Story 10: Without a trick, without a clue . . .

Without a Trick, Without a Clue – After Hours at the Marriott (1970)

Midnight sucked. At least on Saturdays. The year was 1970. The place was Atlanta. (Not “Hot’lanta” yet – not by a long shot.) And on Saturday, Atlanta bars closed at midnight. And that sucked. Especially for a gay boy.

You see, straights will drop into their local club not long after dinner or maybe after an early movie. Not gay boys. Our timetable was much different.

Around nine, we’d start figuring out a wardrobe. By nine-thirty, if we’d figured out what to wear, we’d take a shower. Then the hair. Oh, the hair. When I saw Saturday Night Fever, I knew John Travolta’s character, Tony Manero, was straight. The boy showered, tried on three different outfits and styled his hair to perfection in the time between getting home from work and sitting down to the family dinner table. And he went to the club right after dinner. Definitely straight behavior.

Ten-thirty was the earliest a conscientious gay boy would make the club scene and, even then, the crowd would be sparse, as the “action” didn’t begin until at least eleven. So you can see that a midnight bar closing could really cramp one’s cruising style. Considering that the club lights would come on full about fifteen minutes before closing, that left barely an hour to find a trick, at least to find one in subdued lighting. Trust me, the old country song that says, “the girls all look prettier at closing time,” does not apply to gay bars.
So what did a boy without a trick – and without a clue – do when midnight came around? He could go home. Home alone? On Saturday night?

He could go to an “after hours” club, a very illegal gathering in some very dangerous neighborhood, as long as he had money for drinks — and for bail.

Or he could go to the Marriott.

The Marriott Hotel in downtown Atlanta had a restaurant open late. I don’t know if it was open all night, but it was open after midnight, for several hours after midnight, and that was all that mattered. And what a sight it was after midnight.

By twelve-fifteen, every trick-less gay guy was there, ordering omelets or pancakes or coffee. Tables were put together to accommodate large groups of people, many of whom wouldn’t even speak to each other in the bars. So why were we so sociable there? There were a couple of reasons.

First of all, we were alone. Some of us were there because we’d failed to hear those four romantic words, “Your place or mine?” sometime earlier in the evening. Some tragic cases might have begun the evening with someone, but it had ended badly – so they ended up at the Marriott. Whatever the reason, we were alone. And we didn’t want to be. Not yet, at least.

Second, there were the queens. They were never alone, always ready to perform for any audience, anywhere, any time. They didn’t go to bars to find partners for the night; those they would find in “tea rooms” or street corners. They went to the bars – and to the Marriott – to be fabulous, even though we didn’t use that word yet in 1970. They called each other, “girl.” They called everyone “girl.” Everyone, that is, but the cute male servers and bus boys, although most of them were gay anyhow. (Gay male server is probably about as redundant as gay church organist.) We “butch” boys (not too butch to spend maybe an hour getting our hair to look right, though) never called each other “girl.” But that made no difference to the queens; we were “girls” nonetheless. The only “real men,” according to them, were the straight boys they would trick with in the stalls or in cars. “I’m going to find myself a man,” they would declare, to a room full of males. Males, yes, but not “real men.”

Don’t get me wrong. Some of them were wonderful people, even cherished friends, but they didn’t sleep with other gay guys. And we didn’t sleep with them. Well, to be truthful, sometimes we did. And we discovered just how butch they could be in bed. Which probably isn’t surprising, considering the number of “butch” boys who must have been raised by dog trainers, the ones who responded really well to the words, “roll over.”

After hours at the Marriott was a social time. While we did indeed cruise, we knew that our chances for a trick were slim to none. That also meant we weren’t competing with each other, something males – gay or straight – are really good at. And it was a public place, so we couldn’t be too open with our affections. But we could actually talk. We could “dish.” We could listen to some queen “read” another queen’s “beads.” “If that bitch comes near me again, I will read her beads!” And they often did.

I don’t remember much what we talked about, at least not specifically. I guess at those times in those places you’re not really supposed to say anything you’d remember later. We were just there to be together. We were just there not to be alone. We were there without a trick. We were there without a clue. We were at the Marriott after hours.

And we were together.