DOI: 10.3726/9781915734822.003.0016

15: Lesbians and biker dudes

My economy rental car is parked outside a strip mall in south Calgary. My friend, Toni, sits beside me in the passenger seat. It’s 2009.

We survey the run-down roadhouse in front of us. A neon Budweiser sign flashes in the large window, just above a large fracture in the glass that’s been covered over with clear plastic wrap and duct tape. Cigarette butts litter the sidewalk around a 3-foot, free-standing metal ashtray against the wall. “Legs” by ZZ Top blares through the door, which is propped open with a small, wooden wedge. The words, “Baja Bar and Grill” are painted in large yellow and orange scrawl across the cracked window, flanked by a couple of hand-painted, faded green palm trees. Toni and I look at each other and then back at the shabby tavern before us. We are silent.

Like me, Toni is a singer-songwriter. She’s got a local fan base in Calgary and we’re doing a couple of gigs together in Alberta. Tonight, we were scheduled to play at Money Pennies, the local dyke drinkery in Calgary. But, a day before our show, Calgary city hall closed Money Pennies down indefinitely. Some kind of health and safety infraction, we heard.

Toni and I scramble to move our show to another venue. The Baja is the only bar in town that will take a last-minute live music booking.

Staring at the row of gleaming Harley Davidson and Yamaha motorbikes lined up, side by side in front of our car, I exhale loudly.

“I don’t know, Tone. I’m feeling a bit sketchy about this. It doesn’t look like the kind of place where they’re going to be into having a couple of queers singing on stage.”

“Pfffft. Yeah.” Toni sighs.

“But,” she pauses, “a few people told me they were coming tonight so hopefully that will help?”

She doesn’t sound convinced. Tiny butterflies swirl in the pit of my stomach.

A couple of women in snug, low-cut t-shirts, tight jeans, and high heels stumble out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. They each light up a cigarette, dissolving onto each other’s shoulders in raucous laughter. Then, a beer-bellied man in a black Rolling Stones t-shirt, Levi’s, and cowboy boots staggers outside to join them.

“Heyyyy laaaaadies!” he drones as he fishes a lighter out of the pocket of his jeans.

“Can I join you?” Not waiting for them to answer, he lights up. Taking a puff of his cigarette, he leans up against the glass storefront of the roadhouse. He runs a hand along his receding hairline and down his long grey, ponytailed hair.

Toni and I look at each other again, roll our eyes, and groan. I wonder if we might run into trouble tonight.

“Well, this should be interesting. We can’t turn back now,” I say, checking my watch. “Should we get at it, buddy? It’s 7 p.m. and we’re on at 8.”

“Yep. Let’s do it,” Toni replies. We hoist ourselves out of the car, walk around to the trunk and pop it open.

I grab my guitar and a carry-on suitcase that has my gear in it: patch cables, XLR cables, a microphone, harmonicas and two harmonica holders, a tuning pedal, a DI box, extra guitar straps, a guitar stand, a binder with lyric sheets, a music stand, and CDs to sell. Toni heaves her guitar and a leather satchel with her gear out of the trunk. Slamming the trunk closed, we walk to the door of the bar.

“Howdy, ladies,” the man drawls.

“Hey,” I give a cheery nod. “How’s it going?”

I know this kind of guy, I think to myself. Thinks he’s God’s gift to women. But, oblivious. And, harmless.

“Better now that you two are here, honey,” he grins as smoke seeps out from between his lips.

“Ok,” I say, rolling my eyes. Toni and I slip past them and walk inside.

I hear one of the women outside laughing, “Oh my God, Steve! Don’t be such a player.”

Inside, the reek of spilled beer permeates the air. I catch the familiar whiff of stale cigarettes. Thankfully, there’s a law against smoking inside bars now.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see a group of men—black leather vests, t-shirts, long hair, tanned tattooed forearms, faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, a couple of them wearing sunglasses—standing at the bar, yakking and barking around pints of lager. Three tight-panted, made-up women with cream-coloured skin are sitting at one of the tables. One has a fluffy spiral perm of long chestnut-coloured hair. Another has platinum bleach-blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swings while she talks. The other one has shoulder-length, dyed auburn hair with dark brown roots, and feathery, hair-sprayed bangs. I used to have hair like that when I was a teenager. The ’80s called, I chuckle to myself. It wants its hairstyles back.

The women chatter and snicker, sipping cocktails from tall slim glasses. They look over at the men at the bar. One of them fiddles with the straw in her glass as she whispers to the others. They cackle some more and slurp their drinks.

Squinting past them, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror that’s hanging up behind the bar. I feel a sudden combination of awkwardness and confidence as I inspect the person before me: a bright, red faux-hawk, red- and black-striped tie, and a black button-down with rolled-up sleeves. I feel out of place, but I like the way I look. Sometimes feeling out of place feels good.

As Toni and I run through our sound check, a few groups of women walk into the bar and sit down at a few tables near the back. Talking and laughing, a couple of them order drinks. They look up and wave to Toni. Toni waves back.

“You were right,” I grin at Toni. “The lesbians showed up. Awesome.”

“Yeah, man!” Toni gives me a thumbs-up as she adjusts her guitar strap and places her set list down on the floor in front of her.

As I exhale and my shoulders loosen, I feel a sense of relief. At least some of the people in this place will appreciate our songs. I bend the mic stand towards my mouth, plug in my guitar, and start tuning it.

After sound check, Toni and I introduce ourselves to the people in the audience and thank everyone for coming. The audience cheers and some of the lesbians raise their drinks.

“Hell yeah!” one of them yells. “A Toni Vere and Kate Reid show? Anytime!” The other lesbians cheer and take swigs from their glasses.

Then, Toni launches into one of her best-loved songs, “My G-String.” The lesbians hoot and holler as they jump up from their tables. Waving their hands in the air, they weave up to the front and out onto the scuffed wooden dance floor in front of the stage. They dance and clap and laugh and sing along with Toni, shaking their hips.

The biker dudes look at one another, raising their eyebrows. Smirking, they put down their beers and saunter towards the crowd of lesbians on the dance floor. Weaving in and out of the gyrating bodies, the bikers beam at each other. They stomp their cowboy boots and wobble their hips, bumping up against the lesbians. The lesbians look at one another and guffaw, twirling and swaying around the dance floor. One of the lesbians grabs one of the bikers and dances the two-step with him. He looks at his buddies and winks. They spur him on.

When Toni finishes singing, I break into “Doing It for the Chicks.” The lesbians shriek, shimmying up against one another. With their thumbs hooked in the belt loops of their Levi’s, the bikers jig and kick up their boots. The lesbians bump and grind with the bikers, and the bikers bump and grind with the lesbians. Pitching over with laughter, the lesbians whirl and cavort around one another, howling.

Then, I hit the chorus.

Suddenly, the colour drains from the faces of the biker dudes. Like light bulbs go on, one by one, in their heads. They all stop dancing and look at one another. As I strum exuberantly on my guitar and wail on my harmonica, they rotate around, as if executing a well-rehearsed choreographed dance move, and slink quietly to the back of the bar together. Shoulders slumped, they hunker over their beers.

When I finish my song, I hoot, “And all the guys just figured out what’s going on!”

The lesbians on the dance floor break out in boisterous laughter, clapping and screeching. Toni and I join in. I glance at the biker dudes. They have sheepish grins on their faces.

After that, I’m not so worried about our safety. The biker dudes are just a bunch of harmless old boys out looking for a good time.

As Toni sings her next song, I ponder what just happened. Perhaps the biker dudes learned something. Perhaps they realized that they’re not always the centre of attention in every room they stroll into. That not all women need men around to have a good time. That lesbians exist and congregate in unexpected public spaces.

And perhaps Toni, and the lesbians, and I learned something too. Perhaps we realized that we can find each other—even in run-down drinking dives full of bikers. That there is something to the phrase “strength in numbers.” That it’s exhilarating being “the majority” now and then, even when our fears about being targeted still lurk in the backs of our minds.

And me? I will always remember the night Toni Vere and I sang to the lesbians and the biker dudes at the Baja Bar and Grill in south Calgary.