PRIDE... What a Ride

I experienced "Pride Sunday" from the unique vantage point of feeder of the masses. Somehow, between the time we interviewed with the GM of Roscoes, and yesterday, the bar-tending job we applied for morphed into the hodge-podge position of set-up crew member/assembler of  hamburger-chicken sandwich-footlong bratwurst/ice scooper/beer or pre-mixed vodka lemonade pourer.

We arrived at 8 am, and were greeted by our lovely lesbian supervisor, Nikole, some regular Roscoe staff, all gay and anxious to share it with us, as well three Mexican women, who would struggle throughout the day with “Miller Lite,” “Leinenkoogle” and “MGD” (Woe to any partier who had his heart set one in particular, because chances are he didn’t get it). Here’s a breakdown of the next 8 and a half hours

8:30 am: Taking folding chairs and tables out of the moving truck, the veteran Roscoe worker says to Marie and I, “Don’t worry, I won’t give you too many, we can carry the same amount ‘cause I’m a little girl too!!”

9:50 am: We dutifully don our hideous khaki pageboy style uniform caps (photos coming soon) while Roscoe workers refuse: “We can’t wear those! How am I supposed to flirt in that fugly thing, and I’m not messing up my hair!”

11 am: Serve my first beers and Absolut Lemonades to a lesbian couple, and upon my “thanks ladies”, one (wearing a bikini top, multiple face piercings and a shaved head) smiles and shouts “Thanks for calling us ladies!! Everyone always thinks I’m a guy!”

12 noon: Parade starts, complete with: 1) hard-bodied, oiled and tanned men dancing atop floats in silver metallic speedos; 2) drag-queens galore; 3) a procession of motorcyles which my gay associate informed me was his favorite, “Dykes on Bikes”

1:30 pm: The cashier I’m working with says: “I hate it when I think I see a cute boy and realize it’s a lesbian. Does that ever happen to you?” I shake my head. And then the question I’ve been waiting for all day. “Are you a lesbian?”

2:20 pm: Marie’s cashier explains the difficult dynamic of Pride Sunday: “I’m a hot gay guy, but today, I’m like nothing special. I mean I haven’t gotten one text in like 4 hours! It’s kind of like hot-by-normal-standards people going to Hollywood.”

3:15 pm: Somewhat obscene PDA in front of our booth causes me to turn away, the first of many of the afternoon. Marie and I exchange “Where are we?” glances.

4:45 pm: Exhausted, sweaty, and famished, we walk home, though it appears that we’re the only ones who won’t be partying the rest of the evening away. Thinking nothing of it (she had a tank top on underneath) Marie begins to take off the Roscoe’s t-shirt they gave us when we hear shouts of “Yeah baby! Take it off!” from a group of girls on the other side of the street. We smile innocently and continue the walk to our apartment, feeling a little like Dorothys in our very own Oz.