by Jason Carney
“Sporting his overalls,” she says, “what are you, a farmer?”
The crowd laughs. My stomach sinks, my mind relaxes. I am wearing white corduroy shorts, a black T-shirt, and black canvas high-top tennis shoes. Not overalls.
“Y’all make a lot of noise for Jason Edwards.”
Glad my name was not called.
I am nervous as hell. The crowd claps and cheers as the other Jason approaches the stage. One large man, in a booth off to the back, is excessively loud. He has a thick brown goatee and mustache, facial piercings, and glasses. He weighs easily three hundred pounds, looks like a biker. He applauds like a drag queen.
The poet, who seems motivated by the applause, wears overalls with one strap undone. His Doc Martens sport flames running down the length of the shoe, as if his feet are some kind of street-rod from the 1950s. His hair is a buzz-do and his face sparkles from glitter stuck to his facial stubble. There is something manly yet effeminate about this guy. He seems artistic as he nervously maintains a cool demeanor.
He pauses at the microphone. His paper shakes in his hand, the crowd hushes. We hear his exhale as he begins speaking: “I love you, Thom.”
The large man at the back responds in kind.
That must be his boyfriend.
Jason E. begins his poem. The words are marvelous. He is exploring his own life. He casts a nonjudgmental light, which exposes his secrets and fears, on his own identity as a man. The poem speaks of his struggle to find love through sex, alcohol, and drugs.
We have a lot in common.
The words alone are not the most enthralling aspect of what he does on the stage. Power and passion project from the man. I feel like someone strung a fishhook through my gut, the taut line pulling me forward in my seat. Whatever tugs at me demands that I listen. The poem controls the room with a sense of identity, it navigates beautiful images surrounded by jagged truths. It springs naturally from his body. All of these things hold me in awe. He seems to represent exactly what I am looking for in poetry: a definition of self through the words. He is not just reading what he wrote. He is living the poem from deep within his body.
I have to meet this man. I have to know this man.
He finishes. The crowd applauds. A soft look of gratitude comes across Jason E.’s face as he leaves the stage. I cry a little, secretly, as a man does in the movie theaters, silently with a couple of teardrops stuck to the corners of the eyes. I am moved by his words, his experience through the poem, by the poem. I try to brush the tears away between claps without being noticed. I don’t care that I have to read my poem next. My own work is the far from my mind. His poem is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard. I know now that I came tonight not to speak, but to hear another first-time poet named Jason.
“That was Jason Edwards; give it up for him!” Jenna says to the crowd. While they cheer again, she takes a swig of her beer.
“All right, I don’t know this next guy either. He’s wearing some rocking Chuck Taylors. I don’t know if his poems are any good, but his shoes are kicking ass. Give it up for Jason Carney.”
The crowd respectfully applauds. As I approach the microphone, my yellow folded paper in my left hand, my legs shake. I notice Jason E. sitting with the large man; both focus their attention on the stage. The crowd hushes. I unfold the yellow paper. I hold the poem several inches above the black music stand to the right of the microphone. The paper vibrates from my terror of being on stage. I cannot stop the shaking.
I take a deep breath and the words just start to come out of me. Two lines into the poem, the nerves are gone. I feel alive!
My poem is about my father. The piece deals with issues of sexual frustrations and porn shops. It’s about my search for self-knowledge and how it took me to some of the unhealthiest of places. The poem explores how lust can be an addiction, how sickness will repeat if not put in check. It’s about the power a person has to perpetuate his sickness and force it onto others.
“. . . the past before the present, the addiction before the consent,” I say, finishing my poem.
My performance lacked the power of the other Jason’s piece. His poem was more skillfully presented. The crowd still supports me with applause. My senses are alive. The Dark Room smells like warm sunlight. I make my way off the stage and toward the bar. My torso covered in sweat. I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I pass. Three minutes of standing still felt like running a marathon.
I need a beer and a shot.
“Shit, two good first-timers named Jason! Y’all clap loud for Carney the Carnivore!” Jenna makes a couple of more witty comments, hyping up the room for the next poet. “Y’all ready for a veteran? Give it up for the beautiful and talented Opalina.” The crowd goes nuts as a house favorite comes to the stage.
I stand at the back clapping for the young woman, waiting to order a drink from the bar. The bartender is a pretty girl with shoulder-length curly black hair. The bright tattoos on her forearms stand out against her black uniform. She smiles.
“Can I get a Bud, please?” I ask.
“Make that two,” another voice says.
I look over to find the other Jason standing next to me.
“I loved your poem,” he says.
“Me too,” I respond. “I mean, I loved your poem too.”
“You ever been here before?”
“No.”
“Us either,” he says.
The bartender places the two beers down.
“And a vodka cranberry,” the large man standing behind us adds.
“This is my boyfriend, Thom. I’m Jason.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my arm to shake both of their hands. “I’m Jason too.”
The bartender sits the cocktail down next to the beer.
“We got this,” Thom says, putting his hand over my wallet as I start to take out the cash. “On our tab.” Jason E. hands me one of the beers.
“Thank you,” I respond to both of them. “I will get the next one.”
“Yes, you will,” Thom says with a smile. Cocktail in hand, he heads back to their seats.
“Why don’t you come join us?” Jason E. suggests. “I bet we have a lot to talk about.”
“I bet so too.”
MY FAIR LADY
1996
“THANK YOU, COME AGAIN,” I say, and hand the customer the black bag.
The store is busy for a Friday night. Hotrod had to stay on the register for forty-five minutes after I arrived. He is just now getting ready to leave at one in the morning. The graveyard shift is long. Any time he hangs around after I arrive for work means two things: going to be a busy night and Hotrod will cut me a few lines from his dope bag. Both keep me busy, the sun will come up fast. Tonight is no exception. I do not enjoy his speed as much as the coke in my pocket, but it is the holidays. Be festive, I always say.
“It is there for you, good night,” Hotrod says, out of the rows of videos and DVDs shelved behind the counter.
“You sure you don’t want any of this?” I ask.
“No, I’m good.”
“Thank you, be safe,” I say.
The door to the office and counter area closes as he heads to his truck. Manuel and I help customers, while talking freely to each other, not concerned with customer service. We are nice to the customers, but it is a porn store after all and we are not here to build personal relationships. Jack off, suck a dick, let some stranger fuck your wife in the back, whatever you got to do (the people that come in here do some weird shit)—I don’t care. Just hurry up and get the fuck out of here. When the store is quiet or has less than fifty people, I write, rehearse, and snort things.
“You or me?” Manuel asks when his line of customers trickles down.
“You first, you been here longer,” I respond.
He steps down off the raised platform and disappears into the shelves of pornographic films twenty feet deep. There are many thousands of titles. Behind the huge wood racks of plastic-co
vered videos and DVDs is the locked door to the office. In the five months I have worked here, I have never gone inside. The back area is quite large, but the sales floor is enormous.
This is the world’s largest adult video store. We have more movies than anybody. The building is an old boat dealership. In front of me, the stacks, shelves, and rows of the sales floor go on for at least two hundred feet. There is pornography everywhere.
The counter stands a few feet above it all. Customers reach up to pay for their items. This U-shaped observation platform is the control center of this sadomasochistic Disneyland. On one side of the counter is a hallway leading to the thirty-six large, private viewing rooms. On the other side of the counter, twenty feet away, is a room containing thirty-two coin-op booths that accept bills of any denomination. These arcade-style booths are the more crowded of the two private-viewing options. All of them have a television screen with touch-pad controls allowing customers to scan sixty-seven different channels of porn. The channels and the store cater to a wide variety of tastes. We have a large clientele base seeking anonymous rendezvous in those spaces. However, it’s against the law when it is two men having an encounter. Texas is one of fourteen states to have sodomy laws. We do not look the other way, but we do not look for it either. As long as no one acts like a fool, we are cool.
“Damn, that is harsh,” Manuel says under his breath as he steps back up to the counter.
“Due back by midnight tomorrow,” I say to the customer, as I turn to walk into the shelves. My turn.
“Hold on,” Manuel says. “This looks like fun.”
I turn to glance at the main door.
A silence falls over that area of the store as all eyes fixate on two women who have just entered. The first is tall and round. She is easily six feet tall and over 250 pounds. Her blond hair is long and curly, a shade darker than the boa thrown loosely around her shoulders. Her boobs appear lopsided. She resembles an enormous globe in fuck-me pumps. She is all bright-blue body-hugging silk and Adam’s apple. This drag queen looks rough.
“Oh shit,” Manuel says.
I crack a smile at the other one. She is small, no more than five seven. Barely 120 pounds. Her black dress is more elegant than the one her friend wears, shimmering as she walks, and her costume falls across her frame in a natural way. Her pale arms are seductive, covered to the elbow in black satin gloves. Even her stride is graceful. Her hair, on the other hand, is outlandish. Super curly, a light auburn brown—from ten feet away she looks just like Barbra Streisand. She even has the big nose.
“Ladies, how are y’all tonight?” I ask, looking at Streisand.
Manuel snickers. Barbra tugs at her friend’s arm, as if to say, Stop here. They saunter over to the counter, innocent as can be. They look a little tipsy, really out of place.
Most of our customers, I’ve noticed, are married men, unable to satisfy their sexual urges in their Christian marriages. I make a fun game out of patiently watching men loitering around the store. Sometimes, you catch them taking the ring off their finger, right before they cross the threshold into lollipop land. There is an uncomfortable complexity to the dance of masculine eyes as they bumblebee waltz, looking for a partner, waiting for the right man to come along. Each one of them reminds me of a boy I knew. I have pity for them. Life takes too much energy when you are living a secret.
“Don’t y’all look beautiful tonight,” I say as the drag queens reach the counter.
“Thank you,” Big Blue says.
Barbra just smiles. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.
“What y’all out doing tonight?” Manuel asks.
“We’re partying,” Blue says. “Looking for men, baby.”
“I don’t think you’ll have a problem finding one here,” I say.
The store hasn’t had two drag queens cruise the back booths in the five months I have been here. I am nervous for them. They will be popular. Popular is not always a good thing. Their intentions are obvious. I am unsure of how to proceed.
“You’re cute,” Streisand says.
“You’ve been drinking,” I respond.
“A little. Is it safe back there?”
“Of course,” Manuel says. “If you don’t bother anyone, they won’t bother you.”
“Is there anybody back there?” Streisand asks.
“Of course there is, it’s Friday night,” I say.
There is one thing you can count on in this business. Between one and three in the morning, right before and right after the bars close, nearly every drunk, horny, and lonely dude in the city comes through that door. All ages. All races. The one common trait among them is the thing controlling them between their legs.
“My friend said this would be fun,” she says. “I’m kind of nervous, never done this before.”
“What, never been to a porn store?” Manuel asks.
“Never come in to hook up with guys.” Streisand blushes.
“Please,” Big Blue huffs.
“You got to watch what you say,” I tell Streisand. “There’s no sexual activity allowed here at Star Adult Video.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought . . .”
“Listen, what I don’t see, I can’t do anything about,” I say. “Y’all just be careful, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. You’re both way too pretty for that.”
“You’re sweet, and cute,” Barbra Streisand says. “Do you got a girlfriend?”
“Actually, my friend Jason and his husband Thom recently hooked me up with a girl named Lisa.” I smile.
“Oh, you got gay friends. Are you bi?”
“No, straight. Lisa and I have been dating almost two weeks. But you sure are pretty, ma’am.”
I smile again, realizing how flirtatious I am being. Since meeting Jason and Thom a few months ago, I have been exploring my relationship with the gay community—going to drag shows at the Rose Room. I met Merle the gay cowboy at the Round Up Rodeo, a gay honky-tonk. They even got me drunk one night and took me to watch some buff gay stripper at the Village. He kept flinging his pecker at my face; I held out a dollar as if my arm was a twenty-foot pole. The year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-six is an adventurous year for me. I guess that is why I am going out of my way to be nice to these upstanding ladies.
“Tall, handsome, and straight, I love it,” Big Blue says. “ME-OW.”
We all laugh.
“That is too bad,” Ms. Streisand pouts. She raises her hand to her mouth, makes a blowjob motion with her arm. “Cause I would bop you off back there, if you would let me.”
“Word,” I respond without thinking.
Manuel chokes on his coffee. I stand there, stunned, big smile on my face.
Barbra Streisand wants to suck my cock.
This is better than the biker blonde last month, who wanted me to fuck her while her husband jacked off. My face reddens. “That’s flattering,” I say.
“You think about it,” she responds, walking in the direction of the booths. “Just know I’ll bop it good.”
Damn that speed burns, I think as I step back up to my stool.
The store is busy with wanderers but the counter is empty. Manuel loads a movie a customer just returned into the VCR we have at the counter, checking to make sure it works.
The two drag queens disappeared into the back almost an hour ago. We have not seen them since. We notice several men come out of the back with unusual smiles on their faces. One even went back to the arcade after retrieving his friend. We believe the drag queens are getting popular.
“You think they’re all right?” Manuel asks, staring into the monitor. “The little one seemed to like you, go check on her.”
“Fuck you.” I grin. “They’ll be fine without me.”
As I say this, the porter comes out of the coin-op booths and waves me over. He is the person who cleans the booths, restocks the shelves, and straightens the sales floor. He has the crappiest job in the place, and gets three dollars less an hour for his troubl
es. I am paid more because I can go to jail for selling pornography to undercover vice cops. Not to anyone else, only vice cops who are on the clock. A regular person off the street can buy porn from me and that is a legal transaction. Even an off-duty vice cop can purchase porn from us with no repercussions. We never know who the cops are, all the sales clerks get warrants. Sometimes they come into the store and take us down to the county lockup. The charge is obscenity. In Dallas County that charge carries a $1,000 fine and a possible 365 days in jail. The clerks turn themselves in to authorities when a charge shows up as a warrant. Jail hours are overtime. While locked in the county jail, I am paid time and a half. The store retains a lawyer who bails me out. I’ve amassed seventeen counts. I prefer sitting in jail three or four times a month, for eight to twelve hours each time, to cleaning up cum, piss, and other bodily fluids from the booths.
“Jason, come check this out,” the porter says.
“Go ahead. I’ll leave when you get back,” Manuel says.
I make my way out the side door, around the counter, and over to the porter. He is smiling ear to ear.
“This is some funny shit,” he says.
“All right.” I walk with him through the threshold to the booths.
The back area is dark with a funky blue glow from the neon lights lining the ceiling. Small white circular lights mark the walkway on the floor between every door. The doors are black, in painted red frames. The room itself is a large square with a row of booths along both sidewalls. At the back, there is a small hallway; booths line both sides. Men mingle in this space, twirling like hawks over one spot on the floor. Tonight, seven men of various ages, race, and body types stand in two lines. One line contains three, the other line four. I’ve never seen lines like this before.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
“Just wait,” the porter says as he exits back to the sales floor.
I stand there a few minutes, leaning back against one of the doors, smoking slowly on my cigarette. Usually when we are back here, the men scatter. These seven do not move. They don’t even notice me. Soon, the door next to the line of four opens. A heavyset older man walks out adjusting his belt with one hand, combing his greasy silver hair with the other. He looks like somebody’s grandpa. When he crosses out of the threshold, I see her.