Get Out! GAY Magazine – Issue 433 August 28, 2019

BY IAN-MICHAEL BERGERON
@ianmichaelinwonderland
Last week I was in Iowa for my friend
Jacob’s wedding.
I met Jacob my freshman year while
attending Coe College. Jacob went
to the University of Iowa, a 30-minute
drive away, and was working at the
Abercrombie & Fitch in Coral Ridge Mall
when I started in the fall of 2008.
(The store is now gone, as is the one in
Jordan Creek that I worked at through
my high school years. Everything
changes.)
We weren’t quick
friends, I imagine,
because he was in
the closet. I told
everyone, “If he says
he’s straight, then
he’s straight—and
there’s nothing more
to be said about
it.” Of course, I
suspected (as they
did) that there was
much more to be
said about it, but
knew that he would
say it when he saw
fit.
And he did, a few
years later, after I’d
left Abercrombie
& Fitch to be a
manager at a Joann
Fabrics (which has
since moved to a bigger location down
the street. Everything changes). When
my fiancé left me in 2011, Jacob was
there for me, always there to listen,
always there to make sure I didn’t drink
too much (“too much,” I’ll admit, is
open to interpretation). We’d go out to
Studio 13, the gay bar in Iowa City (a
younger crowd than Cedar Rapids Basix,
now called “Belle’s Basix” after drag
queen Pretty Belle bought it. Everything
changes).
Iowa brought back all kinds of nostalgia,
stories that I couldn’t possibly fit into 500
words here. I’ll focus on Jacob’s afterparty.
After we watched him tie the knot,
Nostalgia
after eating delicious food and drinking
delicious drinks, after dancing away, my
boyfriend James and I made our way
back to our hotel to change. I kept on the
black lace Diane Von Furstenberg shirt I’d
bought for the occasion, pairing it with
leather shorts and flip flops instead of the
matching lace pants and leather shoes.
(Short-shorts and flip-flops were my go-to
in college. Not everything changes.)
It was the alleyway next to the bar that
brought me back. The wall had a mural
on brick, faces and flowers—had it
always had that, I
wondered, or was
this too something
new? I couldn’t
remember; I’d
never paid enough
attention to the wall.
I didn’t spend so
many evenings in
that alleyway to gaze
at street art. I did
so to get away and
think.
After drinking
too many drinks
and talking to too
many people, I’d
end up here to
have a cigarette
and think. I guess
I thought myself
deep, smoking
and thinking in my
private little alcove.
Often, whether from
chemical imbalance or just too much
vodka, I’d go there to cry.
I remember once, upon finding out that
said ex fiancé had slept with one of my
best friends, I ran out of the bar and
sobbed in the alleyway. Said best friend
followed me out: He never did give me
an explanation, just kissed me and took
me back to his apartment.
I stood in the alleyway thinking of all
my nights there, all the things I thought
there, all the boys I cried over. Maybe
everything does change. I certainly have.
Visiting home was a good reminder
of this: where I came from, but more
importantly, how far I’ve come.