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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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