“I do. It’s making me think. I like to think. Good night, dear.”
“Good night, Maude. Be safe.”
The woman nodded and slipped from her stool. She quickly disappeared into the small crowd of people—mostly women—who were belting out the lyrics to one of their anthems.
Singing along herself, Petra saw the door open and the back of a grey head cross into the night—and then stop, nod and carry on.
Then two young men walked in.
“Fuck,” Dre growled at Petra’s side. “Fucking tourists—and they look like trouble.”
There were men in Gertrude’s every night. Generally, though, whatever their orientation or identity, they were in attendance with a least one queer woman. But often enough, a group of cishet people—men, women, or some combination—came in on their own. Those were the tourists.
Any public queer space had some kind of straight tourist traffic, from straight women hanging at gay bars so they could dance with and around men safely—this was, usually, more or less fine, so long as they minded their manners—to the much more dangerous situation of straight men, skinheads or rednecks or whatever, crashing in to wreak havoc. Somewhere in the middle were the frat boys looking for a walk on the wild side, and the hesitant, bi-curious young women. Both of those latter groups spent a lot of time staring, but were usually pretty quiet. It wasn’t cool to treat queer spaces like zoos, places to go see strange and exotic creatures, but for the most part, as long as the tourists didn’t cause trouble, they were an irritation best endured.
These were only two men, both young. Like early twenties young. One was quite tall, with dark hair and a full-ish beard. And a blackening eye. He looked like someone who could cause trouble. The other was a little shorter, considerably leaner, with long-ish, blond-ish hair and a clean-shaven face that showed a fresh bruise around his mouth and a cut lip. He was pretty cute, actually.
But these boys had been fighting already tonight. That was not a good sign.
“They’re gonna start some shit,” Dre said and reached under the bar. There was a bat and a shotgun under there; Petra checked to make sure they were grabbing the bat.
“They’re not skins, though,” Petra said. “Who are they?”
“Trouble,” Dre repeated.
The boys were approaching the bar. As they did, both looking around like their heads were on ball bearings, the joyous group sing-along faded out. Melissa sang on alone as the attention of everyone who belonged here was fixed on the newcomers.
But that was the thing: Petra hadn’t set out to open a lesbian bar. She wanted a place for everybody who liked this atmosphere—the salon, the books, the art, the conversation, the food and drink. But she also wanted her people, her friends and the community that had arisen here, to be safe. Always.
She put her hand on Dre’s arm. “It’s just two of them. If you come in hot, they might come back hotter. If they start trouble, we’ll handle it. Maybe they just want a drink.” She smiled. “Maybe they’re fans of Melissa Etheridge.”
Dre’s laugh was sharp and short, but they stopped going for the bat. “Okay, but I’m braining the big one if he even looks at somebody wrong.”
“Deal,” Petra said and turned her smile on the newcomers. “Hey, fellas. What’ll you have?”
“One sec,” Dre said, pushing in. “I’m not sure you two are old enough to drink. Gonna need to see IDs.”
They were young, but they both looked over twenty-one. Petra knew Dre meant to get identifying details, in the event police became involved. Petra should have done so as well.
The bigger, bearded one reached for his pocket. The blond laughed and did not. “Come on. You know we’re not kids.”
“I don’t know shit,” Dre said. “ID. Or I make you a Shirley Temple.”
The bearded one held out his wallet, leaving the wallet on the chain that attached to his jeans, and leaving the ID in its plastic pocket. Petra was closer, so she lifted the wallet and read the card:Helm, Duncan. Born June 1998. He was twenty-four.
Dre looked over Petra’s shoulder to scan the ID. “Well, Duncan, what would you like to drink?”
Duncan had a look about him Petra recognized: it hadn’t been his call to come in here, and he wasn’t comfortable being here. Whether he was uncomfortable being around queer folks or he just felt like he didn’t belong, she couldn’t say.
Whatever the root of it, his discomfort was a reason to be wary. If he got defensive, he could make trouble. Possibly more trouble, ironically, than a guy who came in full of bluster and bravado.
Which was why most of the clientele—which had been thinning out already as the clock passed midnight—was headed for the door. Pretty soon only the diehard regulars would be left.
Duncan glanced at the taps. “A Stella would be great, please.”
“You got it.” Dre pushed off and turned to grab a pint glass.
The other one still hadn’t pulled out his wallet. But he didn’t look like he was spoiling for a fight. His eyes—keen and bright, their hazel color a starburst of brown in blue—held steady on Petra, like he was waiting for her to do something.