The Anti-Therapist. Keaton Albertson

the food started to mingle throughout my bloodstream, my mind began to operate properly and my senses began to perceive things that I had previously neglected. The jukebox in the corner of the restaurant was pumping out some distorted form of jazz music and I noticed a middle-aged black guy, dressed like a 1930’s mobster, dancing next to it. He twisted and wiggled down very low to the ground until his buttocks nearly touched the tile. The gentleman then jumped up, squealed like a school girl, and hugged another man who was sitting at the bar.

      I turned my eyes to Fleas and observed that his gaze never left his food, me, or the table. Obviously he had made some disturbing observations of his own. “Remind me to tell you something after we leave,” he said quietly.

      Scratching the stubble under my chin at the strange spectacles around me, I continued chewing on my yummy sandwich until I haphazardly looked over to see two dudes making out in a darkened alcove. One of the guys was an older fellow but his partner looked young enough to have definitely been asked for identification at the bar. Through my facial expression of disgust and horror, the older guy caught me staring at him and momentarily stopped kissing his younger companion. He scowled and stared back at me. I swiftly looked away and tried to refocus on my meal. I could not. My eyes continued to wander about and I noticed other oddities amongst the patrons: close body hugs, booty slaps, some strange hairstyles here and a bright yellow suit there. Then it hit me.

      “Dude, there’s some seriously weird shit going on in here!” I said to Fleas across the table. “There’s not a single female in this place—not in the bar, not over in that dance area, not outside, nowhere. No chicks. And I think we’re the only white guys in here too.”

      “I know,” Fleas mumbled with a mouthful of sandwich. “Just eat your food and let’s get out of here.”

      The next few moments were spent rushing through what could have been a great Skokie’s sub. Instead of enjoying my meal, however, I became increasingly more aware of the fact that not only was I one of two white guys in the entire pillow-biting establishment, but I was also accompanied by my male coworker whom was most certainly perceived as being my chili ring partner. Fleas and I rapidly finished our subs and then quickly left the eatery without leaving a tip. We briskly walked down the sidewalk, bypassing several individuals who were loitering about outside offering us uncomfortable glares. Once we reached the corner of the building, we both took off in a homophobic sprint back toward the hotel.

      “What the hell, man?” I said to my crony, once we began slowing down. “You just took me to a fuckin gay bar!”

      “You found it,” Fleas retorted. “You wanted to go there. Plus, we would’ve looked like assholes if we got up and left. And I nearly killed you when you froze at the door. Didn’t they have any black people in Utah?”

      “I almost got raped in there,” I laughed. “Did you see how them dark brothers were staring at my lily white ass? You know I’m a sexy beast. They definitely wanted me.”

      “I kind of figured that you were a fag,” Fleas replied. “Those poofs made some good subs though.”

      “Hell yeah they did. They probably jizzed in yours—added some man glaze to your buns.”

      In the midst of our traumatic debriefing while walking back to our hotel, a semi-tractor cab pulled up beside us into a nearby parking lot. A man exited the cab and walked into what appeared to be a warehouse with an illuminated beer sign near the top of the roof. The sounds of loud bass could be heard from the street.

      “Do you hear that, dude?” I asked Fleas. “That’s a club over there. Come on—let’s go check it out. Maybe this one doesn’t have a dress code!”

      Leaving Fleas behind, I ran over to the front door of the building after the truck driver had walked in. Without entering, I peered through the glass of the front door, allowing Fleas some time to catch up to me. Inside I saw several figures dancing in the middle of a darkened floor, momentarily filtering in and out of vision within the strobe lights and pulsating colors. As Fleas came walking up to the door to join me, I noticed that all of the dancing figures were males… and that they had their shirts off… and that they were dancing in a circle… with each other. Again, there were no females to be seen.

      “You want to go in there?” Fleas asked me. “That’s a gay club. Are you some kind of fruit or what? You make me eat at a gay bar and now you want to go to a gay club?”

      “Fuck you, man. I didn’t know that was a gay bar back there and this club looked normal from the outside!” I said in defense. “Is all of Kansas City candy-striped gay or what?”

      The journey back to the hotel was spent in loud laughter with Fleas making fun of me and I jousting back at him in turn. Although I was unable to score with any hot babes that night, I relished over the fact that it was not I who had to go home to my starving family after I spent grocery money on strippers and sandwiches. Nevertheless, my training conference experience with Fleas afforded me the opportunity to make friends with a non-counselor coworker. And any night of adventure with Fleas was better than the limp-dick activities taken on by the likes of Gypsy and Sconce.