Falling in Love at the Lipstick Lagoon

 The very first love story of my life happened right on my face. See, I have what well-meaning, bless-her-heart southern meemaws lovingly refer to as Kentucky Face. For you Northerners, Kentucky Face is the predicament in which your nose and your chin long to touch each other so bad that they spend their whole lives inching closer and closer together, lending the face they occupy a sort of gentle goblin look. Kentucky Face nearly always comes with a side of big ears and beady little eyes, and lucky for me the good Lord gave me the whole shebang.

At times it’s quite frustrating. I’ll watch a sentimental Viagra commercial or see a couple fight over the price of diapers in the grocery store and think, “Why not me?” Sure I look like the wrong end of a melted baby doll, but I have a lot to give. I coach a youth softball team, I take my grandpa to the strip club every year for his birthday, and I make a mean chicken casserole. What’s not to love? Apparently everything, because here I sit, watching Wheel of Fortune with my old dog, Twinkie, knee deep in a bag of pork rinds. As a Piggly Wiggly commercial rotates onto the screen I catch my reflection. While I clearly have a hard time finding love, my image in the TV screen reminds me that at least my nose and chin have each other.

The shrill sound of my ancient home phone interrupts whatever Piggly Wiggly is attempting to sell me.

“Hello?”

“Bette, it’s Jeanie Jo. I’ve got some exciting news for you!”

“Honey, you better not be having that eighth baby,” I respond, convinced my sister has once again had too much to drink at an Applebee’s.

“No, no. I got my tubes tied back in August. My insides look like one of them slides at the waterpark,” she laughs. “This news is exciting for you!”

“Alright, hit me.”

“Somebody bought the old Denny’s on South Street and guess what they made it into.”

“Another Denny’s?”

“A gay bar! For women!” she gushes.

“Are you kidding me? Here? In Pennywhistle?”

“Yes ma’am. They open tonight and you are gonna go down there with me and meet the love of your little lesbian life.”

“Jeanie Jo, how do you think Jerry Jack’s gonna feel about you going to the gay bar with me? He puts up a fight when you leave the house to get your nails done,” I press.

“That’s the thing. He’s gonna come too,” she says.

“Where the hell are the kids gonna go?”

“Yeah, they’re coming with. That old Denny’s had a playground so we’re just gonna set ‘em up there with a couple of pizzas and some toys and they’ll be just fine.”

“This is one of those times I’m not gonna win, right?” I sigh.

“Right. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

I look to Twinkie for some guidance. Then I look to a whole box of Twinkies for guidance. Finally I approach my closet, hoping whatever’s in there will give me the courage to step into that Denny’s of desire. Surely, Bette, you have something dazzling and appropriate for a new gay bar in Pennywhistle, Georgia. No, the hell, I don’t! With the ferocity of a beauty pageant runner up, I tear through my meager assortment of clothes. Working at Buggie’s Garage means my wardrobe consists of stained jeans, flannel shirts, and a few choice hats that say things like, “Jesus drove a pick up truck.” My face requires back up, y’all, so this shit just ain’t gonna cut it. Suddenly I see the light—the light from the framed, airbrushed portrait of Dolly Parton that hangs above my pillow. Her eyes point towards the trunk at the end of the bed. Go for it, she nods. Behind me in the living room somebody solves Pat Sajack’s puzzle—“Alone again, naturally!”—and Dolly shrugs her shoulders. Well, fine! I pull the dusty garment from the trunk. This here is the last resort of all last resorts, but then again, so is a once-Denny’s gay bar.

“Come on out!” Jeanie Jo shouts from the van.

“Just a second,” I yell back, festooning my hair as best I can with a mouthful of bobby pins and a Dollar Tree can of hairspray.

“You wait too long and they gonna start going for men.”

“Shut up! I’m coming.”

Jeanie Jo and Jerry Jack’s van is painted to look just like Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” except that they have replaced God and Adam’s faces with their own and the angels with their seven kids. Who agreed to airbrush this masterpiece, I do not know. The van is probably just one of this artist’s many regrets.

“Get out here you big dyke!” Jerry Jack yells.

“You can’t say that, Jerry Jack! That’s their word,” Jeanie Jo shouts.

“Fine, get out here you fat old queer!”

“Better,” she says, and pats him on the shoulder, “Honey, I mean it! We gotta go!”

I inch out of the door and walk hastily to the car, the spurs on my cowboy boots clicking with every step.

“What in the Sam Hill are you wearing?” Jerry Jack asks.

“Aw hush. She looks beautiful!”

My sequined, emerald green competition square dancing ensemble has not fit in close to ten years, but what with the two foot long parasite I got last month from swimming in the town lake, I can finally fit it over my head again. Are the sequined, silver horses dancing around the perimeter of the skirt too much? Is the belt buckle big enough to rob a bank with? Is the blouse, still stained with the tears of my final competition, in which a sixteen year old from Atlanta wiped the floor with me, too tight? The look on all seven children’s faces popping out the van windows tells me yes.

“It’s the best I could do.”

“Well if they can’t handle you at your worst they don’t deserve you at your best! Isn’t that right?” Jeanie Jo declares.

“I guess.”

“Now get in and let’s go find some women!” she laughs.

The once-Denny’s glistens with thousands of green and blue lights and a great big sign that declares itself to passersby as, drum roll, please, the Lipstick Lagoon. Plaster sculptures of horny mermaids dot the grounds, hands encircled in some kind of ritual that Jeanie Jo and Jerry Jack’s children probably should not be privy to. The mermaids aren’t the only frisky females here; a line of every repressed Danny Anne, Tiffany Tammy, and Patsy Pearl snakes around the building waiting to be let inside. Strangely, none of their outfits feature sequins.

“Dammit, Jeanie Jo!” I gripe. “Look at them. Everybody’s got jeans and work boots on.”

“Isn’t that the point of being a lesbian?” Jerry Jack asks.

“No, the point is that I look ridiculous!”

“Maybe we outta take you to a gay bar for men. You’d fit right in, Elton John,” Jerry Jack chuckles.

“Jerry Jack that is very homo sapien of you!” Jeanie Jo replies.

“Homophobic.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not true. You’re the prettiest girl gay of all and they’re gonna flock to you like you’re filled with candy,” she assures me.

Now that she’s established that I’m as irresistible as a piñata, Jeanie Jo insists we exit the Michael-van-gelo and make our way into the crowd. Jerry Jack and Jeanie Jo reveal their Lipstick Lagoon-worthy outfits, matching shirts that they have airbrushed to say “You’re gay, we ain’t, and that’s okay” in bold, rainbow colored letters. I sigh. They look extremely proud of their work.

“Alright kids we’re going in. You be good, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the chorus rings out.

The oldest of the Jessico children, thirteen-year-old Jamila, escorts the other six tots to the playground. They look somewhat like a flock of ducklings, red haired, denim-covered, waddling little ducklings with some of the most ridiculous names east of the Mississippi. Truth be told, they’re adorable. It strikes me that while I’m scared shitless of everything on the other side of that sparkly, mermaid adorned door, maybe I could have some ducklings of my own if I only just walk inside.

The three of us wait in line for about twenty minutes before we reach the door. A woman named Ray checks our ids, stamps our hands, and lets us in. Despite its flamboyant exterior, the inside of the Lipstick Lagoon still looks remarkably like a Denny’s, the only difference being that the lights are low and the breakfast counter has been transformed into a bar.

“Think we can still get pancakes?” Jerry Jack asks.

“I’ll ask the bartender,” I say, “Y’all go find a table.”

My spurs clink to the beat of the music as I nervously do-si-do through the crowd. Thank god they’re playing Shania Twain, my personal lord and savior, or else I would be too chicken to approach the gorgeous creature wielding drinks and winks behind the bar.

“Excuse me!” I say.

“Excuse me,” she replies, gesturing to my outfit, “you just come off the stage?”

“Long story.”

“I got time.”

We interrupt this program to bring you a description of what just might be the most beautiful bartender in lesbian Denny’s bar history. Lady is well over six feet, with cascading chocolate brown hair and the kind of brown eyes people with trucks write songs about. Her shirt is unbuttoned just one button too many for me not to stare. And did I mention her smile? Anyhow, back to our regularly scheduled program.

“See those guys over there,” I point to Jeanie Jo and Jerry Jack.

“Nice shirts,” she laughs.

“Yeah. That’s my sister and her husband. They kinda dragged me here.”

“That still doesn’t explain your outfit.”

“Right. I had no idea what to wear. This is the fanciest thing I’ve got.”

“What do you normally wear?”

“Jeans, flannel shirt, and some kind of funny baseball cap.”

“I bet you look great in that,” she smiles. I wonder if she’s flirting.

“I wish I had your outfit on,” I say. “Right now I feel like a cabbage patch doll in a disco ball.”

She gives a great big, unapologetically butch laugh at this. I want to tell her I like making her laugh and also that she’s delicious and also perhaps could she have my babies.

“I think I can help you,” she says.

“Please.”

She leans across the bar and gently removes my giant, clip-on horse earrings. I don’t think another human has touched my ears in years, so the sensation runs through me like a dry cleaner fire. Next, she takes a bar napkin and wipes away most of my cherry red lipstick in a few strokes. Finally, she takes her long fingers and musses my hair back down to its normal size. We haven’t broken eye contact this whole time, and I suspect that in the blue green light of the bar I look somewhat like a delirious golden retriever, post belly rub.

“There,” she says, “Now you probably look more like yourself.”

“Definitely. I’m Bette, by the way.”

“Cleo.”

“Hi.”

“So, Bette, what was it you were going to ask me before I deflated your hair?”

“I was going to ask if y’all still serve pancakes.”

She laughs again and smiles at me. She’s got this generous smile that’s making me feel like I really am filled with candy.

“Do you think we ought to still serve pancakes?” she asks seriously.

“I mean people probably get hungry from dancing and flirting and…”

“Getting busy in the ladies room?” she finishes.

“Precisely. So I don’t think anybody would say no to a few carbs.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Bette. Which is why I did a little investigating this morning. There’s about forty boxes of Bisquick back there and about ten burners that work perfectly fine and by my calculation that gets us about a billion happy dykes, wouldn’t you say? And seeing as I own this place, I figure we can make a few pancakes if we want.”

“You’re the owner?” I ask.

“You bet, Bette. How’s about I tell Charlie to take over the bar, and you and me go back there and make some pancakes?”

“Absolutely!” I squeal.

Cleo heads into the crowd to find Charlie. I motion to Jeanie Jo and Jerry Jack that I’m going to the kitchen to make pancakes. They misinterpret the motion of pancake cooking as some sort of sexual position and cheer from their table, Jerry Jack swishing his tongue around and winking. I attempt to correct them with “no” motions, but again my gestures come across as frisky and only cause the pair to holler with greater pride. This, I decide, is a lost cause.

“You ready?” Cleo asks.

“Yep!”

She gives me the “come hither” motion and—trust my loins on this one—I’m instantly the most physically excited I have ever been to roll up my square dancing blouse sleeves and make pancakes. Cleo throws me an apron and looks at the Bisquick box for guidance. What’s she looking at the instructions for, I wonder. Then I thank sweet, holy Shania Twain that while I boast the complexion of a withered pet store gecko, I simultaneously possess the hands of a goddess. In other words, I make a mean pancake.

“I’ll take it from here,” I say, pretending I’m the type of person who regularly takes things from here.

“Is that right?” she laughs.

“Well, the fact that you’re even reading the box shows me you’re a novice.”

“The instructions are there for a reason, Chef Boyardee.”

“And I got ‘em memorized,” I say, pouring the mix into a measuring cup. “Some people know the Gettysburg Address. I know Bisquick.”

“Alright, educate me,” she says.

Do I make any and every excuse to casually touch Cleo during this pancake tutorial? I don’t know, does a Toaster Strudel burn your mouth every damn time? My hands naturally land on hers as I teach her to stir properly—like you’re unclogging a shower drain—and gently ladle the fresh mix onto the pan. Her first pancake burns like a wig in a microwave, as do her second and third.

“It’s like you’re trying to burn them,” I joke.

“If you’re so good why don’t you make one?” she laughs.

“Fine. What’s your favorite animal?”

“Mickey Mouse.”

“Hardly a challenge, but okay.”

I ladle a Mickey onto the pan, watch it closely, and deliver the golden brown masterpiece to her plate with finesse. She gestures to the pancake batter on my face.

“You’ve got something on your nose,” she says.

“Yeah, my chin.”

“What?”

“You know, Kentucky Face. Where your nose and chin keep trying to touch each other. Also known as the reason I’m single.”

“I think you’re pretty cute,” she smiles.

All of my bravado and pretending leave me in this moment. I’m not an expert pancake maker, flashy square dancer, or experienced flirter but am, instead, a figure in a snow globe, post shake. I’m unsteady. I have no idea where I am. Nothing in my history, I realize, has prepared me for the simple moment of being called cute.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Sorry, it’s just I don’t get that often.”

“Really?”

“Um, duh,” I laugh, gesturing to the whole nine yards of me. We let this sit for a moment, the both of us, because she’s a good enough person not to lie to me and I’m a smart enough person to know she shouldn’t.

“Did you know that you’re the only woman who spoke to me tonight?” she says.

“What?”

“Girls ordered drinks or asked where the ladies room was, but not one woman sat down and had an honest conversation with me,” she continues. “And none of them made me a Mickey Mouse pancake.”

She reaches out and musses my hair down, as it has somehow ballooned back up to its hairspray heights. I am poised to tell her that red hair has a reputation for doing whatever the hell it wants when I notice—oh do I notice—that her hands are still resting in my hair. Slowly, expertly she pulls me close to her.

“Like I said,” she whispers, “I think you’re pretty cute.”

And just like that, my nose and my chin aren’t the only ones kissing.