top of page
  • Writer's picturecocodensmore

Magical night.

July 20, 2021

The Louisville Vacation

Magical night.

I went to Titty Tiki Taco Tuesday at The Limbo with Vee and Terri. It’s not like before, the old burlesque troupe has broken up. But it was wonderful. The premier celebration of bodies, all ages, all shapes, all sizes. Most empowering. And so great to be with old friends, and make new ones, too.

Then I Ubered to The Backdoor. It was my other haunt, The Limbo and The Backdoor. My places. My people.

I sat at the bar, and saw the same bartender, the same bouncer, my people. I cried. Then I stopped crying. Then I cried. Then I stopped crying. Then I cried.

Then I had to go to the back of the bar, to a “quiet” corner, and facetime mom to walk the caregiver through changing her CGM sensor. That took a while. After that, I was acclimated to my old place, reconnected enough in my mind and spirit, I returned to my seat at the bar and no more tears.

I met a lovely fellow who worked at one of the psych hospitals I was at. I was at two. I only write about one, but I was actually at two. The second only for three days. Ha. Only. The reason why I beat it out of that one so soon was primarily because they wouldn’t let me have a pen to write with. In protest, I stayed in my room, sleeping most of the time. I don’t remember a whole lot other than that. Still pissed thinking about the pen, though. Not writing will kill me faster than trying to jam a pen into my skull. Damn the patient that did that and made it so I couldn’t get a pen. I would have stayed longer. I probably needed to stay longer. But that’s the way life goes. I Persevere.

Then I met a couple in their late 30s/early 40s that actually really like one another. They have a child together, and they’re making it work. And they really like one another. And that is just so fucking cool I can’t even begin to tell you. That is just so fucking cool.

And my special bartender. Who always spoke highly of her husband. She was a love. She was so kind to me when I needed people to be kind to me. But I remember most how she always spoke highly of her husband.

“You always talked nice about your husband,” I said. “You like your husband. That’s so rare.”

“Yes, I do!” She replied. And there he was at the end of the bar.

“She’s lying about me again!” He said. And everyone laughed. Because she wasn’t lying. Not at all.

Later, on the smoking patio, talking to me and my new couple friends, she told us they have a “never say no” rule in the bedroom. I was wondering, how do people that have been together for two decades come up with new things not to say “no” to? And I asked her. And she said they did! And I was amazed. And totally impressed. Because how fucking lucky are they? Pretty fucking lucky.

My Uber driver from The Limbo to The Backdoor was from Cuba. My Uber driver from The Backdoor to Tee's in Old Louisville was from the Congo. I miss Ubering with Uber drivers from all over the world. Fascinating people. Working to make it in America. What must that be like? I cannot begin to imagine. But I love talking to them. I hate it when they’re flustered because they’re just picking up English. I hate to make them feel uncomfortable. Because how much courage does it take to drive people around when you’re just learning their language? Amazing people, these Uber drivers. Such strength. How badly do they want to make a life here? Pretty badly. I am in awe of these Uber drivers. They are far more courageous than me.

And now I’m back at Tee's, in Old Louisville. Mocha, her cat, didn’t come out at first. I think she is sad. But I don’t know. I don’t know her. I went in the bedroom and brought her out to sit with me while I wrote this. I gave her some treats. She’s really really tiny. I hope she’s OK.

I haven’t been this happy in a very very very very very very very very very long time. And I could have put a lot more very’s in there. But I stopped.

Mocha just came over so I could give her pets. She has a very squeaky tiny meow. She seems content.

Good night.



bottom of page