A Halloween Retrospective.

[Dylan Wiles]

Halloween, to most folks means black cats and witches, pumpkins and jack-o lanterns, trick or treat and candy. It's a night to stay out late and howl, egg a few houses and observe the American Dental Associations national holiday, when dental practitioners 'go long' on their trip-to-Hawaii futures and begin sharpening their drills.

But if you came from where I did, it only meant one thing.

Time for the Drag Ball!

The Drag Ball was very big on Halloween because it was the only time, in the 1970's, a gay man could dress up in his finest satin and lace without being arrested.

It was a very big affair indeed, especially for the other-directed among us, and it meant the selectively disinfranchised could 'come-out' and party in the grand manner. With their beads and rhinestones clacking, false eyelashes fluttering, size 14 stiletto heels tromping through the grass and dancing on the wet October pavement, everybody headed for Arnold Lee's bar for the promenade, beauty contest and talent show.

It ran all night and so did we.

Arnold was the Grande Dame of gay society in Oklahoma City and maintained a warehouse-sized facility out on Route 66, complete with a bar in the basement, next to a faux-western tourist trap called Frontier City. (Cowboys and Faggots and Dykes, oh my!)

Arnold played host, part-time bartender, concierge and emcee to the discriminating cream of gay social life year-round, but on Halloween the stops were pulled out, the doors were flung open and gaiety reigned supreme! (Pardon my pun)

The fervor and drama ran so high in the weeks leading up to the great day that by October 29th the entire community was in a frenzy of rustling organza, foundation garments and trips back and forth to Frederick's of Hollywood to secure that extra-special half-bra, before some other bitch got her hands on it. As the days leading up to the event got closer the weirdness got weirder, the drama got deeper and the angst was palpable. Almost to the point of rendering the night itself anti-clamactic.

Almost but not quite.

There was a sizable overlap in Gay and Hooker society back then. All the working girls, who dressed up every night and knew the drill were recruited as seamstresses and personal shoppers, bead procurers and wig mavens. Hotels were deserted and tricks went without, bellmen screamed and call services were abandoned as the little working girls ran hither and yon on errands of extreme emergency for the true 'Queens of the Night' on their special evening.

It was a huge high school prom gone outlaw.

Patty Ann, our roommate, had elected to go as Barbra Streisand this particular year, ( Patty channeled Barbra) and raided my closet for fish-net stockings and sequined underwear to show at the appropriate moment, on stage, in hopes of capturing a crown. Joi and I chipped in on a Streisand-esque ball-gown and sewed bugle beads for an entire month prior to the big day. We stitched together between calls to the many hotels, asked advice from tricks who might have an 'in' on good material and importuned anyone who might have a line on fashion design.

Miz Patty only stood 4'11" and by the time we'd finished coating the basic-black floor-length gown with frou-frou, we feared for her back. The dress must have weighed 30 pounds but Patty assured us, with our help, she could carry it off. 'Carry' being the operative word.

She was alright upright, under sail, but to sit down and stand back up again required the ministrations of Joi and myself to keep the whole illusion from toppling over and landing on it's well mascara-ed face. . .or it's well-padded ass.

Came the big day and the frenzy redoubled.

The morning found us in a delirium of false fingernails and proper coloring for same, a last minute comb-out for the Barbra-ala-'People' frosted wig and three different make-up applications where-in, each time, I tried to convince Patty that 'less was more' in opposition to her 'more is better' stance. I broke a window throwing a Black on Black tube of L'Oreal at it.

Joi felt the same way I did. 'Barbra' was our creation and she would not put in an appearance looking cheap. We were, after all, going for Queen. And a queen does not look like a floozy.

Around 6:00 pm we finally got the malignant little dwarf fixed and sprayed, hammered out and medicated and crammed in the car. 'Malignant dwarf' was a name assigned to her by Big Ron the Bear, who took Patty everywhere with him, packing the little shit around on the back of his Harley as he moved from bar to bar. Big Ron had a strange sense of humor and the reasons for this were never entirely clear, but Patty got a lot of free drinks out of it and it was not in Joi's or my nature to pry.

We would dress Patty in the bathroom at Arnold's when we got there. No way could we have pulled Patty out of the car encumbered by full dress. Once on site, we took the amphetamine-buzzed Patty straight to the dressing rooms and started putting her together. The wig was a masterpiece. The dress was a true creation and Patty became 'Barbra' before our eyes.

8:00 and all is well.

The band played, the hookers and pimps, straights and queers came rolling in two by two, three by three and group by group. The high-steppers, the rich-on-a-trip and the higher-ups of the low-down came and saw and dug. It was a full house drawing against a spade high flush of Oklahoma City underground society. . . and the moment was at hand.

There was a promenade and a talent show and Arnold led off with her Judy Garland lip-sync of 'Over the Rainbow'. For this number Arnold combed his hair back in a Frank Sinatra-Presenting-Judy-Special manner, wearing a black tuxedo with a white-on-black cummerbund and tails top, complimented by sheer black hosiery under a body stocking. The only thing wrong with the outfit was Arnold had bad feet and had to wear black sneakers instead of two inch pumps like the real Judy did when she sang for Frank. The joke about 'Judy in Corrective Shoes' was an old saw that was a staple in the community because Arnold had been doing this particular number for years. Thing was, we loved it. It was an inside joke with a twist. Arnold was our host, our benefactor and provided the only place an outcast or two could spend an evening in relative drunken-relax without being harassed by the straight world. Arnold was beloved. And not just for the black sneakers alone. Although the black sneakers were the icing on the croissant.

Then came time for the Queen Promenade and Patty had some fierce competition.

The first runner-up from the year before was a 250 lb. black dude who called him/herself Nightlife. Nightlife strolled around the stage to a jazz rendition of Night-Train in a tent-inspired black burnoose and lifted his 'dress' at odd times to show two cherries attached to his underpants, sang a song from Flim-Flam Man and faked going down on the emcee, Arnold, who went into his pocket and put a dollar in Nightlife's humongous garter belt.

The second contestant was Tony Sinclair, a most convincing impersonator who worked at 'The Jewel Box' in Kansas City, a gay bar second only to the great sho-bars in Los Angeles, and did a full-frontal strip, with a skin-toned body stocking and bird-seed tits. The bird seed did the job. Tony looked real as she slinked alluringly around the stage.

Then came Miz Patty. Lip-syncing was allowed and she did it to perfection. She 'sang Rain on my Parade and brought the house down. The beads swayed, Miz Patty crossed her eyes and 'did' Barbra, kept her feet and it looked real good . . . until the last minute.

At the climax of her number Miz Patty looked over the audience, bringing down that last high note of paaaarrraaaddee and spotted an ex-lover. . .sitting with another man! Paaaarrraaadde turned into 'You moootheeerfucker!' and hell broke right the fuck loose!

The beaded dress came hurling into the audience with Miz Patty shrieking like a hyena on steroids. Jimmer and Joi fell backwards in their chairs and I found a place to hide under a dyke. The wet bar became a battle ground as Patty grabbed the offending ex-lover by the throat and commenced choking him with a bead-bestrewn right hand as she took errant swipes at the un-offending fellow by his side with her left.

The house came down in earnest then, as Arnold, still in Judy Garland makeup, took the spotlight trying to restore order. She stood there in the middle of the stage screaming into the microphone, 'You bitches! You bitches!!' while cross-dressers ran everywhere, fearing a police raid. People were shrieking and crying, scratching and clawing, slipping and sliding on the bugle beads and spilling drinks as the band played on.

There is nothing on earth that can compare to the sight of a bar full of frenzied drag queens trying to find an exit.

And Big Ron the Bear came up to the stage and put twenty dollars in Arnold's garter, proclaiming it the best show he'd seen in. . .well, in forever.

Patty didn't win Queen, and she should have. Because if I have ever seen the definition of Queen, it was the night Miz Patty clawed the eyes out of an ex-lover while singing Rain on My Parade, straddling the wet bar.

That, my friends, is what Halloween means to me.

And the 'Horror' of this piece, just to keep it legal, is what she did to that dress. You define your horror. . . I'll define mine.

[tinkerjack]

That, my friends, is what Halloween means to me.

And the 'Horror' of this piece, just to keep it legal, is what she did to that dress. You define your horror. . . I'll define mine.

It works for me too.
nicely done
thanks

Everytime I think of that Halloween night, gasolene tanker and the striped downed 442 olds with the gray primer, this one will pop into mind and scare those spooks away.

[joel]

There was a sizable overlap in Gay and Hooker society back then. All the working girls, who dressed up every night and knew the drill were recruited as seamstresses and personal shoppers, bead procurers and wig mavens. Hotels were deserted and tricks went without, bellmen screamed and call services were abandoned as the little working girls ran hither and yon on errands of extreme emergency for the true 'Queens of the Night' on their special evening.

They slept their nights in exile beds
away from childhood tucked-in nights—
both queers and bodies-sold-for-lust
reduced from folk to adjectives
and left their dreams dreamed somewhere else—

and someone said that some were friends,
that outcasts used to overlap
(who loved the wrong for reasons right;
who loved the right for reasons wrong)
and scaffold round each other’s lives

all queens like Mary, full of grace—
another sex-life scrutinized
and shade of merciful defined.
When whores taught fashion to the gays
with moonlit laughs and hugs perhaps

how hallowed such a night must be;
when tricks lose people leased for friends
and Prostitute turns Humankind
and love for all does not sound queer—
what else describes a hallowed folk?

[Dylan Wiles]

Beautiful poem. Leave it to a poet to suck the joy out of any occasion!!LOL

[joel]

sssssluuuuuuuuuuuuurp. thanks--the joy was delicious.