Any Summer Sunday at Nacho Mama’s Patio Cafe: Drag, Songs, Friends, Laughs, Lies, Swindles & Redemption Steve Schatz Any Summer Sunday Books, Bloomington, IN Copyright © 2019 Steven Schatz Bloomington, IN Tia’s songs Copyright © 2019 Michael Mullen SF, CA used by permission All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You may, of course, imitate portions during conversations with friends and those you are trying to impress. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and should be ultimately ignored. It will probably be better for us all if you burned this copy right away. For information contact : Any Summer Sunday, PO Box 3306, Bloomington, IN 47402 www.AnySummerSunday.com [email protected] For Orders: Please contact [email protected] Cover Design – Sharon | Bruno Design LLC (www.sbrunodesign.com) Editor – Silvia|Silvia's Reading Corner (www.silviasreading.webs.com) ISBN Paperback 13: 978-1-7339558-0-5; Epub - 978-1- 7339558-1-2; Kindle - 978-1-7339558-2-9 Audiobook available from AnySummerSunday.com M a g a w a t t a , I n d i a n a 2 0 0 7 Chapter 1 Summertime ... You Know How the Livin’ Is The day TiaRa del Fuego announced that she was leaving Magawatta and that this was to be her last show did not dawn with signs of foreboding. No three-legged lions appeared to warn of impending loss. No ghosts walked. Thunder and lightning did not roil the skies. All signs pointed to a quiet, dull Indiana summer Sunday as usual, full of the mundane washing, shopping, small advances in decorating projects that had been creeping toward completion for decades, and the luxury of a nap on a hot, sticky afternoon, wafted cool with a box fan that could evolve into naked native boys waving palm fronds in the close of an eye and an edging toward dreamland. However, it seemed that some deity woke up bored and bitchy that day, irritated by the prospect of endless hosannas and help me’s, and looked down upon our small university town, so calm after the retreating tide of students, and decided to stir up an anthill for fun. My friends and I were drafted, unasked and unprepared, to provide the entertainment. We do not mind being middle-aged gay men in a small Indiana town, but the reasons are not always obvious. Friends provide one reason. Our Sunday confabs for TiaRa’s Parade of Gowns drag show at Hoosier Daddy’s Drink and Dance Emporium provides another. Hoosier Daddy’s is best viewed in semi-darkness through the screen of a drink or five. Calling it seedy is a kindness. Daddy’s was opened decades ago when some fruity entrepreneur had a vision—probably 2 Any Summer Sunday at Nacho Mama’s Patio Cafe aided by the glimmer of a powder designed to rectify an over-supply of cash—of creating the great magnet for imagined hordes of Papa Bears and leather men lurking throughout Indiana's interior. It was and remains a simple affair. Anonymous glass doors from the street open to a small, dark foyer and a small doorway, which can be blocked by a large bouncer if a performance rates a cover charge, or should marauding college boys bent on proving how straight they are by going to a gay bar and calling attention to themselves rate an assault charge. Passing through the door, a long, narrow bar—more corridor than a destination—proffers stools for those too timid or looped to venture into the cavernous meat-market beyond. At the end of the bar, turning right, through double doors and a set of heavy curtains, allows entry to the patio. Most continue through to the main dance-a-teria, an inglorious space built for function over form. Painted black, corners disappear into gloom and sound proofing, its purpose is to contain the pulsating cyclone of pheromones, leers and lust spasmodically jerking to an unending, undulating, beat-laden blast, so that the local citizenry can pass by, unaware of the decadancing contained within. The walls originally adorned with a random assortment of objay de ouch, are now empty and black, except for an occasional spray of glow-in-the-dark paint and thin shelves with high lips to prevent or at least, reduce drink spills. The wide expanse of slightly sticky floor allows dancing, stalking rituals, small clusters of imbibers trying to scream conversations above the music, and wall flowers trying to look interested, thoughtful, or at least, not uncomfortable while swaying to the pounding beat. At the far end of the room, a small, raised stage allowed a D.J. in a cage, surrounded by disks and platters, knobs, dials, and lights, to control the brain churning, bass heavy pulsations. By locking the cage, expensive equipment was protected from spills and nimble fingers, and the stage could offer Summertime ... You Know how the Livin Is 3 its siren song to extroverts of all ilks. From its founding, Daddy’s was unassuming, unlovely, and for many years, unsuccessful. When it was first opened, the original dreamers quickly discovered that Magawatta was a severe cultural oasis surrounded by miles of wasteland, barren of thought or interesting activities and once one wandered out into the backwater of Indiana’s unholy hinterland, there were far fewer bears in them thar woods than imagined, so the business languished. After years of slow decay, new owners bought the bar for a song, took down the slings and errors of outrageous misfortunes, and sought a more eclectic crowd—adding karaoke one night a week for those who had managed to completely drink away any vestige of self-respect, a disco tea dance on Sunday afternoons, and drag shows with singing by real men in real dresses on Wednesday and Sunday nights. In that form, with rare infusions of repairs or improvements, the bar has continued to draw a large enough crowd of regulars to, if not flourish, at least remain open. In addition to opening the demographic, they also opened their patio, turning it into a restaurant. With a small investment, they added a sancto-sanctorum. While turning right at the end of the bar and entering the patio was, for the patron, a mere step through a set of curtains; in the eyes of the accountants, the traveler had crossed into a completely different legal entity. The owners reasoned that a bit of food might bring in more customers and encourage drinkers who had reached their useful limit not to leave, but to sit outside and add something solid to the mix in their stomachs, enabling a return to the bar for another go at the bottled beast. By building the restaurant on the cheap and leasing it to someone else, the owners got the benefits of fine dining without the risk, hassles, or expense of running the operation. If it was successful, they would collect a percentage. If it failed, there was always another small-time operator with stars in their eyes ready to 4 Any Summer Sunday at Nacho Mama’s Patio Cafe take a stab at the big time—if one could call a patio cafe that could only be accessed by walking through a gay bar, which could only be accessed by walking through a small, Indiana town, the big time. However, they struck gold the first time out, leasing it to Nacho Mama, a colorful character of uncertain gender and a penchant for muumuus and cigars, whose place and persona became an instant institution in Magawatta. Inside the bar, the code of conduct was set by the owners, but once you stepped through the curtains and onto the patio, you were in Nacho Mama’s domain and only the foolish forgot that even once. No one forgot it twice. The bar had changed. The clientele had changed. Only the name remained. Hoosier Daddy was a name that could not be improved upon, and so it stayed. The cafe on the patio was a gathering of round wooden picnic-like tables, umbrellas, and a diverse and challenging collection of chairs. It offered fish and chips, small, uninspired sandwiches, and an escape from the heat, noise, and crush inside. However, the raison d’etre of the cafe and the only thing that the initiated ever ordered, were its nachos—a baked and bedecked wonder of chips, cheese, perfect beans, guacamole from heaven, and a salsa given to mankind as a special gift from all that is good in the universe. A single appellation named the cafe, the meal, and the muumuu- draped owner and chef who rolled up to your table like a pirate, often leaning on a thick wooden walking stick, holding several orders of nachos aloft in one hand, seeing all, and stopping any rowdiness in any place throughout the patio with a glare or a growl. Click your heels together three times and say it, Dorothy. “Nacho Mama, Nacho Mama, Nacho Mama,” and you will be whisked away to a place of wonder, full of fun and frightful things with perhaps a twinkle in the evil eye, with hopes and dreams and titillations for mouth and mind. Nacho Mama—sovereign, kingdom, and bounty all in one.