Read Online Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice by April Sinclair - Free Book Online Page B

around in the distance. I was shocked to see two women in flannel shirts all hugged up against the church’s CALL TO WORSHIP sign. I could hear Mama now. “What if the trumpet were to blow at this instant? If God brought an end to the world, you’d be surrounded by the daughters of Satan!”
    I breathed in the pungent odor of marijuana and the fragrance of flowers as I hurried past three happy-looking women smoking outside the church. I was greeted by the sound of sweet soul music as I hit the doorway. I tried to act as cool as the music, but I was nervous. My hand shook as I gave the small, wiry woman at the door a dollar bill.
    My ears were filled with the sounds of Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. My eyes searched the dark, crowded room for a place to buy a drink. This is an experiment, I reminded myself. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay. I made a beeline for a table with a jug of wine on it after checking my sweater.
    I dug out fifty cents from my pants pocket and handed it to the big woman behind the table. I clutched the Styrofoam cup like it was my security blanket.
    I slouched against the wall in a corner where I could observe the action. Occasionally I peered over my wine to watch the room full of white women dressed like farmhands, bouncing up and down.
    â€œAre you into rolls?”
    â€œHuh?” I asked, suddenly looking into the face of a cinnamon-colored stranger. I stood up straight. I was almost as tall as this woman, although she was about ten pounds heavier. She was wearing a vest, jeans, and cowboy boots.
    I was intrigued by her style.
    â€œI asked you, are you into rolls?” The woman repeated with just a hint of irritation in her voice.
    I glanced over at the table in the far corner of the dimly lit room. Perhaps they served egg rolls at dances here. Maybe they were some sort of San Francisco treat. But I wasn’t in the mood for a roll, not right after eating one of Kentucky Fried Chicken’s good-ass biscuits.
    â€œNo, thank you,” I answered politely. “I ate before I came.”
    The woman’s full lips broke into a grin. She had a devilish look on her face that showed off her twinkling eyes. “I ate before I came,” she laughed, running her fingers through her short natural. My Afro was big compared to hers.
    What was so funny? I wondered. This woman had some kind of nerve to be laughing at me. I was glad to see a sistah, but I wasn’t in the mood for any mess. Nobody told her to walk her behind over here. I didn’t want to have to “read” her.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” I asked nervously.
    â€œI saw that on a T-shirt in the Haight, once,” she explained.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI ate before I came.”
    It dawned on me that this sistah wasn’t talking about food. And she must’ve meant roles as in butch/femme. I’d read about them in my social psychology book. They talked about butch/femme roles in the chapter on Deviance.
    â€œYou mean butch/femme roles?”
    The woman nodded.
    â€œSorry, I was distracted by the music.”
    â€œSo, are you into roles or not? You still haven’t answered my question,” the woman pointed out.
    So what if I haven’t? Who are you, the roving reporter? And who says I want to be interviewed?
    But her large dark eyes were soft like hush puppies and she was boyishly cute, without looking hard enough to bite nails. So I decided to be nice.
    â€œI’m just visiting.”
    â€œFrom where? Another planet? They got roles everywhere.”
    â€œChicago. Look, I just got here this week. Gimme a break.”
    â€œChicago, the Windy City. Chi town, that’s a place I wouldn’t mind visiting. Well, what brings you out here?”
    â€œCelebration. I just graduated from college a few weeks ago.”
    â€œG’on with your educated self,” the woman said, slapping my back. “I’m still trying to get my A.A.