Paradise Valley took upon themselves, because they saw it important enough to their identity.
That was when she knew this was the place to head next. A place that put so much pressure on themselves to be gay was exciting documentary material.
Interesting, though, that their first night in town should be at the “straight” bar, as she soon discovered upon Google Review research. Most of the reviews said it with tongue firmly in cheek. “Nobody cares if fellas show up to Paradise Lost,” one male commenter said, “but you best not be flirting with none of the ladies there. They’ll tell you what’s what before you have the chance to reassess your wounds! Go down to Wolf’s Hill Dive if you want the kind of bar experience you may be more used to.”
Dahlia looked around the bar while her crew talked about the most harrowing parts of their drive. Two men played pool while shooting the breeze. A husband and wife had a Monday night drink while discussing where to send their kid to college. Two middle-aged woman talked with an old-timer, one Dahlia would soon learn had been living in Paradise Valley since it was called Cedar Plain. The bartender was a gruff man who stroked his beard when he had nothing else to do. Yet the flag pin on his leather implied he was a different kind of gay from the ladies running the town.
The rainbow flags, the gay bartender, and the fliers advertising LGBT events said this location supported the women. Yet Dahlia couldn’t help but wonder how they really got along.
“Uh oh,” Wayne said with a snort. “She’s writing the script before we start filming.”
The guys chuckled. Dahlia framed her fingers, imitating the shot of a camera as it focused on the women and man at the bar. It included a shot of the bartender checking his phone while the women laughed.
“Paradise Valley is an eclectic mix of new and old. Walking through it, you don’t get the feeling that you’re anywhere unique. Not until you step into a bar or talk to your first local. Even if you’ve found the rare person in town who is heterosexual, you can bet they’re supportive of the people who aren’t. They’ll also be the first to tell you about the differences in Wolf’s Hill Dive and Paradise Lost, the two bars in town. Trust us. There’s a difference.”
That was her working opening statement. Dahlia may not have started filming yet, but a good filmmaker had an angle she worked before the first shot was taken.
Some people may have argued with her on that. There was a reason she kept those thoughts to herself, even when out among colleagues. We all do it. We all have biases. We all have narratives we want to uphold in our work. She wasn’t afraid to admit it. She simply made sure to keep it from the people she filmed.
Tomorrow, she would be meeting with the mayor for the first time. That was the make it or break it point. When Dahlia’s biases might fly out her mouth and ruin the entire thing.
Good thing she had the best poker face in the room. Ask these guys right here. Ask them how much money I’ve won off them. Considering how long they were staying in Paradise Valley? There would be many late night poker sessions for her to win some quick cash – and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
Chapter 3
KAREN
Although Fourth of July was right around the corner, Karen cleared her calendar to welcome the small crew of Hibiscus Films into her town.
They came with their cameras, boom mics, and other such paraphernalia. Sissy was agog in wonder as she beheld the three men in beards, manbuns, and faded T-shirts, each one uncoiling cords and fussing with buttons on their cameras. They assured everyone that they were not filming anything yet. That would come when their boss, Dahlia, began her interviews.
Karen had only talked to Dahlia over the phone and her LinkedIn profile. This was her first time seeing the documentarian face to face, and she had to say… the faded picture on her internet profile did not do her any justice.
Dahlia was an assured woman of about forty, the lines on her face and the few stretch marks on the sides of her torso appearing every time she reached for the boom mic or bent over to push cords out of the way. Her dark curly hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. The bendable capris accompanied shoes with hardly any socks. Her form-fitting T-shirt advertised her film studio before anything else. A utility watch graced one wrist, and a charm of the Tree of Life wrapped around her neck. Prayer beads bedecked her chest. She wore no rings. Especially no wedding rings.
Goodness gracious. Why in the world do I… Karen knew why she checked for wedding rings. This was Paradise Valley, where talking to a woman – as a woman, no less – could be taken the wrong way no matter what one did or said. Some wives could be as jealous as husbands from these small towns. While Karen didn’t consider herself the looker of the year, she wasn’t that bad to behold. She kept her look professional. Few people saw her out of a pantsuit or a sensible skirt and blouse. That was what the people expected when they saw a former businessman and big city councilwoman running a show like Paradise Valley, but Dahlia already knew about that. She had inquired about Karen’s background no fewer than five times leading up to today. She only wants to get the story straight. A fantastic journalist. Karen couldn’t help but extend her hand and prepare her stump-smile when Dahlia finally turned around in the atrium of Paradise Valley’s humble city hall.
“Welcome to our town!” Karen offered the firmest handshake around. Or, at least, Dahlia thought as much, from the way she shook out her hand after they first touched. “I’m Kare
n Rath. Mayor. Great to finally meet you, Ms. Granger.”
“Please. Dahlia.” She snapped her fingers to get one of the men’s attention. The right one looked up with alacrity. Karen didn’t understand the next hand signal, but the man leaped into action by adjusting the boom mic again. “Sorry. We’re going for full efficiency so we can get you back on schedule, Mayor.”
“Appreciated.” Karen looked around the atrium. Sunlight spilled through the skylights. It would be another beautiful, seventy-five degree day in Paradise. With any luck, that Fourth of July would be the first one without fog! “Please don’t worry too much about it. I’ve made plenty of room to talk to you this morning and show you around the town. Were you… planning on taking this with you on our walk of Main Street today?”
Dahlia, still distracted by her crew, waved the mayor off as if she were an afterthought. “No, no. It will be you, me, and Tom here for the tour. We have iPhones that can get some quick filming done if necessary. No, the others will stay here with the equipment to get set-up shots of the city hall and the grounds outside, as decided over the phone. I’ve also left them interview questions for anyone on your staff who is willing to sign a release and waiver.”
Hm. Karen had hoped to sit on any interviews among the council and her staff. If for no other reason than to gauge the direction this documentary might go.
“Will we still be doing our interview this morning? I’m afraid I’ll be very busy with Fourth of July preparations after lunch.”
“Of course. Why don’t you show us around, and we’ll do the interview when we come back?”
Up until this moment, Karen had worried she’d be the one coming off as too distant and aloof. No. That award went to Dahlia Granger, who spent more time staring at her equipment and the peak of the atrium than listening to anything the mayor said. Karen knew Hollywood types could be like this, having met the whole contingent of LA people that came with Fleur Rosé’s wind last April, but… well, Dahlia wasn’t supposed to be Hollywood. She was from a more inland location and focused on indie and documentary works. Her award-winning documentary about that Native American reservation in Washington had assuaged Karen’s worries that the wrong types might be profiling Paradise Valley for nefarious gain. Everything seems to be okay with them. Suppose we shall see. What was the worst that could happen? It was almost 2020. People wouldn’t be filming a town founded on lesbian principles and trying to make them look bad…
Right?
Because that had happened long before Karen’s tenure. Back in the ‘80s, one of her predecessors who was there for the official founding of the town came up against a film crew who “demanded” to be let in to film. Instead, they came up against a legion of lesbians who not so nicely told them to get the hell out, if they knew what was good for them. They thought they were here to make a salacious film about us. Kept asking us to kiss and feel each other up, as if that’s what why we exist! Karen certainly hoped times had changed. Let alone with a woman at the film’s helm.
“Mayor,” Tom hissed from the entrance to the men’s restroom. He motioned for Karen to come over, not that she felt the least bit comfortable about sauntering to the men’s restroom entrance. Yet she knew that look on poor Tom’s visage. The man suffered anxiety attacks when overwhelmed by the presence of strangers. The only reason he survived the public city council meetings was because he knew most of the people who frequented them.
Surrounded by a film crew that didn’t know how to slow the hell down for two seconds? Karen was this close to telling Tom to go home.
“What is it?” she whispered, head bent toward his. When she was in her sensible heels, Tom was a good one inch shorter than her. “If it’s about the interview, you absolutely do not have to agree to…”
“It’s not that, Mayor. I thought you should know something I overheard a couple of those guys saying in here.”
She braved glancing over his shoulder. “They’re not still in there, are they?”
“Oh, no! I only don’t want to get out of here yet. Some… private time, yeah?”
Sighing, Karen asked, “What is it?”
“That guy over there, the one with the thing on his head…” Manbun? Did he mean a manbun? Jesus, Tom, get with the times. Granted, the only reason Karen knew what a manbun was had to do with her own son’s fashion choices when he first came back from college. Karen had kept her mouth shut about what her adult son did with his body, but when he candidly asked what she thought of the hairband he picked out, she said, “It definitely dresses it up a bit.” That was the day she discovered how passive-aggressive she had become since moving to Oregon several years ago. “Anyway, I overheard him on the phone saying that they still didn’t have the permit to film at Pride. Do you think that’s something I need to get on? Or Wanda?”
Really? This is what Tom was so concerned about? Karen pivoted on her beige heels and beheld Dahlia standing a few feet away, patiently waiting for her to get out of the men’s room. At least she wasn’t filming. Yet.
“I’ll worry about the Pride permit,” Karen said. “For God’s sake, Tom, get to your office and answer your emails. There will be bigger stuff to worry about later.”
Dahlia awaited Karen in the middle of the front hall. “I’ve got ninety minutes to spare for the tour. Shall we get going?”
Karen had almost forgotten about it already!
Luckily, the tour mostly consisted of what happened on Main Street, which was only a mile long if Karen felt generous. Most of the buildings were constructed in the late seventies and early eighties, back when the first generation of townsfolk got serious about chartering a “real” town and opening their collective doors to anyone who might like to live in their “little piece of Paradise.” Karen gave her guest this spiel as they strolled from the city hall to the library, where the original communes’ rules and priorities were on full display near the entrance. (The city charter hung up in city hall. It had seemed appropriate at the time.)
Dahlia lingered before the handwritten “Lesbian Manifesto.” An elderly man and his tiny grandson emerged from behind a stack of new arrivals, hands holding and bag of books hanging at their sides. They paid no mind to the manifesto or to Dahlia, but Mr. Johnson offered Karen a hearty good morning before leading his grandson to a truck in the parking lot.
“Fascinating,” Dahlia said. “I saw the copy online, of course, but seeing it right before you is quite the different experience. I didn’t realize it was so… big.”
Karen grinned. “While the list was written at a communal meeting, the actual manifesto you see before you was designed and created by Esther Gladstone. Yes, of those Gladstones.”
“I don’t follow.”
Right. This woman wasn’t from around there. “It’s a town outside of Portland. Named after the Gladstone family.”
The look Dahlia levied upon Karen was not… welcoming. “I believe Gladstone, Oregon, was named after a British statesman who did not actually live there.”
Bristling, Karen explained, “They were Gladstones who lived in Gladstone, but it’s neither here nor there.” Don’t tell me Esther lied about that… She was also supposedly part Clackamas Indian. Did she lie about that, too?
Dahlia had returned her focus to the wall-hanging. So did Karen.
“When Paradise Valley was chartered as a city, the first council was comprised entirely of women who had been members of the commune. Esther was one of them, of course, but the first mayor was Leslie Ambrose, and she was the one who introduced these rules into the Paradise Valley’s core being. You’ll see them referenced quite a bit over Fourth of July.”
She introduced Dahlia to the head librarian, a tiny woman named Yi who had a much bigger personality than most people anticipated. Even Dahlia was not prepared for Yi’s frank way of asking for donations “If you’re going to hang around and not do much else.” While Karen attempted to explain that Yi was part of Paradise Valley’s charms, Dahlia was writing something down in the little noteboo
k she carried in her front chest pocket.
This certainly wasn’t going as Karen expected. Dahlia had always been pleasant, even excited, over the phone and emails. It was like taking a tour with her doppelganger instead of the original woman who called Mayor Karen Rath and sweet-talked her into permitting a film crew take over Paradise Valley and “get to the meat of the people who live here.” The city council agreed this could be a grand boon to tourism, the one thing that kept the town afloat for most of the year. Dahlia had assured them that the documentary would be shown at LGBT events up to two years after its release. Not only in North America, either. There were plans to take it to “Prides all over the world.” Nothing had sold the town council quicker than that. Right now, Paradise Valley sustained itself with the right amount of rentals and houses for sale, but if there was enough interest in their little mountain town, Karen might get to build that neighborhood extension and introduce the brand-new Illinois and Indiana Streets she had been hankering to attach to her mayoral legacy. It also meant more taxpayers. More kids for the school district. More money flowing into local businesses.
Like the ones Karen introduced Dahlia to on the remainder of their tour.
They hit all the places of unique cultural importance. Heaven’s Café was one of the biggest hangout spots for lesbian dating, and Heaven herself had recently come out with a girlfriend for the first time in her life. Dahlia showed little interest in this until she realized that Heaven’s girlfriend was the young woman typing away on a laptop in the corner. Oh, and she wore a headscarf. Karen didn’t understand what that had to do with anything, though.
Frankie’s Delicatessen across the street was the next stop. Dahlia was much more involved with Francis Nicolauer, a very no-nonsense woman who ran this whole deli by herself with the occasional help of her little brother. He was often seen about town with his community college study materials. He and Xander used to be friends in high school. Dominic was a little older than Xander, though. Dahlia was more than happy to purchase a coffee from Frankie when she was not as impressed with the fare at Heaven’s.
July Skies Page 2