A Wasted Life. 3.6k adult. In the 40's the word "Gay" had a diffe (standard:drama, 9030 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 18 2020	Views/Reads: 1377/1002	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Teenage MaryLee has an awful secret. Her dreams are about women. One night, half-drunk, she makes a simple mistake that ruins her life. Running away only finds her more involved in the 40s gay lifestyle.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

homework done yet? I could really use a copy. I can't understand that x 
minus y add z stuff.” 

“I can teach you if you want?” 

“Na, this is the last of it. We go on to something else next week,”
MaryLee said. “I don't need it in real life anyway. Let me copy yours, 
okay?” 

“If you want, but make sure you screw a couple up so it don't look like
you copied.” Verna shrugged, glancing down the sidewalk. “Here comes 
Julie now.” 

As she saw her friend coming, MaryLee tried not to stare though still
noticing the way the girl walked, the set of her smile, and just 
waiting to see into her eyes. MaryLee shook her head to clear it; she 
was becoming excited. Not a good thing. 

“Hi, gang. Like the lipstick, MaryLee.” Julie plopped her butt down on
the steps. “What's keeping Janet? There's going to be a line if we 
don't hurry.” 

MaryLee sat close to Julie, imagining she could feel heat emanating from
the other's thigh. She longed to put her arm around the girl, but had 
to be careful. Fantasy was one thing but the “real world” was something 
else. In the year 1945, “gay” had different connotations, even the 
thought would be simply “queer”. Houses had many closets in those days, 
filled with perceived baggage; excess, useless, and unwanted by 
society.... 

*** 

In a lonely hotel room, MaryLee picks up the revolver ... once again.
She knows little of guns, except from movies and playing with cap 
pistols. It's heavy, a lot heavier than her cap guns were. She gives a 
thought to pulling the trigger, to see if it works or not. 

Na. If she does, someone might come in or the bullet thing might go
through the wall and hurt an innocent stranger. She has to remind 
herself that some people are still innocent.  At the very least, it 
will scare her -- maybe enough to change her mind. She has changed her 
mind too many times already. If she had only been able to be like other 
people? People without evil perverted secrets, herself stumbling into a 
dark abyss while they walked in blessed sunlight.... 

*** 

After graduation, MaryLee had taken a waitress job at a local
restaurant. She remembered the starched green uniform, skirt coming 
down to above her knees. Her mother hated to see her wearing it in 
public. She'd worn long socks and black shoes -- had to furnish her own 
shoes -- with a cute little square hat sporting the restaurant's logo 
pinned to her hair. 

She also recalled that cute little bastard of a white apron in the
front. It became dirty every ten minutes, and she'd only been issued 
three, meaning washing them by hand every night. And don't forget the 
sore feet and tired back and legs. Not a very nice job but the only one 
she could find in the small town of five-thousand people. 

The only jobs available to a recent high-school graduate were that type.
If you were very lucky, and a boy, you might get into the Ford Plant 
outside of town. The only women they hired there were for cleanup or 
office work. A Home Economics major in high-school, she had little 
choice. She'd never learned to type and the "Plant" only wanted older, 
more dependable, women for housecleaning. 

Even farm work was out, since the farmers brought their labor in from
Mexico. A Home Economics major was fit only to marry and keep house, 
raising more kids to repeat the disgusting process. At that time and 
place, unless your parents had money college wasn't even a dim dream. A 
life of drudgery was the norm. 

“Watch it, MaryLee. That guy, Sam, just came in and sat at one of your
tables.” Julie grimaced. 

At least her special friend had worked there too. It was the only thing
that made the job bearable. MaryLee still had the hots for Julie, but 
with age came understanding. Although the girl still filled MaryLee's 
midnight fantasies she had learned to be content with only a 
friendship. 

“Damn!” MaryLee groaned. “My butt's just now getting over his last
pinch.” Sighing and rolling her eyes at her friend, MaryLee went over 
to the new customers, offering menus which were refused by regulars. 

“What you guys want today?” She was careful to stay out of Sam's reach.
He always managed to sit next to the lane between table sections so 
that she had to go by him when delivering to the back tables -- luckily 
empty at the moment. 

“Gimme a hamburger steak dinner, extra fries, MaryLee honey,” Jerry gave
his order. 

“You want black coffee with that? Right, Jerry?” She wrote it down on
her pad. The girl had to use a special shorthand or the cook couldn't 
understand it. He was Mexican and didn't read much English. She looked 
out of the corner of her eye and could see Sam flexing his fingers, 
getting ready. 

“Yeah, you got it girl," Jerry replied as she turned to Sam. 

“And you?” she asked, pencil poised and trying to keep emotion out of
her voice. 

He smiled innocently and ordered. 

“Same, same.” Sam grinned at her, winking. “You know what I want for
dessert.” 

“You'll get dessert in your dreams. How about cherry pie, the only
cherries you're getting from me?” She'd remembered reading that line in 
a book. It caused Jerry to guffaw and Sam to turn red. Damn, they'd 
never heard it before? MaryLee shook her head in wonder. She went for 
the food. 

Luckily, nobody came in and sat at her back tables, which would
necessitate she pass by the horny bastard. She could use the money but 
could also forgo the pinch attempts. 

After Sam and Jerry left, she'd cleaned the table, readying it for the
next customer. MaryLee had found that it was better to hurry at that 
task. If customers sat in the front of her section, it saved her poor 
feet. If those tables were dirty, they'd go to the back ones. It was 
only a few steps, but they added up at the end of the day. 

“You want'a drink or two and go to the movie tonight?” Julie asked as
the two stood at the counter, folding napkins. “Freddy has the second 
shift tonight and doesn't get off until eleven.” Freddy was Julie's 
boyfriend, working at the Ford Plant. 

“Sure. What's playing?” MaryLee began filling salt shakers for the night
shift. 

“A good lineup. Two good ones. ‘White Heat' with Cagney and your
favorite, Virginia Mayo. And my heartthrob, Gregory Peck in ‘Twelve 
O'Clock High'.” Julie sighed. “He's dreamy.” 

“Count on it. I'll have to go home and change, though. I hate the walk.”


The small town had no buses or even taxis. MaryLee didn't care much for
the six-block walk home from work on sore legs. Then another 
eight-blocks to the only theater in town. 

“No problem. I have Freddy's car.” Julie laughed. “I told him he had to
ride to work with Clarence this week. That I can't do him any good at 
night if he don't.” 

Julie drove MaryLee home, she still lived with her parents, and waited
in the car as the other girl changed clothes. They then stopped at a 
bar, “Jim's Place.” It was right over the county line. They had a 
couple of drinks to relax from the day's labor. Julie stuck to her 
favorite screwdrivers while MaryLee drank four vodka martinis, double 
her usual thirst for them. She liked the martinis because they gave you 
a buzz without filling you up. 

They sat in a booth at the back of the barroom, a sign to regulars to
leave them alone. The girls drank and waited for the second series of 
movies to begin. It was better than getting there in the middle of a 
show. MaryLee looked up at a clock on the wall. 

“Hey, I forgot about the time. It's starting about now,” MaryLee blurted
out in mock panic. They gulped their drinks and hurried out. 

The two girls arrived at the theater ten minutes later, even finding a
place to park. The theater opened in the late afternoon for two 
showings of both films. 

The first movie had started about twenty minutes before. They could
still figure out what they had missed or ask someone in a seat near 
them. It was bad to get in after about halfway. By then, you were 
always behind in the plot and your neighbor wouldn't want to spend time 
explaining it. 

The two girls hurried into the auditorium and had to sit way in the
back. It was the first day for those films with a million people 
attending. In such a small town, before cheaper television, the theater 
was very popular. 

After the first show, there was an intermission of ten minutes while the
projectionist changed reels. It being Julie's turn to buy the goodies, 
MaryLee sat, watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon and thinking amorous 
thoughts about her friend.... 

* 

She daydreamed of waking in the middle of the night as Julie's head on
the pillow next to         her shifted, long brown hair sliding under 
MaryLee's nose, a delicious tickling sensation. Shifting forward, 
MaryLee pulled her companion's body closer, feeling heat from her 
paramour's bare breast as it pressed against her own stiffened nipples. 
Julie groaned slightly as MaryLee's hand stroked a thigh. 

“Mmmmm.” MaryLee bent to lick the other girl's neck, working her way
downward. Julie helped by raising her right arm, pressing forward as 
MaryLee's tongue flicked a nipple, the sweet taste of sweat.... 

* 

“My god, but that confection stand was busy, girl. I had to push and
shove to get waited on. And then, then a fat broad made me wait while 
her zillion kids decided what candy bars to buy.” 

Julie plopped down onto her seat, spilling popcorn onto her and
MaryLee's laps. “Sorry. Can't help it.” 

A little later, feeling the alcohol, also the heat from her friend next
to her, MaryLee reached for popcorn held on Julie's lap. Her hand 
missed and fell onto a bare leg. Julie had hitched her skirt up for 
some reason, maybe to hold the popcorn container -- who knows? 

Instead of pulling her hand away, MaryLee couldn't resist the urge to
let it stay there for a few seconds. Heart beating excitedly, she 
turned it and squeezed gently. Looking over out of the corner of her 
eye, she saw Julie staring straight ahead as though the actions were 
unnoticed. Did she dare? 

MaryLee moved her hand, tentatively, closer to a vital juncture. 

When there was still no movement, she continued slowly until she felt
the hem of Julie's panties. Nerves threatening to burst through her 
skin, MaryLee tried to, almost imperceptibly, edge a painted fingernail 
under cotton cloth – receiving a brief touch of pubic hair for her 
efforts. 

That was when all hell broke loose. 

“You fucking queer!” Julie screamed and jerked away, popcorn flying
wildly as she jumped up. Standing, her eyes glared down at MaryLee. 
“Fucking queer bitch.” Julie spat on the floor. 

Looking around at staring eyes, a theater full -- thousands of them --
MaryLee heard Julie scream, “What are you looking at me for? Look at 
the fucking queer bitch.” 

When MaryLee looked back, the other girl was already halfway down near
the exit, followed by pealing laughter. 

MaryLee didn't know what to do. Her mind wouldn't work right. She could
only crunch down in the seat, heart drumming wildly, threatening to 
burst through her chest. Eyes filling with tears couldn't see dim 
theater lighting. The laughter seemed to intensify like an African 
drumbeat, shaking the auditorium hard enough to be heard in heaven. 

After a while, the laughter and muttering quieted as the audience's
attention returned to the screen. She raised her head, wiping eyes on a 
sleeve to look around, seeing she now sat in a small island of 
emptiness, alone in the back of the theater. Nearby patrons had quietly 
moved away to find other seating. 

Not knowing what to do, she sat crying silently and trying to think
until the theater emptied at one in the morning. In disgrace, MaryLee 
crept home through late-night empty streets. Using her key to the back 
door, she crept quietly up to her room and cried herself to sleep.... 

*** 

MaryLee now sits, tearing eyes fixed on the revolver. The light from a
broken neon sign flashes green for envy, envy of others who were 
comfortably sitting at home, content with life and their sexuality. 
Then red, red for anger, anger at herself and God for making her "that" 
way. Also at society for not accepting her for what she was. Then it 
flashes white, not in her eyes that time; white for the purity she has 
lost or, condemned by God in heaven ... never had. 

The narrow white beam falls on the quivering revolver in her hand, now
turned facing her, and on the copper color of exposed bullets, tips 
showing inside the cylinder. 

MaryLee raises it to her face, barrel angled to shine down at dull metal
cylinders nestled comfortably inside. One time, in-between attempts, 
she had taken them out to shine with furniture polish, wanting to 
become intimate with each one. She'd been trying to discern a hint of 
personality in at least one of the copper-covered chunks of lead. But 
they'd only lain there lifelessly and identical -- impersonal lumps of 
lethal solutions to unsolvable problems. 

Gun shaking, she uses both sweating hands to lower it back to her lap.
She hasn't finished. She's promised herself to go over it one last 
time.... 

*** 

She had gotten ready for work the next morning, not knowing what else
she could do. She needed money to live and had no other options for 
work. Even in the early fifties, the $200 or so she had in the bank 
wouldn't take her very far. 

Maybe, just maybe, Julie would forgive her? She had known the other girl
forever and loved her almost as long. A life without Julie was 
unthinkable. Maybe things could go back like before? In her heart she 
realized it as a vain hope. By then all her friends would know. 

“MaryLee, a phone call for you. It's your boss at the restaurant,” her
father called upstairs. 

The girl had to hang onto the banister on her way down. Her legs
wouldn't work right. The handset was lying on a polished table below a 
wall-mounted telephone. MaryLee picked it up with a shaky hand and held 
it to her ear. 

“Mr. Jackson?” she asked, in a whisper. She leaned her forehead against
a cool papered wall next to the telephone and closed both eyes. 

“I called to tell you I'm sorry, but just don't come in. I'll mail you
your final check,” Mr. Jackson told her. “It's policy. We can't hire 
girls like you. It would drive away customers or get us the wrong kind. 
Sorry, MaryLee, but I have to think of our reputation.” 

“What about my uniforms, Mr. Jackson?" She sobbed into a cold shaking
mouthpiece. "I really need the job. Won't you reconsider?” 

“Sorry, I can't take the chance." And he did sound sorry. "Keep the
uniforms. I won't take them out of your final pay.” He hung up. 

Her life went rapidly downhill. As the word spread, she found she had no
real friends. Some were polite but found excuses to stay away and avoid 
her. A few were downright antagonistic. Former friends had parties 
without inviting her. People she didn't even know would seem to be 
muttering insults or staring at her on the street. Boys and men would 
openly leer and call out insults. 

Even her parents gave her strange looks. Whenever she was on the phone,
she could hear someone pick up another extension -- spying on her. She 
would hear her parents arguing in their room at night, not loud enough 
to make out words. It hadn't happened before, before she was found to 
be a queer. 

Of course she couldn't find another job. She knew better than to use Mr.
Jackson's name on a resume. And any personal reference she gave would 
be iffy. Even the teachers at the school would know by then. 

MaryLee realized she had to get out of town, but to where? It occurred
to her that after high-school Verna had left for college and then 
dropped out. She was still living in San Francisco, somewhere around 
there anyway. Maybe Verna would help her? It was worth a try. The girl 
had given MaryLee her phone number; it was around there somewhere. 

“Sure, come on down. I got me a couch and we can find you a job.” Verna
encouraged her. 

MaryLee bought a train ticket for the next day, to San Francisco. Verna
promised to be waiting for her at the station. 

“No. Absolutely not. You can't move that far away,” her mother had
tearfully objected. “We can't see you if you move there. Just wait it 
out. People forget those, you know ... those things. Everything will 
work out. You'll see.” 

“Maybe it's for the best, Phyllis.” Her father was more pragmatic. He
was getting into arguments defending MaryLee at his work. He was 
hearing his share of muttering -- as though her being a queer was his 
fault. What's more, maybe they were right? Maybe he should have been 
more strict? he thought. It must be from his wife's side of the family, 
though, he figured. After all, nobody on his side had that evil 
sickness. “I can loan you a few-hundred to help you get set up? You can 
pay it back later, when you find work.” 

*** 

When she left the train at a huge station in San Francisco, MaryLee was
immediately lost. She had never been inside such a huge room. The very 
ceiling looked to be ten-stories high. She had Verna's address and the 
girl said she would meet her there; but where, in such a large expanse, 
to even wait? How could you find anyone in that gigantic crowded 
terminal? 

MaryLee bought a hotdog and handful of chips for a dollar, the cost of
an entire meal back in her home town, and sat down on a wooden bench 
close to the entrance. 

She hoped Verna hadn't gotten the word about her being queer. Maybe she
could still start a new life, even without Julie? She had almost 
six-hundred dollars in her luggage, enough for at least six-months -- 
if she watched herself. She looked around, hoping nobody was going to 
steal what seemed to be a fortune. For the first time since the 
“incident”, as she waited it was with some hope. 

“Hey, stranger. Glad to see you.” Verna grabbed MaryLee from behind,
hugging her shoulders. “How you been doing?” 

“Not too well,” MaryLee told her friend, relieved in being found. “I
can't find decent work back home.” 

“Don't worry about it. We have a lot of jobs here.” 

They both grabbed MaryLee's bags and went out to Verna's car, a fairly
new Oldsmobile. 

“You seem to be doing all right,” MaryLee observed, leaning back in a
leather seat. She thought, this might not be too bad after all. 

The two drove to Verna's apartment in a large but cheap high-rise rental
building and parked in a crowded parking lot. 

“We're lucky, the elevator works today,” Verna told her, laughing. “Half
the time it doesn't. This is normally a safe building but sometimes kid 
gangs come in and break the elevator. That way they can rob people in 
the stairwells. We have a private guard but he doesn't carry a gun. He 
mostly postures around the lobby and gets out of the way when thieves 
show up,” Verna explained. “It's generally safe in the daytime though. 
Just watch going out to the parking lot alone at night -- or using the 
fire stairs, ever.” 

“Is the whole city that scary?” MaryLee had asked. 

“Na, not that bad ... just sometimes. Most of the time you're okay, only
you have to be a little careful.” 

“Do you keep in touch with the old crowd?” MaryLee asked, cautiously,
afraid to bring up the subject. 

“Not in several years,” Verna answered. “Unlike you, I wasn't very
popular there. The little fat girl. That was me. I used to envy your 
popularity, cheerleader and all that kid stuff.” 

“You're not fat anymore.” MaryLee laughed, lately an unusual reaction. 

“These days I walk and work off a lot of energy.” She also smiled. “Here
we is, girl.” 

They got off at her floor, the tenth. Verna opened the door to an
average-looking living room, consisting of scruffy mismatched 
furniture. The first thing MaryLee did was go to a window, wanting to 
see what things looked like from that high up. 

Cars looked like toys. In the distance were huge skyscrapers, making
even the tenth-floor seem like a midget height. Closer, she saw four 
other buildings that looked exactly the same as Verna's. 

“There are four more on the other side, all twelve stories.” Verna read
her thoughts. “You want a beer?” 

“Yeah, I could use one.” MaryLee sighed in relief. With any luck at all
she could begin a new life, even have a place to start from. “What do 
you do for a living, anyway?” she asked Verna for the second time. 

They sat at a kitchen table, Verna again ignoring the question. 

“It's really good to see you, MaryLee.” Verna smiled broadly. 

About that time, a man came out of another room. He was in his
underwear, the flap of his undershorts only half closed. 

“What the hell's going on here, woman?” He seemed angry. “Fix me
something to eat and get ready for work, and who's this? I don't need 
another woman right now. Three's ‘nough.” He laughed loudly. “Can't 
hardly handle that many.” 

“She's a school friend, Junior.” Verna seemed more embarrassed than the
man. “And maybe you should put some pants on?” 

“What the hell for? I don't think I've got anything a friend of yours
hasn't seen before.” Junior went over to the refrigerator and took a 
long swig of milk out of a glass bottle. He turned around, smiled at 
them both and, taking another drink, returned to the other room 
carrying the bottle with him. 

“I guess I better get ready. I work nights.” Verna stood. “Make yourself
at home, and don't mind Junior. He's really nice when you get to know 
him.” She hurried into the room with her boyfriend, shutting the door 
behind herself. 

Wondering, for the first time, what she had gotten into, MaryLee sat
alone at the kitchen table. A few minutes later, she heard arguing from 
the other room. Then a short scream and what sounded like a slap. A 
little later, when Verna came out, her right cheek was red. 

Verna showed her friend to a spare bedroom, not explaining her bruised
face -- the red color already fading. 

“I'll see you in the morning, honey. I really have to be getting to
work.” She reached down to hug MaryLee, then rushed out the door. 

A couple of hours later, while MaryLee sat alone in her room, not
wanting to run into Junior, she heard activity out in the living room, 
then the front door shutting. The girl had brought a novel with her and 
lay in the strange bed, reading, for awhile. She had to go out to find 
the bathroom, then returned and slept. 

For the next week or so, Verna and MaryLee had been left alone, Junior
not showing up. Verna still left in the evenings and avoided telling 
her friend where she was working. 

MaryLee had, of course, explored the apartment while her roommate was
gone, finding only a few items of men's clothing in the master bedroom. 
It looked as though Junior only stayed there part-time. She also found 
several firearms lying around, most in plain sight. Was Junior some 
kind of shady character? she wondered. 

She couldn't help being both excited and apprehensive at the prospect,
crime being almost unknown in her home town. Even a stolen bicycle was 
a newsworthy item back there. 

One night, while MaryLee sat in the living room, tired from job hunting,
the front door opened and the man called Junior walked in like he owned 
the place. He'd been all smiles as he walked from room to room, then 
came up behind her. Heart beating fast, she'd sat frozen in place, not 
knowing how to react. 

He'd placed his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them, first gently,
then with controlled force. She had to admit it felt good, like a 
massage must feel. 

“How's that, baby? Feel good? Sorry we got off on the wrong foot
before.” He did sound sorry, coming around to sit across from her, 
backwards on a straight chair he pulled up. He smiled, transferring his 
hands to her right foot, which was up on a footstool. Again he showed 
his knowledge as a masseur. 

“Look, I'm in a bind, see? One of my girls quit -- just disappeared. Can
you figure? Another's in the can for thirty-days, fifth violation.” He 
grinned, boyishly. “I hear you're looking for work, and thought of you. 
We could both benefit. What do you say?” He'd switched to her left 
foot. “You're fresh. You can make a lot of money and it's easy work?” 

MaryLee was naive, but even she could get his meaning. She jerked her
feet down and sat up straight. “You mean as a pros--prostitute, don't 
you?” She blurted out, “No, no way. I've never done any a those things 
with a man, and never will. Those nasty things.” She crossed her arms 
over her chest, shaking her head emphatically. “No way. I couldn't do 
it.” 

“What the hell you mean, 'those NASTY things'?” He sat back in surprise.
“You a fucking queer?” 

“I don... I don't know,” she said, wide eyes staring into his. “No.
Leave me alone, please.” 

“I've got a queer living in my house?” He was instantly angry. “In MY
fucking house, a queer bitch? Is Verna turnin' queer too?” He'd reached 
over and grabbed her knee, clasping hard as his anger built. “Tell me 
the truth, QUEER. Is Verna one of you bastard's too?” 

“Let me alone. Let go!” she screamed, shoving her back against the couch
and trying to kick his hands away, to stand and defend herself. 

“Fucking queer bitch.” He bounced to his feet, thrusting both hands out
to slam MaryLee and the couch both over backwards. She landed on her 
back and left shoulder, head bouncing and legs in the air, looking up 
and across at his angry face. “Trying to infect MY girls with your 
fucking disease.” 

Straight chair clattering into a table, Junior stormed around the
furniture, red-faced and arms extended. She could see spittle flying as 
he cursed her. 

Quickly scrambling to her knees, MaryLee scurried for the nearest open
doorway, Verna's bedroom. She could feel the force of him hitting it, 
even as she slammed the thin door shut behind herself. MaryLee managed 
to lock it, surprised she found the strength. 

“Open up, cunt eater.” He hit the door again, bouncing her back an inch
as the wood bent. Ignoring the pain, she pressed her sore back against 
its surface again, bracing both legs against a dresser and looking 
around. 

Her eyes fell on a large revolver lying on the dresser. MaryLee took a
deep breath, trying to get her breathing under control. It had all 
happened so damned fast. One second, he was massaging her left foot, 
the next calling her names and beating her. 

She lurched away from the door, toward the dresser, the gun, and its
perceived succor. Falling across the furniture, one hand finding the 
revolver, she fell to the floor with the unfamiliar weapon clutched 
awkwardly in both hands. Panting, heart beating wildly and pain 
shooting up from her knees, she saw the door burst open, slamming 
loudly against a wall. 

Junior stormed inside, stopping to look around. He saw her sitting on
the floor and started at her – jerking upright when he saw the 
revolver. 

“Whoooa.” He slid to a halt, upper-body lurching forward a few inches.
His hands fell to his sides. “Hey, don't shoot. Put it down and let's 
talk this over,” he stammered. 

MaryLee looked up at him, pulling the hammer back. She had seen enough
movies to know how to shoot a revolver. John Wayne always pulled the 
hammer back first. Two loud clicks resounded in the quiet room. 

“G -- Get out of here,” she commanded in a low shaking voice, then
screamed, “Now! Get the hell out'a here.” 

“Yeah, sure. Don't shoot.” Junior backed away slowly, not wanting to
further alarm her. He had faced weapons several times before, once from 
a woman. The woman had shot him in the leg, so he was especially leery 
of them holding firearms. “I'm gone already.” He backed out of the 
room. A few moments later, she heard the front door slam. 

It took MaryLee a long time before she could get her mind, then body, to
respond. Finally, getting to unsteady legs, she went out and searched 
the apartment, gun in hand, to make certain he had really left. Only 
then did she feel safe enough to sit down, placing her savior on the 
table next to her chair. That's what she would call it later, her 
"Savior." 

*** 

Now she sits alone in a cheap hotel, holding her Savior. Feeling its
slick cool surface. A surface with many small ridges and protrusions. 
It still feels smooth and businesslike, promising -- what? Salvation or 
eternal damnation? According to religion or according to reality? Or 
was religion reality, or reality religion? It is all so confusing in 
her drunken mind. If there is a god, really a god, would life be the 
way it is? 

All she's ever wanted was to love and to be loved in return. She still
loves Julie, with an unbridled passion ... and she also loves Betty, 
but both have forsaken her. A funny word ... “forsaken means to leave 
someone who needs or counts on you; leave in the lurch.” She has 
memorized the dictionary definition. You do memorize the meanings of 
words that are so important to your life. And they have all for – 
forsaken her, even her parents. 

In a real sense, she dimly realizes, it wasn't Julie's fault. Julie's
attitude, as well as her own, were the products of their upbringing. 
Like any animal, we follow our instincts, some from birth, some learned 
at home -- like her father who has also forsaked -- or forsooked? -- 
her. And then there is her mother, who still professes to love her -- 
but can't help but be embarrassed. 

And then Betty, who took MaryLee's money, along with what remained of
her pride and humanity. 

Pressing the cool barrel to her forehead to see how it feels, MaryLee
continues to go over her life.... 

*** 

She was still sitting there in the high apartment the next morning when
Verna returned. She could tell that Verna had seen Junior. The woman's 
clothing was torn with both eyes blackened and downcast as she came in 
the door. 

“You have to leave, MaryLee,” Verna told her immediately. “It's Junior's
apartment, all of them are, and he said you attacked him. You have to 
leave today.” Verna tried to look up into MaryLee's face but couldn't 
seem to get her head up that high. 

Finally, crying, she ran over and hugged her friend. After they both
stopped their tears, Verna explained. 

“I'm a prostitute and Junior's my manager. He has us set up in
apartments all over town,” Verna forced out between sobs. “I love the 
man, but he's angry and has only one girl left right now -- me.” She 
continued after a minute, “He said you attacked him, but I know better. 
He's not very faithful. You still have to leave, though. He pays the 
rent.” 

“Why don't you leave him?” MaryLee asked. 

“Be – Because I love him,” Verna stammered, “and he loves me. I can
usually control him, but he has this bad temper, you see?” 

“No! I can't see it. I can't see it at all. He would have killed me.”
MaryLee was angry, at herself and at the senselessness of life. 

She packed her things. Still afraid of Junior, she took the revolver
with her. She sat silently as an equally quiet Verna drove her to a 
cheap hotel. The girl didn't notice the name, it wasn't important, but 
the red and green sign was broken in several places. 

After she'd paid a month's rent and deposit, MaryLee was down to
three-hundred dollars. Her room was cheaper by the month and she had 
been assured she could get part of her money back with a week's notice 
if she moved out early. 

Still worked up and depressed, she stayed in her room for the first few
days and nights, too uncertain of herself to even look for work. A 
liquor store down the street provided liquid solace. A few days later, 
wanting to talk to someone, anyone, she was more than half drunk when 
she called her folks from the hotel lobby. 

“Ello,” her mother answered, “who is it?” 

“It's me, Ma,” MaryLee whispered. “How are things going there? I -- I
miss you, Ma.” She sniffled, taking another drink of straight vodka 
from a Dixie cup and feeling guilty, as though her mother could see her 
standing there drownking', drinking. She giggled at the slip. 

“MaryLee, honey. The question is, how are you?” The girl noticed her
mother's voice dropping in volume. She could hear her father, in the 
distance, asking who it was. Her mother must have covered the 
mouthpiece, because she could barely hear the answer, that it was 
MaryLee. 

Her mother's hand must have moved, because MaryLee could catch a few
words clearly, “as long as she doesn't come ba–,” was what the girl 
heard, then incoherent talking back and forth as the mouthpiece was 
covered again. 

“Your father said he can't come to the phone right now, dear,” her
mother told her. “We can send you a few more dollars though, if you 
give me your address?” 

“Can't I come home Ma?” 

“Uh ... I don't think that's a good idea right now, dear. Your father
almost got fired for fighting with another worker over you, and the 
girls still bring it up at the beauty parlor. Maybe you should stay 
away for a while, until they forget?” 

“You don't want me anymore, do you?” she screamed into the telephone.
Until her mistake with Julie, they had been a close-knit family. For 
god's sake, it was only one little mistake. 

“Of course we love you, honey. It's just, it's just that it would be
better, that's all, if you stay away for just a little while longer.” 

MaryLee slammed the receiver into its slot. Nobody saw, or at least
seemed to notice her as she covered the black box with tears, leaning 
against the wall and hugging the cool metal casing. As for the hotel 
telephone itself, it had been polished by a good many such tears in the 
past. 

Since she was already half-drunk, still wanted companionship and didn't
feel like going back up to the lonely room, MaryLee staggered drunkenly 
to the lobby, wiping her eyes on a sleeve as she did. 

*** 

Outside the hotel, the night air was chilly with a slight hint of
Oriental cooking from a restaurant next door. Leaning against a pole, 
she hailed a passing taxi. 

“Take me to a good cheap bar,” she instructed the woman driver. 

“What kindaya' want?” the driver asked. “We got us all kinds in this
town. Country, piano, dark and damp, queers only, cocktail where you 
can't get any beer, and beer where you can't get any cocktails. Take 
your pick, honey.” 

“How about the queer one?” MaryLee made a decision. 

“You ain't gonna like it unless you are one.” 

“I are, I mean am, one.” It was the first time she had admitted it, even
to herself. Sure, the world knew she was queer, but it was the first 
time she thought of herself as “one of them people.” 

*** 

MaryLee paid the driver and turned around, to see a normal-looking door
in a long line of closed small businesses, a bare yellowish bulb over 
the door was lit but no sign near it. Nothing but a blank storefront, 
picture-window painted over with black paint. 

“It's there, lady," the taxi driver called to her. "The door on your
right. Knock. I'll wait until you get inside. Okay? This is no place 
for a woman to stand alone on the sidewalk.” 

MaryLee walked over and raised her hand. Steeling herself, she rapped on
the door. She couldn't hear anything inside. A few seconds later, a 
circular peep-hole opened and she could see an eye. It looked both 
ways, then back at her, and the door opened. 

A very large burly woman stood inside, motioning her in then locking the
door behind her. It was still and quiet in a dark hallway, a very-dim 
bulb hanging from a high ceiling. The small enclosure smelled of paint, 
piss, and cigarette smoke. 

“Through that other door, baby." The woman looked her up and down,
smiling. 

Her gaze made MaryLee feel naked, the way the woman seemed to mentally
undress her. 

“Thanks, ma'am,” MaryLee replied, moving toward the other door. 

“Hey. Anytime, lovebug. Anytime at all.” 

MaryLee shivered inwardly, then opened the second door, a much heavier
one, and was hit by a wall of almost solid music. She recognized it as 
Kay Starr singing “I'll never be free,” which sounded appropriate to 
her. 

The storefront room contained a half-dozen small tables, a few
mismatched booths, and a bar against one end of the room. The lighting 
was dim. She could see nothing but other women inside, no men at all, 
which suited MaryLee perfectly. 

She bought a drink of her new favorite, straight vodka, and took it to
an empty table while enjoying the implied companionship of other women. 
After Junior, it was nice to feel safe and still be with company. 

“Hi, you new?” MaryLee looked up to see a nice-looking blond woman,
looking something like an older version of her former friend, Julie, 
looking down at her. 

“Yeah, my first time here. My first time anywhere at all.” 

“You know this is a queer bar, don't you?” the woman said, sitting down
across from MaryLee. “If it embarrasses you, you should leave. We don't 
want any trouble here. The cops would love to haul us all in.” 

“I guess I'm one too.” 

“Guess? You shouldn't have to guess, honey. You is or you ain't.” 

“I'm not sure ... but I think so. I've only had one real love -- and it
was a girl.” 

“Well, that'll do it honey. That'll just do it.” She reached over to
cover MaryLee's left hand with her own. “My name's Betty, Betty Adams. 
What's yours?” 

“Uh ... MaryLee.” She looked around the room, taking a sip of vodka. “Is
it always this loud and peaceful in here?” 

“Always. And we don't take any shit here. You should see Marilyn in
action. You've seen her at the door? If a man tries to sneak in, she 
goes into Hydromatic Drive. Has some kind of belt -- black, green or 
something in some kinda fighting. She loves to kick male ass.” Betty 
burst out laughing at a memory. 

“I bet she does. She's one big girl.” MaryLee had to laugh too. 

By the time MaryLee blanked out from drinking, she had hit it off well
with Betty and wasn't all that surprised to wake up in bed with her the 
next morning. It must have been her first real homosexual experience, 
she thought, and she didn't even remember it. 

Betty rolled over, cupping MaryLee's naked breast. 

“That was your first time, wasn't it?” she whispered into her
companion's ear, tongue probing. 

“Uh, huh.” Turning her head to look into her lover's eyes. 

“I mean first time, period. I felt your cherry.” 

“Yes, it – it was. My first time, and I don't even remember.” MaryLee's
eyes had gotten misty. 

“Well ... then you'll remember this one. Going downstairs, baby,” Betty
said, holding her nose while sliding toward the foot of the bed, 
“guaranteeeeeed,” ending with a muffled snort. 

*** 

“Damn. Damn,” Betty bitched. She had just gotten off the telephone from
talking to her landlord. “He won't give me more time on the rent. The 
bastard said, ‘by tomorrow or get out.' I don't know what I'll do. My 
ex is behind on alimony.” 

“Uh, well, how much is it?” MaryLee had to ask. They had just finished a
meager breakfast of cold cereal and canned evaporated milk. The 
cupboard and icebox at Betty's house was almost empty. She had been 
spending all her money on drinking and partying. 

“Fifty dollars. Half a month's alimony when the bastard even bothers to
pay.” 

“I'll loan it to you. I have some money.” 

“Oh, would you, baby? I'd really appreciate it. I'll pay you back when
the asshole comes through.” 

MaryLee not only paid the rent but filled the icebox and cupboards with
food, costing her almost seventy-eight dollars in all. It brought her 
stake down to a little over two-hundred dollars -- with none coming in. 


After that telephone call to her mother, she didn't want to have
anything to do with borrowing money from her family, and still didn't 
have a job or any prospects. 

Betty wanted her to move in, but MaryLee, after being thrown out of both
her parents' home and Verna's -- both in less than a month -- didn't 
want to give up her hotel room. It was something to fall back on if 
anything else happened. And it was pre-paid for a month. 

She did spend most of her time at Betty's and found the older woman very
dominant and possessive. She dragged the youngster to all the 
homosexual night spots, showing MaryLee off to her friends. Of course, 
since Betty had no money of her own, MaryLee often had to pay. At 
twenty-five-cents a drink, it added up. 

MaryLee was usually either too hungover in the mornings to look for
work, or involved with her lover. The days flew by, one after the 
other, in a drunken orgy. It was fun while it lasted but when MaryLee 
realized her financial status and tried to budget, Betty only became 
angry. 

“Look, honey. I know how we can get us some money. It might even be fun
for you. I have a few special friends that will pay for a little 
loving,” she told MaryLee. “It's what I do when I'm strapped for the 
long green. They're not very good looking and some of them are pretty 
old but if you drink enough you hardly notice.” 

With her money running out, MaryLee had to do something. Betty and her
began making the rounds, prostituting themselves with older women. 
Many, or most, were married but enjoyed an occasional homosexual 
experience. 

That activity brought in enough to live on. Betty loved her partying,
though, and the money flew out as quickly as it was earned. Being 
young, it took a while, but MaryLee became tired of the constant 
drinking and party rounds. 

“Look what Tammy gave me, baby.” Betty showed MaryLee a handful of
colorful pills. “One of her boyfriends stole them someplace. Come on. 
Let's get some beers and try the damned things out.” 

They were in a loud Country and Western bar at the time, live musicians
blasting away. At that moment singing about feeding their pigs 
corn-silk or something. Both of the women already high, MaryLee didn't 
give it a thought. She gulped down three or four of the pills. 

The next days were a blur. She would come to her senses occasionally,
finding herself in the strangest places and with the strangest 
sensations. The girl remembered being with both men and women, 
sometimes in multiple situations -- never coming down from her 
pill-induced high. Drink and more pills kept her senseless for endless 
days at a time. 

*** 

“Come on, honey ... MaryLee?” a familiar voice woke her. 

Someone shook her out of a deep dream -- one where she'd been floating
in a sea of dead baby seals. 

“Wha – what. Oh, what's up?” She saw Betty's face, inches from her own.
Shaking her head and bouncing it against the pillow, MaryLee cleared 
her vision. “Where are we?” 

She sat up with the other woman's help and saw two men, one lying next
to her on a bed and another on the floor. All four of them were naked, 
but the man on the floor had blood visibly spurting from his neck, a 
butcher knife lying on the floor next to him. 

“What did you do?” MaryLee tried to jump up, but was too dizzy to stand.
“Did you kill him?” 

“You did. Last night,” Betty told her. If she had her facilities, even
MaryLee would have realized that blood didn't spurt all night long. But 
MaryLee didn't retain any reasoning powers at the time. 

“You must have done it last night, baby,” Betty insisted. “I came in
just now and saw him lying there. You were passed out across him with 
the knife in your hand. I didn't know what to do, so I put you back to 
bed. 

"We have to get out of here before the other one wakes up. Come on,
hurry up.” She held MaryLee upright to keep her from falling. 

They dressed hurriedly and left the strange apartment, closing the door
quietly behind themselves and leaving the other man to find the body 
when he woke. Hurrying down the stairs and into the street, they waited 
for a few moments, in silence, MaryLee by then being able to stand by 
herself. 

“What are we going to do?” MaryLee was frightened by the thought that
she had killed someone. 

“We better split up. I don't want to get involved,” Betty told her,
scowling. “Why did you do it, baby? Did he beat you or something? I 
wasn't there. I was in the other bedroom with Helen. She'll tell them 
that,” Betty lied. 

“You mean I can't come home with you?” MaryLee was horrified at the
thoughts of hiding out from the police and being by herself again. 
“Please, Betty. I need someone ... someone. Please?” 

“It wouldn't work. It just wouldn't work out. Goodbye, baby.” She hugged
MaryLee, kissed her cheek, then walked rapidly away, leaving the mixed 
up young woman standing alone in the rising sunlight. 

Still in a daze, MaryLee made it back to the only place she had left --
the hotel room. 

*** 

Expecting the police to arrive at any moment, she can think of no one to
help her. Still coming down off the strange pills and alcohol, she 
can't think straight. Her body is shaking with withdrawal and fear as 
she fondles her only real friend ... her Savior. 

There is no way for her to know that Betty has already been picked up by
the police and confessed to the knifing. No way to know, or realize, 
that her father has changed his mind and her parents are eagerly 
awaiting her next call -- to bring her back home. No way to know Verna 
has broken up with Junior and would have taken her back in. No way to 
know that Julie now has strong guilt feelings for spreading the word of 
MaryLee's supposed affliction. 

The only thing MaryLee has to fall back on is the revolver. Her Savior
with its cool shiny cartridges. The copper-coated tips that promise 
relief from a wasted and useless young life. 

“Click!” She can feel the sound through the length of the cold barrel as
it presses into her forehead, see the end of the cylinder move into 
position. MaryLee is familiar with each shiny cartridge, having cried 
over each one individually. 

“Click!” The hammer stops at its apex, cylinder now in position. Like a
soldier, it's ready to perform the action it had been designed for so 
many years before. Just a little more pressure and no more troubles, at 
peace with her god. 

The blast reverberates along empty corridors. 

A few drunks stir in their sleep. 

Two lovers pause, in mid-stroke, to listen for a few moments before
resuming an act designed to begin a life, hardly noting the cessation 
of another. 

A desk clerk downstairs also pauses. It being such a routine noise in
that neighborhood, he yawns and returns to his comic book. 

The End. 

This is loosely based on a true story. I once had a cousin, about ten
years older than myself. In the late forties or early fifties, she shot 
herself. She was different in a time where the word "gay" had another 
meaning, and long before it was even partially accepted. Her -- our, I 
must include myself -- family disowned her, forcing her to fend for 
herself among constant derision. In later life I don't remember hearing 
her name on any occasion, or seeing her photo. It's something our 
family doesn't talk about. 

It was a time when and where a local business owner was sent to prison
for selling what's now called "soft core" pornography.  Mr Hefner a 
toddler, there were no such things as mens' magazines. A time when men 
were fined for cursing in front of a woman in public. The only sexual 
position allowed by law in Ohio was the missionary position, others 
were unlawful and could -- sometimes did -- get you time in jail. Even 
the word "sex" was rarely heard on the radio or seen in print. Just 
about the worse crime in the land was to have an affair with someone of 
a different race. 

Every once in a while, especially when I read about something like a
"Gay Pride March" or the like, I think of her. With the age disparity, 
I barely knew her. We rarely or never played together. But I think I've 
grown to know her in the intervening years, or at least many like her.


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