Jamie met Sam at Wild Side West, a lesbian bar on Cortland Avenue. He didn’t like most bars and spent little time in them. Wild Side West was different. Jamie liked the place. He spent his time there in the backyard, which would have been featured in Funky Homes and Funkier Backyards if it existed. It was as random as the flotsam and jetsam on a littered
beach after a wild storm. The yard had old chipped sinks and toilet bowls for planters, car seats and theater seats bolted to warehouse pallets, and six-foot diameter power company wire spools for tables. Scruffy trees grew at unnatural angles to find the light. Birdhouses made from coffee cans were nailed to them.
The Wild Side West backyard had a roofed-in area with a potbelly stove; bring your own kindling and logs. The pot smokers hung out there. To get a seat it was best to arrive early, especially during rainy season. If you were hard up for a joint, you could usually find a healthy-sized roach in the fusty ashtrays, rarely emptied.
Jamie wanted a hit. He wound up without any place to go that night and he decided Wild Side West was his best choice for getting out. The dispensary had closed before he had a chance to show his medical marijuana card. He guessed he could find a roach or two at Wild Side West. He got a lager at the bar, went down to the backyard, found a big roach, hit on it and sipped his beer.
“Hello,” a woman said, approaching him. He noticed she was tall, had long black hair and was wearing sky blue yoga pants and a black hoodie. He mentally guessed she might be Jewish or Italian. “Who invited you and what’s your name?” she asked. “My name’s Sam, or Sammy, or Samantha, depending on who I’m with.”
“My name’s Jamie.” Sam waited for him to continue.
“Is that a boy Jamie or a girl Jamie?” she asked.
“Boy, last time I checked.”
“Last time you checked? Whoa, really.” Sam repeated. “How often do you check? No; don’t answer. TMI already.” She thought what to say next. His reference to his family jewels had taken Sam aback. She had already noticed his well-pantsed package. Now the subject was verbal. She felt a little off balance. She gestured wordlessly. She pulled her fingers through her long black hair, put her other hand between her thighs and nodded vigorously.
“Okay,” Jamie said. “Okay, now that we got that out in the open. Me Tarzan, you Jane, 2016 style, where she’s the ropes expert. Now that we settled that,” Jamie repeated.
Sam decided to stick with this Jamie longer to see where the conversation was headed. “Please give me a minute of your time, Mr. Jamie; girlish name, unless you’re Jewish and maybe your real name is Hymie. How ridiculous is that name, short for Hymen. I can say that because my Yid friends anointed me an honorary Jew.”
Jamie remembered his Uncle Hymie who died long ago from ALS.
“Or maybe,” Sam went on, “you’re Latin and your name is Jaime?
Jamie saw an opportunity to present her with a fabricated identity. He could tell her that his name was short for James, whatever that might suggest, but it wasn’t. It was just Jamie. He paused and thought to himself: “I could pretend I’m Venezuelan, Mexican or Chilean. I have the right color.” Instead, he told her, “I am Jewish, Miss Honorary Jew, but I’m not a Hymie. Just Jamie.” He wondered who Sam wanted him to be. The question had begun to matter. “And who was she?” he asked himself.
Jamie and Sam–Sammy–Samantha, turned their heads towards the barroom upstairs, their ears tuned to the music from above. “Want to dance; go upstairs and dance?” Jamie asked.
“Sure, but I don’t do couple dancing. My girls will be all over the floor, so if that’s okay, let’s go get in. That’s what I came here for, shake out the week.” Sam had a second reason to start dancing. She saw this as the perfect opportunity to figure out what this guy was doing at her bar. Jamie wasn’t the first male she saw there. There was a small group that Sam ran into once a month or so, a mix including straight guys and gay guys and various kinds of transitioning people. But she didn’t feel like labeling Jamie, not yet.
They headed upstairs, wound their way to a space on the floor, Sam leading the way. Jamie took her arm on their way through the crowd. Sam wiggled her wrist free. Jamie’s arm tensed. Sam began jumping and raising and lowering her arms. Jamie mirrored her and added a swish of his butt to the jumping-arm raising routine. The dancers around them, Sam’s friends Ethyl, Josie, Liz Anne, Margot and Judy, picked up the move. They worked that routine a few moments and then began improvising off it with new arm, head, torso, leg and hand moves.
Sam studied Jamie. She liked his combination of strength and grace. She liked his fluidity. He took up a little too much space and she thought he was going to bump into Margot and Judy. But he seemed to be aware of how close he was to others. Sam wondered is he was like that in other ways in addition to dancing.
As Sam was considering this question, a man with curly red hair and black eyes joined them. He faced toward Jamie, his back half to Sam.
“Hey,” she said, “you can’t hog him.” They ignored her. She looked around the floor and moved over to another group.
“Don’t worry about her,” Jamie said. “She seems to know her way around here. Anyway, you’re a better dancer. My name’s Jamie.”
“Hi. Mine’s Henry.” Jamie and Henry moved closer to each other as the music slowed and got into a lyrical flow, dancing a tentative let’s-get-to-know-each-other, looking at each other, looking away and then back. Sam checked them out from her spot on the floor. She moved closer to her friend Sandee.
“Check those two guys out,” Sam said. They watched Jamie and Henry, close now, gliding their chests past each other so their shirts grazed. Then they turned to face the other way, now gliding their backs against each other in circles. Jamie saw Sam watching them, gave her a smile and a wink. She walked over to Henry and him to make a threesome.
“Hi, I’m Samantha,” she shouted above the music, turning to Henry. “You two seem to know each other already.” Jamie stepped away from Sam and Henry to watch the interaction between his two new acquaintances. They were trying to carry on a conversation and dance at the same time. Jamie decided verbal was having a negative effect on the dancing. He jumped back in and took their hands. Sam and Henry linked fingers, making the three into a circle.
Sweaty, breathless, they took a break. Sam bought three bottles of water for them. Jamie was thinking about the end of the evening. He might like to walk Henry to his car or the bus stop. “No,” he considered to himself, “I would rather end the night with Samantha. But she’ll probably leave with her friends. I might tag along. Maybe that would work.” They danced some more, sometimes in their threesome and sometimes with others. They had a beer. Jamie saw it was 11:00, still early, but he was ready to go. He gave Henry his number and turned to Sam.
“I’m heading out. Would you like to join me?” Sam looked him in the eye for a half second. She felt warm.
“Okay, Mr. Jamie. Let’s go. Just a sec while I say good night.” She gave Henry a kiss on the cheek and strode into the back room where her friends were at a table. As she and Jamie left, she held the door for him. The outside was fresh and cool.
“Ah,” Jamie breathed deeply, several times. “I wanted to ask you a question, Sam-Sammy-Samantha. I’d like to know why you used ‘Samantha’ when you said hello to Henry.”
“Samantha,” she said. “Yes, I said Samantha. I was playing. I like to play with the different possible significances of my three names.” Jamie asked her to go on.
“Which direction?” Sam asked.
“What’s the significance of Sam vs. Samantha?”
“You really have to ask?” She looked at him.
“No, sorry. I don’t. But look, I really want to see you again.”
Samantha took a breath. “So, you’re talking friends? Check out being friends?”
“Yeah, friends, for now.”
“For now? I’m confused,” Sam admitted. “Are you bi?”
“No. I like men, some of them. I’m safely physical with good male friends. We hug and kiss hello, walk arm in arm. That’s it. It’s nice, fun. So, can we meet at Wild Side West next Friday, or maybe get dinner before?”
“I’ll be there about nine with my buddies,” she said. “Maybe Henry would like to come too.”
“Great. See you there. I will call Henry.” They had reached her car.
“Good night,” Sam said.
“Good night.” He blew her a kiss as he backed away. She stared back, wondering: Were they going to be friends; what kind of friends; and who might she be to Jamie: Sam, Sammy or Samantha? Maybe she’d be all three. That would be something new.
