by Lee Lynch
Frenchy felt sick. There were some parts of the life she hated, that made her question if it was still what she wanted. Gay girls had no business hitting other girls. Men did that. Her father had done that to her mother. Her brother’s wife had confided to Frenchy that she’d been hit the first year they were married. Dykes weren’t men, they should act better than men. She took a couple of deep breaths and swaggered the best she could toward the bar. Where else could she go? It was her world, the good and the bad. Two more couples came out, laughing and talking, their speech slurred, but their moods happy. One of the femmes, with soft-looking curly hair and lively eyes, looked Frenchy up and down, while the other met her eyes through light blue pointed eyeglass frames. Frenchy felt better as she handed over the cover charge, more confident that she could blend in here and meet some girls she would like.
The Ace of Spades was mobbed. Frenchy elbowed her way to the bar. Still a bit hungover from the wine, she ordered a scotch and water to wake herself up. As she leaned against the bar with her second drink, the first already cushioning the discomfort of being there, she tried to separate out individuals from the crowd. The jukebox blared Ben E. King. She was dizzy with tiredness and liquor by the end of that drink, but for lack of anything else to do, ordered another. By the end of the third she was practically drunk and had lost her cool. She had to make contact with a girl, she thought desperately. She didn’t want to sleep alone in the tiny bed-filled room or go to the beach alone in the morning. She didn’t travel alone.
As best she could, she stood up straight. In the bar mirror she smoothed her pompadour. As she moved into the crowd with yet another scotch, she realized she had to go to the bathroom. She looked at the long line and decided to remain uncomfortable. On the far side of the bar three women stood talking. Frenchy made her way toward them, trying to decide which was the woman alone and if she was femme. Another woman joined them and the two broke into couples. “See,” she told herself, “you should never go to a new place alone. You just don’t know the ropes.” Looking around again, she spotted a tall woman by herself. “Come on, Frenchy,” she chided herself, “you’re not that desperate.” The woman was at least five-eleven, with permed blonde hair that made her look even taller. A smile broke out on the woman’s face as a pretty blonde appeared out of the crowd and hugged her. Frenchy was relieved; she suspected she was that desperate. She pushed on through the crowd, smiling at a couple of women who looked her way, but she got no response. By the time she got back to the bar she was chilled through with rejection, but she couldn’t blame anyone. She looked awful tonight, had left all her charm in New York, and was sloppy drunk. She left then, weaving slightly up the alley and onto Commercial Street, worried she wouldn’t find the house where she was staying, humming Walk Like a Man to herself.
Her head down so at least no one who saw her tonight could recognize her the rest of the weekend, Frenchy made her lonely way through the nearly deserted streets. Maybe she was tired of being on her own, of this constant hunt for girls. Or maybe it was the town: cute enough, but too small and not her style. Tomorrow she’d find a girl at the beach, take her out for a fancy dinner, and explore the town with her. There was something she liked about it, she thought as she breathed in the salty sea air and imagined being at the shore the next day.
She passed through the center of town. A police car moved slowly by. She wondered if there was a Women’s House of Detention in Provincetown and quickened her pace.
Suddenly she felt a familiar and thoroughly unpleasant warmth in her loins. “Aw, shit,” she said aloud. “Not this too.” She jammed her fists into the pockets of her denim jacket and walked faster toward the guest house. It wasn’t fair — every month to get this damned thing. There wasn’t any sense to it. She was never going to have kids. It embarrassed the hell out of her to have to cram one of those fat sanitary napkins between her legs and catch the oozing red stuff like any woman would. She didn’t deserve this, too, not up here at P-town. Now she wouldn’t be able to swim, and if she did find a girl she’d have to hide the pads. It was humiliating to be a butch with the curse. She felt moisture start down her leg. Luckily, she had packed a pad just in case, and that would keep her till morning. But it meant getting up early, before the boys left for the beach, and finding some place to buy a box. Worst of all, wearing the blood-soaked thing till morning, till she found new ones. The whole painful and messy process was mortifying.
The small figure made her way up the street, striding on her short legs back and forth between two houses for a while as if uncertain which to enter, finally determining on one, and tiptoeing stealthily up the stairs. She closed the door slowly and quietly behind her as if, from habit, she feared to disturb someone sleeping inside.
* * * * *
The bright sky over Herring Cove Beach glared into Frenchy’s over-sensitive eyes. Her hangover was bad. Her cramps were worse. All she had wanted to do when she woke that morning was stay in bed. The bloodstained jeans she’d managed to wash out the night before were hanging next to her, still damp. They were the only dyke pants she owned. She felt sorry for herself and her small wardrobe. Even if she had the money, her mother would notice if she bought too many butch clothes.
She staggered as she got out of Rob’s car. Gerald was quick to jibe her. “Can’t take the night life, girl?”
“You go ahead, guys, I’ve got to get used to all this light. Fire Island was never like this.”
The boys laughed as they hurried off to sunbathe. Frenchy, slipping on her shades, wondered if she could catch a bus back to the City. As she leaned against the car, folding her arms and propping one leg up behind her in case anyone was looking, she visualized her neighborhood. Familiar, shaded by apartment buildings, full of cooking smells, the comfort of her mother waiting for her... the thought brought tears to her eyes. “What’s the matter with you, Frenchy?” she asked herself. “Goddamn sissy.”
She picked up the old beach blanket in which she’d wrapped a Coke, suntan lotion and two comic books, and slipped it under her arm. She wore an old pair of cut-off black jeans, a white sweatshirt and a new pair of white sneakers, bought for the trip. The sneakers filled with sand as she plunged onto the beach path.
Herring Cove was as famous as Fire Island for its gay beach, and all around her faggots and dykes converged. Unsteady from the hangover, squinting behind her sunglasses, she tried to check out the girls. When walking became too uncomfortable she stopped to slip off the sneakers. A few yards on, her feet began to burn. How did the other gays walk so comfortably? Tears rose again from the pain, but she wouldn’t be so uncool as to stop and put her sneakers on again. They would just refill with sand anyway.
She reached a peak in the sand. As far as she could see, water stretched ahead of her, so incredibly blue she forgot her burning feet, her headache, her cramps, her desperation, her loneliness. She felt drawn to it, cleansed by it. The sun, tempered by the ocean breeze, was comforting, healing. Then she saw, everywhere between her and the water, gays — blankets and blankets of them. Twos and threes and groups. Women running into the water hand in hand, or lying close to one another. Men walking toward the other end of the beach together. Older couples sitting under beach umbrellas. Baby butches splashing water on their girls and dunking them.
She couldn’t see Rob or Gerald anywhere. In all this sea of lesbians and gay men it seemed that she was the only one who was alone.
She looked back toward the water and it wasn’t so pretty this time. But it was still somehow a source of strength. She squared her shoulders and started off across the burning sand toward the compelling wetness of the water. Striding, then, almost in comfort on the cool wet sand and small rocks along the shoreline, hitching up her shorts and plastering a devastating smile across her face, she was momentarily back in her element. As she passed good-looking women she gave them the look through her dark glasses. No one glanced up at her, but she felt better doing it. Sooner or later it would work. It always did.
/> The breezes off the water seemed to be dissipating some of her hangover. She angled up away from the water, looking for a sign of Rob and Gerald and for some place to put her blanket. She spotted a sleeping woman with short dark hair and a red bikini. The woman was alone.
Frenchy stopped, looking pointedly away from her. Slowly she drew a box of Marlboros from her pocket, tapped it on her hand, pulled a cigarette out and replaced the pack. The woman had not stirred. Frenchy found her Zippo and despite the breeze lit the cigarette in one try. This was more like it. Even though the woman lay sleeping and unaware, once more she felt better for going through the motions. Perhaps someone else had noticed her.
She spread her blanket a few feet from the sleeping woman and settled back to smoke her cigarette. Despite the smoke searing through her hangover-raw throat, hot as the sand had been beneath her feet, and the dizzying effect it had on her aching head, she felt the sense of well-being — almost euphoria — that came with the ebbing of cramps. Here she was, Frenchy Tonneau, alone in P-town, on the make. She couldn’t wait to tell the kids at the bar how much she liked the Cape.
Someone turned up a radio. Big Girls Don’t Cry, it sang at Frenchy who agreed wholeheartedly. Cigarette finished, she sneaked a look at the still-sleeping woman and settled down to her comics, the sound of good music behind her, a nap, and maybe a try at that sleeping beauty later. Soon, she would put on the suntan lotion, but first she would let her tan get started. Like a lullabye, the Four Seasons still sang Big Girls Don’t Cry, and Frenchy dozed off facing the woman, in a fantasy of dancing with her.
Frenchy’s cramps returned to wake her. She knew, first, that she needed to change her pad. But it took a moment to realize that wouldn’t be as easy as she thought. She rolled over onto her back. The left side of her face felt dry and withered. “Oh, no,” she said, understanding what she’d done. She would be a mess, one whole side of her face burned lobster-red and the other side white. If she stayed on the beach, perhaps she could get some sun on the right side — but there was the problem of the bathroom. And finding the boys to get her back to town. In panic she remembered the sleeping woman and looked for her, thinking she might help — the hell with seducing her. But even her fantasy was gone. Many of the people nearby had left. The cramps were no better and she was afraid she’d double over from them. A building in the distance might be a bathroom, but if it wasn’t she would have that much further to walk back to — to where? She might have to walk back to town. If only she had some water and an aspirin. All these women around. Surely some of them had the right supplies. But she couldn’t, just couldn’t ask a woman — a gay girl — for that kind of stuff. She’d die first.
She trudged through the burning sands, half-searching for Rob and Gerald, half-resigned to walking back to town. She made directly for the parking lot, her feet escaping none of the punishment she had spared them before. She had to get back to town, wherever it was. She’d worry about how she looked later. Now, of course, women were noticing her. Were they laughing at her half-red face? Had her period leaked through? She tried a new tactic and adopted a version of the walk she used in front of her mother and at work. The eyes drifted away as she passed. She was just another woman, not a butch on the make. She had sacrificed her image for anonymity, hoping she’d make so little impression they wouldn’t associate her self later with her self now.
Once that had happened in the A&P. One of the girls from downtown stopped there to shop, not knowing it was where Frenchy worked. Without her butch style Frenchy blended right in and the girl stared at her, noting the resemblance, but not knowing her. “Do you have a sister?” she finally asked, as Frenchy checked her through the register.
Frenchy smiled a polite thin smile and lied, “Yes, do you know her?”
“I think so. You look a lot alike.”
Frenchy nodded, the pallid little smile still on her face, and began to bag the order.
“Say hello to Frenchy for me,” the girl had told her, and got a limp wave in return as Frenchy turned to the next customer.
Maybe it would work here, too, Frenchy thought as she left the lot and began to follow cars full of gay people toward town.
“Need a lift?” she heard a woman’s voice ask. She was one of the two women from the yellow sportscar. “You can ride back here,” she suggested, indicating a small space behind the seat.
“No, thanks.” Frenchy waved, hiding the burnt side of her face, cursing her luck. What a chance. She could have ridden in a sportscar — which she’d never done before — and gotten to know those cool women. Maybe they could have had dinner together or met at the bar later.... But she couldn’t stand for them to see her like this. Maybe she’d see them later and approach them. When it was dark. Then again, maybe she’d hide in her room the rest of the weekend hugging her cramps and her sunburn and her misery to herself, waiting for the boys to take her home. She accepted the next ride she was offered, from two faggots who seemed to sense how down she felt and took her right to her front door. She almost cried thanking them. Why was she being such a crybaby this weekend anyway? It didn’t go with her reputation at all. Her damn period made her weepy.
Again she slowly mounted her steps defeated, exhausted and alone. She walked through the empty, narrow hallways to her room and looked at herself in the mirror. No one would ever like her in Provincetown looking as she did.
* * * * *
Frenchy spent many dreary hours at her window. She could see a narrow strip of the bay between two buildings. The view and several aspirins kept her going, but she didn’t revive until twilight began to tease boat lights on in the bay. She decided to make the best of this rotten weekend and go out for dinner. She’d decided against taking a bus back to the City as it would use all her money, forcing her to go home once she got there. She couldn’t face seeing her mother in their tiny apartment without something good happening in between. This trip was a reward to herself for being a good daughter, a dutiful employee, a discreet gay. So far she’d felt only punished. If this was what traveling would be like, she might as well stop planning to take more trips like this one when her mother’s social security began in another few years.
She wandered down Commercial Street looking in the windows of all the jewelry and clothing shops, fascinated by the magic goods. If she ever did have the money, she’d come back here and do it up big. She passed a few gay couples on the street, but it seemed too early for most of them to be out. She was out of step again. Still, she forced herself to walk butch. If she met anyone from the City, she’d be embarrassed to be caught shuffling along weary and drained by her womanhood.
This was not the Frenchy she had packed to bring to Provincetown. This wasn’t even one she knew. Tonight she felt thirteen again, like before she came out. She’d known there was something missing from her life then and had no idea where to look. She’d known she was different from other girls, but couldn’t name her uniqueness. Then she’d learned who she really was and at least once a week, on Saturday nights downtown, she could be herself. She’d hung out at the underage joints until she got fake I.D. Then she began her career at the bars. The rest of the week her persona was a front she needed to protect her real self. Here in P-town she was someone in between, someone she had no time for in the City. But as long as she didn’t meet anyone she knew, this Frenchy was okay. She could take care of herself, if not anyone else, and she looked funny, but about that she cared less and less.
One jewelry store was particularly appealing, with small garnet rings in the window. It was hard to find her small size in a pinky ring and she wanted one with her birthstone. Inside the store the salesgirl was so helpful Frenchy wondered if she could be gay, but she had long hair and was wearing a skirt. Frenchy decided the girl was straight. The rings were children’s sizes and fit comfortably. She fought with herself over the expense. Then she figured a good pinky ring was a necessity, something she’d wear all her life to let girls know she was gay. She noticed this girl wore a pinky
ring too, and studied her as she waited on another customer. It was just a coincidence, she decided; though in the paperback books, lesbians looked more like the salesgirl than the Village dykes. Maybe this was one of those uptown types — as Edie would be if she had money.
Maybe she might like to have dinner later, Frenchy mused as the girl returned. Embarrassed to be caught fantasizing about her, Frenchy decided to buy the most expensive ring. It was thick and gold, with a rectangular red stone the light caught in a way that made it sparkle. She handed over the money without taking off the ring, and slipped her old scratched signet ring into her pocket. She guessed the salesgirl was impressed, but decided to reconsider asking her to dinner. After all, maybe she’d come back at closing and find the girl’s boyfriend waiting for her.
Buoyed by her purchase, aware of its expensive weight on her pinky, Frenchy hitched up her jeans and sauntered further down Commercial Street. She felt hungry. Suddenly she realized she had spent every extra cent on the ring. She wouldn’t be taking anyone to dinner except herself — and cheaply, at that. At a take-out stand she ordered a hot-dog, and sat with a view of the sidewalk to eat it. No one interesting passed, but darkness had fallen and she hoped her half-red face, though it burned like hell, was less conspicuous.
Should she even go to the bar? Had the sun burnt a warning onto her face that somehow she didn’t belong in P-town? The sight of the clean big blue sea that morning had stayed in her mind’s eye; she wished all the cute girls could somehow break free of the bar and go down to the beach to dance at night. She touched her cool hand to her blazing cheek. Maybe she had a bit of fever from the sun, to be thinking like this. But it seemed kind of funny, to travel all the way to Provincetown, to all the beauty and open space, and go into a sordid little building to drink and smoke and be miserable. She could have stared at that water all day ...