Story 6: About that bar raid . . .

It’s a good thing my Camaro’s interior was red . . . (February 1970)

In another six months, it’d be different. Hell, in another six months, I’d be different.

It would be a hot Saturday night in August. The crowd would be huge, the deejay’s music would be loud, and that funny thing we’d later come to know as a disco ball would be spinning, I - and every gay guy within miles of Atlanta - would be partying at the Sweet Gum Head.

But it wasn’t six months from now. It was a cold Saturday night in February. The crowd was small, the music came from a jukebox, and the only flashing light came from the neon beer signs. I - and several gay guys from Midtown - were partying at the Joy Lounge.

Gay Atlanta in February 1970 offered two alternatives. There was Mrs. P’s, a fairly decent restaurant open late to serve a hungry and cruisy crowd. Or rather a hungry and cruising crowd. But it was just a restaurant, not a bar, not club, not a real party place.

The other alternative was just a short walk east on Ponce De Leon. The Joy Lounge occupied the first floor of a large house, one that had once had been home to a wealthy family when Ponce De Leon was a boulevard of old Southern wealth and not a commercial strip leading to Decatur. It was owned, so I understood, by two lesbians, one of whom usually tended bar. It’s front room had a few tables and some old living room furniture, while it’s back room held the bar, some booths, a few tables and space for dancing near the jukebox.

That’s what made the Joy Lounge special. The dance floor. A place where guys could dance with other guys. (There were rarely any female customers; where lesbians went to dance with each other, I have no clue.)

Yes, the dance floor was the Joy Lounge’s drawing card for us gay boys. And the dance floor was the Joy Lounge’s drawing card for the not-so-gay boys in blue. You see, the Joy Lounge didn’t have a permit for dancing. Without a permit, dancing wasn’t legal at the Joy Lounge. And boys dancing with other boys wasn’t legal even with a permit.

So the owners made a deal - a financial deal - with the local police. Money changed hands, apparently, and it was agreed that “Lily Law” wouldn’t invade the premises unannounced. (They were required to make periodic inspections but, with advance warning, the tables could be moved to fill the dance floor space.)

It was a satisfactory deal for all, until that night in February when the deal apparently fell through.

I’d almost not gone out that night. I was tired from work and I’d already tricked twice that week. Tomorrow was a day off and I could sleep in. Atlanta bars had to close at midnight on Saturdays anyhow. I could just stay in, lay back on my shag covered couch - everything was shag then - and listen to Simon and Garfunkel. But as Paul Simon sang, “I am a rock, I am an island,” I felt vaguely nauseous at the thought of a Saturday night alone. It was about nine, enough time to do the typical gay boy primping and arrive at the club at a decent time.

I parked my white ‘67 Camaro in the gravel parking lot adjacent to the Joy Lounge and found the crowd surprisingly festive; there were even some fresh faces, ones I hadn’t tricked or tried to trick with. In a little over a month since that first night, the night my first pickup line had begun a volatile three-week relationship with Danny, I’d become a familiar face in the Joy Lounge crowd, but a face that still seemed fresh enough to attract other fresh faces. I’d even made some friends. Even Danny, no longer a lover, was still a friend and I got to meet his friends, many of whom were apparently his former lovers also. But remember that this was a different time, time in which, if you gathered a dozen gay guys in one room, you’d discover that most of them had slept with each of the others.

So I sat with my friends, drank with my friends, and danced with my friends. For a while, all was well with my Saturday night world. I’d likely go home alone, but it would be my choice. I did go home alone, but it wasn’t my choice.

My departure was the result of another arrival, the arrival of Atlanta’s finest.

What happened next took only seconds, but I lived a lifetime during them.

The cops had come to the front entrance, as the Joy Lounge had no apparent back entrance, at least none I was aware of. Until that night. I was dancing with some fresh face when I heard a commotion and cries of “Raid! Raid! It’s Lily Law!”

Did I panic? Sure I panicked. But just when my mind was racing to scenarios of calling home to upstate New York to ask for bail money, someone’s arm grabbed mine and said, “This way!” I was hustled behind a black curtain that formed the bar’s backdrop and, sure enough, the Joy Lounge had a back entrance.

As it had only been three years since I was on my college’s cross country team, I made it across the gravel parking lot really fast. Too fast. I slipped, I fell, I got up and ran. I cranked that white Camaro, peeled out the parking lot not even bothering to look back or look for police cars, headed down Ponce De Leon to Highland to North Morningside to my apartment.

Once in parking place, assured I hadn’t been followed, I began breathing again. I shut of the engine and grabbed the shifter to put the car in gear. And I felt something wet and sticky. Turning on the dome light, I could see the shifter. And the steering wheel. And my hands. All covered in blood. Then I remembered my fall in the gravel parking lot. I’d driven all the way down Ponce De Leon, all the way up Highland and onto North Morningside with my hands bleeding. For a moment, I panicked again, but only for a moment.

After all, I was in my apartment parking lot. I wasn’t in jail. I could go wash my hands and the cuts would heal. And I was thankful my Camaro’s interior was red.