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\lline{\hl A Remembrance of the Alley Club, Missoula Montana}
\lline{by Flesh, c/o WPS, Box 77731, San Francisco 94107}
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``Hey look! A fuckin' faggot!'' I heard this being yelled from¨
behind me. I knew instinctively that it was directed at me, and¨
judging from the bar clientele, I {\it knew} it was directed at¨
me.

Even though I'm straight, I've been called and labeled a¨
``faggot'' ever since I was 12, mostly due, I think, to my¨
appearance that was somewhat different than those who tormented¨
me with a label that is degrading to anyone it's used on.

My appearance was, at the time of going through the remarks that¨
I was growing accustomed to, a somewhat bushier, blonder version¨
of Grant Hart's hair-style. I also kept my hair combed over my¨
eyes.

The clientele of the bar ranged from the conservative business¨
type, to the all american red-neck jock/cowboy/biker types. The¨
bar was called Luke's, it had a reputation of being a dangerous¨
place to go for a drink. It was Saturday night in Missoula¨
Montana. I wasn't looking for any sort of trouble that night. All¨
I was interested in doing was getting drunk and being left alone.¨
My antagonizers, already drunk rednecks, obviously were already.

In Montana there's an old western barroom tradition of a strange¨
sort of fighting ritual. What happens is, if you see someone that¨
for some reason you don't like, or want to fight, or just want to¨
prove that you're more of a man/woman than they are, you would¨
buy them a shot of whiskey and have the bartender tell the person¨
who it came from. Naturally, the other person would look up to¨
see who it came from; at this point you would stare them down.¨
Now at this point, the person who's on the receiving end of this¨
little ritual had an option of doing one of three things:

(1) He/she could drink it, thank the person who bought it and/or¨
buy the person a {\it very} large drink to, hopefully, make¨
him/her forget about you. Not returning the ``favor'' would be¨
grounds for dragging the person outside for a fight. Sometimes¨
they would retaliate by getting you two shots if they really¨
wanted to fight you badly. This has the potential to go on all¨
night until they either gave up, you passed out (or they passed¨
out), or you finally fought.

(2) You turn the drink down. This action would usually lead to¨
the person coming over {\it very} pissed off, saying ``What's the¨
matter? I was buying you a drink to be friendly asshole! Got a¨
problem with that asshole? Got a problem with me asshole?'' and¨
other assorted words, plus a few directed at your mother. No¨
matter what you did, there was no way out of it. You either went¨
up to option one or prepared to fight.

(3) You took the drink, drank it, then turned the shot glass¨
upside down. This was automatical acknowledgement that a fight¨
was about to ensue.

I've watched this ritual dozens of times and have seen every¨
possible thing you could do. The only thing I've found that¨
works, if you're ever ensnared in this ugly ritual, is to leave¨
the place with honor (used loosely). If you don't, it was¨
guaranteed that you would get the living shit beat out of you the¨
next time you went into that particular bar by either the person¨
of their friends or both. I know, it's happened to me many times¨
and I have a nose that's been broken many times to prove it. And¨
on this certain October night I was on the receiving end.

``From the gentleman at the end of the bar'', the bartender said,¨
placing the shot of whiskey in front of me. Fighting two rednecks¨
bigger than me and hoping I would win would be a miracle, so I¨
gave the bartender a five with instructions to get the two¨
rednecks a pitcher of beer, then I drank the shot. At this time,¨
the two rednecks were distracted with the roaming waitress that¨
was going from table to table, I decided that before two shots¨
were sent over, I should leave. I left quickly and quietly, and¨
as far as I know, left with ``honor''. (Looking back on this¨
ritual, I can tell that it would be very popular amongst¨
skinheads, and it wouldn't surprise me a bit of they picked it¨
up.)

I'm the kind of person who likes to go to a bar and have a drink¨
now and then, but in Missoula I was running out of paces where I¨
could go without some sort of trouble ensuing one way or another.¨
When I got a mohawk, the number reduced extremely to just about¨
none. Instead of ``Look at the faggot!'' it became ``Look at the¨
punk-rock faggot!''. It finally reached the point where there¨
wasn't a bar that I could go to without getting harassed, so I¨
decided that it really wasn't worth it. So instead of going to a¨
bar to get a beer, I would go to the nearest store and buy half a¨
case, and get drunk alone, or with my friends if any happened to¨
be in town. This went on for about a year and a half, until, by¨
chance, I took a shortcut through an alley.

As I walked through this alley, I noticed that I was going by¨
Missoula's only gay bar, the Alley Club. Several years before, I¨
had lived in an apartment building behind the club. I used to sit¨
on the roof and watch patrons stroll in and out both the front¨
and the back doors, trying to figure out what why everyone hated¨
the people going into this bar.

I looked at this place and thought, ``This is the only place I¨
haven't been to (and consequently harassed in), so what have I¨
got to lose?'' I took a deep breath, prepared for the worst, and¨
went in.

Due to being molested and raped by a marine a year earlier¨
(that's another story in itself) I was very nervous about going¨
inside the place. As I entered I noticed the decor. It resembled¨
a victorian era bar. To the right of me were several elegantly¨
built wooden booths, to the left of me was the bar. Sitting at¨
the bar were a half dozen or so men and women talking to each¨
other. I sat down at the bar, waiting for something to happen.¨
Something did. The phone rang, the bartender went to answer it,¨
but before she did, she turned and asked, ``Is anyone 'here' or¨
'not here'?'' I heard various answers of ``No''. ``What's your¨
name?'', she asked me; I told her. ``Are you 'here'?'' she asked¨
me. ``I don't really know.'' I replied; ``I'll assume that you're¨
not'' she replied. Not exactly what I was expecting, it relaxed¨
me a bit. She picked up the phone, listened for a few moments,¨
hung up. ``Just a crank call'', she said as she brought me my¨
drink, ``Nothing new.''

I went outside later to get a breath of fresh air. At that time¨
the sun had broken through the clouds and was shining on the¨
graffiti-covered wall in front of me. It felt warm, and nice in a¨
strange sort of way. It looked beautiful. I took it as a good¨
omen of things to come.

I went back in and sat down to have another beer. ``Waiting for¨
someone?'', someone asked. I turned to see a man at the other end¨
of the bar having a beer also. ``No'', I replied, ``just trying¨
to relax from a solid two weeks of cooking school.''. ``What a¨
coincidence'', he said, ``I just got back from New Orleans from¨
learning how to cook Cajun style, do you like cajun food?''¨
``I've never tried anything cajun'', I replied. ``Well, when you¨
do,'' he said, ``stay far far away from `chef' Paul Predge, that¨
guy couldn't cook authentic cajun to save his life!'' I laughed,¨
and we went into a very long conversation ranging from cooking¨
and bartendering tips to what new punk music I listened to. I¨
felt relaxed here. I felt safe. 

The time came when this person I was talking with said he had to¨
go home. He asked me if I was single to which I replied I was. He¨
then asked if I would be interested in seeing him sometime in the¨
future. I told him I wasn't up to seeing anyone or doing anything¨
for a while. The truth was that I was fighting back an extreme¨
attack of homophobia within myself. ``I understand'' he said,¨
``maybe some other time, see ya soon and take care of yourself.''¨
He then bid everyone a good night and left into the darkness¨
which had engulfed the city by now. Because of psychological¨
damage wrought on my by the marine, this sent me for a loop. My¨
views and trust of homosexuals was at an all time low. I had to¨
think them over again.

It was at this point that I could truly relax. People didn't care¨
how I looked, or who I was. Most of them, in fact all of them,¨
were risking a great deal of persecution to be on this little¨
island of sanctuary, where someone could be themselves and have a¨
drink to boot. There was no fear of being called a faggot or any¨
signs of aggression. I decided to come here more often.

During the next year or so I would go there to have a beer or¨
just plain have a good time. I discovered a lot of people, whom I¨
just assumed were loners, went there because they were gay and it¨
was one of the few places where you could be open about it. I¨
discovered people who, like me, just couldn't go anywhere else¨
for one reason or another. It was a true grand mix of society's¨
outcasts, it was magic. I also discovered one night the true¨
meaning of ``pathetic closet case'' there too.

Across from the Alley Club was a bar called the Top Hat (I don't¨
know if it's still open or not), and across the street from the¨
Top Hat is a bar called Stockman's. Every now and then a really¨
good band would play at the Top Hat, and my friends and I wold go¨
see them there. (Saccharine Trust played a great set there.)¨
Every now and then you would have a bunch of guys that would¨
wander over from Stockman's. They would be your typical he-man¨
macho types who would talk about women, cars, work (or school)¨
and fuckin'. On this particular night it was no different, as¨
they passed going in the main subject they were talking about was¨
``the girl in Biology class with the huge fuckin' tits''.

My friend and I were sitting near the back to make a quick¨
getaway if need be. We also had a grand view of the entire night¨
club, and as a result, of the guys from the `Stockyard', as I¨
called it. I noticed one in particular was more obnoxious, loud,¨
sexist, and macho than the rest of the bunch. Cracking bad jokes,¨
grabbing at women, you get the picture.

About this time, we went outside to smoke a joint. While standing¨
outside, under a car shelter overhang taking tokes off the joint,¨
Mr. Macho came out. He didn't see us; if he had, he wouldn't have¨
done what he did. He took a look around to see if anyone was¨
looking, and walked into the Alley Club. ``I wouldn't figure on¨
him being gay after his little act in the Top Hat'', I said.¨
``He's closet,'', my friend replied, If he's driving by with his¨
friends they'll throw bottles and cans at the place and anyone¨
standing in front, yell faggot or something and drive away, but¨
catch them alone, without their friends around and they'll go in¨
hoping to get laid quick.'' ``Are they really {\it that}¨
hypocritical?'' I asked. ``Just those that want to keep it hidden¨
from their friends, families, and themselves'' he replied,¨
``closet cases.'' For some reason I found this hypocrisy funny.¨
Here we had a man and even others that goes to all the other¨
bars, calls people faggots, maybe even beats them up if he and¨
his friends think they're gay, here he was, patronizing the bar¨
of the object of his and his friends' hatred. My friend informed¨
me that it wasn't limited to the Stockyard; other people who were¨
in the closet also used the surrounding bars as a way to go to¨
the Alley Club hoping no one would see them going into the faggot¨
bar. He also informed me that these people were usually¨
responsible for most of the homophobic attacks.

I called Rich Landinni, a local DJ in Missoula and a long time¨
friend, while I was preparing to write these words in front of¨
you. Rich, connected to the underground music and culture, knows¨
what's going on in Missoula most of the time. He told me that the¨
Alley Club had closed down. I didn't ask why, I should have, but¨
the thought of such a wonderful place going under was sad enough¨
already without knowing the reason why. It was a place that did¨
so much for me by just being there, probably other people too. It¨
helped heal the damage from the attack, it brought down my¨
homophobia to a pace where it could be talked about later. It was¨
sad to think that a place where people rejected from society¨
could gather in peace and have a good time regardless of race,¨
creed, sexual persuasion or lifestyle. I'll very much miss the¨
place. I have good memories, and I shall cherish them. I'll miss¨
the Alley Club for all it stood for, and who knows, maybe it will¨
open up again someday. Let's hope so.


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