Gary Comes To Town by Matt Kessler
Dora texts, tells me to ditch J.R., says Rodan, the bar we’re going to, is trash. Gary’s band is playing at Berlin, that horrible cruise-y nightclub in Boystown. They’re booking punk shows now. We can hang backstage, snort Adderall, drink vodka Redbulls. Dora knows my girlfriend is out-of-town, they don’t get along, Dora thinks she’s a prude. It’s raining, cold, the cab to Wicker Park will be expensive. I don’t go.
Vice Digital publishes pictures from that evening. Gary writes a tour diary for the blog. Dora is seated on her couch, pointing a remote control at a television, between two half-naked teenage boys with long black hair wearing clown makeup. They’re in the band. Gary writes that he fucked a twink in the bathroom after the show. Dora tells me that the night was a blur, a crazed homo mosh pit, why didn’t I come?
Gary’s band’s Myspace icon is an angry-looking gay clown. I stare at it and vow to never miss another one of his shows.
Everybody says, ‘My friend Gary,’ ‘My friend Gary,’ ‘My friend Gary from San Francisco’ like his name has the power to unlock a car.
Gary likes Courtney Love, Madonna, Roseanne, Pepsi ads, outspoken women from the early 90s who our parents told us not to listen to when we were boys.
On Facebook, Gary lists himself as engaged to Kate Shephard, the online editor of Vice Digital, the wildest girl I know. When I moved to Chicago, she threw a house party with live chickens in every room and made us watch her pee on her roommate’s bed as revenge for some betrayal that she wouldn’t discuss.
A snowy night, Dora’s apartment, Blake says he could have fucked Gary at a hotel room in Austin, just thrown him on the bed and fucked him. Blake’s so confident, Blake says. Dora looks sideways at him, nods, doesn’t answer. Gary is scary, mythic. How do you throw a myth onto a bed and fuck it?
Gary posts on Dora’s Facebook—Tomorrow!!! Let’s do weed and speed!!! Together 4ever!!!!!
Blake’s Logan Square fourth floor balcony. Corn-on-the-cob and veggie sausages on the propane grill. Beer, whiskey, red wine and Adderall, cut into quarters, passed around like dinner mints. Blake says he’ll call Gary, who has arrived that evening and is staying with Dora, and will invite him to a new lesbian R&B dance night up the street called Slo ‘Mo. He holds his Razr to his chest, breathes in, calls, says, Girl, I just wanted to let you know, if you want to go out tonight, we’re going to a cute new queer dance night, and you should come. You’ll be supported, your people will be there. Blake closes his phone, puts it on the plastic lawn table, looks at us as if he just did something brave. Gary makes a night out bigger; loud and unpredictable. Dora and Gary don’t show.
Gary screens his new movie Delinquent, a compilation of his band’s music videos, at the Chopin Theatre in the Ukrainian Village. I sit in the lobby before the screening wearing new clothes—raw indigo jeans and a navy-blue trench coat with a waistline cut. It’s a preppy, French look. The San Francisco crowd is dressed in rags and leather jackets; Gary’s leather has been painted over in squiggly white lines that look like masonic iconography. The theatre is old, red, with its own squiggly white masonic zigzags painted on the wall. Gary’s crowd huddles around him, brash, laughing, a pack of John Waters misfits. I sit on a bench across the lobby, alone. Gary sits quietly, legs crossed, tapping his pencil moustache, staring at me, my outfit. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. It’s a schoolyard look, the one a boy will give another boy before he chases him down and beats him up against the wall. That’s my kink—bullies.
An after-party in Wicker Park. A stupid sports bar. Gary DJs from his iPod, plays the new Miley Cyrus song “Party in the USA” over and over. As I leave, he gives me a high-five, a hug, says, Kip, right? Let’s hang out next time. I don’t know if he’s flirting or buzzed or, just, nice?
Brunch at Lula Café, later that summer, Dora invites me to join her, Gary and the guitarist Noah. We discuss Cathy Dennis, the English pop star who wrote Britney Spears’s hit song “Toxic.” Cathy Dennis is still cranking out the best songs twenty years after her solo career ended, maybe that’s the best place to be, behind the curtain. I offer to play the demo for them after brunch at Dora’s apartment, I downloaded it off LimeWire. The conversation turns to the 90s, queercore and mix tapes, I tell Gary I went to a boarding high school for the arts, and he asks how much dick I sucked. I blush, the answer is a lot.
Gary’s so fun, his body sways as he shifts from topic to topic. But he gets bored if you’re not crude, he just pulls out his phone, responds to whatever comes across the screen, covers his eyes with a stiff salute to show that he is checked out.
Gary stops the “Toxic” demo in the middle; says, I think I get the hang of it; puts on Death In Vegas. The demo sounds just like Britney’s version. Like, there’s no difference, he says. I slink out the door as they watch The Real World: Greatest Fights DVD, that’s it, visit over, see you next time.
Rowan and I walk down Logan Boulevard. It’s early fall, we drink Cinnamon Dolce Lattes from Starbucks. Rowan says, So, I guess Gary’s coming to town. I’m so over that hang. Dora gives him too much attention. It’s like, Hello, what about me? Rowan says, For real, though, it’s embarrassing.
Gary comes to Rumors, the queer dance night that Dora DJs. He corners his ex-boyfriend Marko and cradles his head as they dance. Kate Shephard, the editor, arrives unannounced from New York, with a handful of red balloons. The dance floor is full until last call, everyone is boisterous, drunk, loud, crass. In the parking lot, as people figure out taxis and eat tamales, Gary holds Marko, tries to kiss him. Marko looks at me, scared, like he wants me to call in a MEDVAC.
Gary never tips his hand, he’s a rock chick, full of tricks and stoner talk. His eye is angry, sharp.
Gary’s new obsession—Emergen-C packets. He drinks too many, passes a stone, cancels a show in Milwaukee.
Noah, the guitarist, is bored. He doesn’t know what to do in Chicago while Gary’s on the couch recovering from the stone. Dora’s apartment smells like farts and B.O. Gary eats all the chicken out of the leftover container of Thai green curry.
Gary writes on Dora’s Facebook wall—Miss u. Dora writes—Watching Roseanne naked. Missing you bad.
What is it that makes Gary Gary? We all want it for ourselves.
A summer afternoon. Dora’s apartment. The windows are open. Midday lines of coke on a faded copy of The Best of Wham LP. Gary turns away, opens his laptop, asks for my e-mail address, says he wants to send me a couple demos from the upcoming album. Dora says, Wow, girl, that stuff’s really hitting you, you’re going to send him demos? Don’t share those. Gary hesitates, opens a new tab on Safari, reads a record review on Pitchfork, never sends the e-mail.
Dora skips her grandmother’s funeral to DJ the album launch in San Francisco. She’s Gary’s favorite DJ, they like all the same songs, she listened to early cuts of the tracks so many times over the phone she tells us that she practically co-wrote the album.
The album launch is epic. Jeppe from Junior Senior helps Dora choose her outfit: a pink chiffon polyester dress and a tangled beehive hairdo. Peaches pulls up her skirt and sits on the cake. Dora says she definitely made the right decision, skipping the funeral.
A New Year’s show at the Logan Square Auditorium. Only Dora and I are on the guest list. Before the show, we get stoned, watch Milk starring Sean Penn, Gary cries when Harvey Milk is shot. Goddamnit, he says, and wipes away a tear.
Gary’s nice but hard to talk to, I can’t quite hold onto him, can’t stand too close without getting cut.
Gary looks at my Twitter scroll on his Blackberry. Asks, Do I follow you? I say, I’m not sure; but I know that he doesn’t. He reads my timeline as we sit on Dora’s couch and tries to decide if he should follow me back. I feel hung, suspended in air. He puts down his phone and picks up the remote. I flail, unfollowed.
The Logan Square Auditorium is packed. Dora and I stand in the back, arms crossed, proud. Gary runs back and forth onstage, yelling the lyrics to his new song, “Do you want to get high?” He wears a shoulder-length brunette wig, makeup. The clown look is gone. After the show, a fight. Gary and Susie (the front woman, known in the band as “The Woman”) want pancakes and milkshakes, diner food. Dora insists on dragging them to Blake’s annual New Year’s party up the street. She promised Blake they’d go. It’s cold and windy, late December, we take ten steps towards Blake’s, yell at each other, take ten steps back towards the line of taxis waiting in front of the venue. Gary is the prize, the glittery thing that’ll make Blake’s party more fun to look at the next day in photos on Facebook. I want to sink into the ground. Dora gets her way, but Gary and Susie leave after two songs.
Breakfast the next morning at the Cozy Corner pancake house. We discuss the corruption trial of the Liberian dictator Charles Taylor. Mia Farrow took the stand and accused Naomi Campbell of flirting with Taylor at Nelson Mandela’s house, and later accepting a package of uncut blood diamonds that was delivered to her hotel suite by the dictator’s courier. How many celebrities knew? Gary is intrigued, can’t get enough. Susie is calm, measured. She has the look of a pissed-off, but tolerant mother. After breakfast, as Gary and Susie walk out, Dora tells me that that was fun, I did good.
Susie and Gary walk ahead of us in the snow down Milwaukee Avenue in puffer coats and jeans. Gary prances, Susie plods.
We smoke pot, watch videos of the B-52s, talk about riot grrl bands, listen to the cold wind blow outside the window of Dora’s third floor apartment. Whatever happened to zines? It’s January 1, a new year, 2011.
Gary takes me aside, says, Hey, Dora was hitting her head against the bathtub last night. I think she had a bit too much to drink. Is that normal? For her?
Kristen comes over. We have plans to see the Cher and Christina Aguilera movie Burlesque at the Logan Theatre, the second-run cinema just down the street. Gary, Dora and Susie don’t join because Dora has a thing about fictional movies, they’re just made up, she needs facts. That’s it for me and Gary and Susie on this trip. I say goodbye. Gary raises his hand, wiggles his fingers, doesn’t look away from the TV, and says in a mock-sweet voice, Byeeeeee. It’s cutting, but in a roundabout way that makes me question my read on the afternoon, the whole weekend, are we even friends?
Kate Shephard quits Vice Digital, joins Jane, a craft blog. She tweets that she needs to settle down, detox, get more sleep. On Facebook, Gary and Kate divorce.
Gary lives in New York now. He has a concert at MOMA PS 1. Debbie Harry goes. Susie and Noah are no longer in the band. They’re upset, they thought they were a group, not backup singers for a solo act.
Dora tells me at $5 burger night at Dunlay’s that Gary is her best friend. I’m hurt. I thought I was her best friend.
Gary writes on Dora’s Facebook wall—I’m gonna go down on you tomorrow.
Nobody throws Gary off his game, and that’s the game of it, to be Gary 24-7, even when the cameras aren’t rolling, (the cameras are always rolling).
Dora takes three days off work for Gary’s visit. She does this every time, cleans the apartment, buys scented candles, arranges dinners and hangs.
Gary follows me on Twitter.
Gary DJs Berlin nightclub, sings a few songs, we buy coke, Gary says it’s the only way he can deal with that space, those people. I take out my bike lock key and the baggie in the back of the cab, but Dora and Gary are scared, think it’s too risky because of the driver. I disagree and say it’s riskier on the street, but they ignore me. We sneak into a basement doorway near the venue and, as we pass around the baggie, a man in uniform shines a flashlight on our faces. He tries to confiscate the coke. I can tell he wants to pocket it for himself and that therefore he must be a security guard, so I cross the street and he doesn’t follow. Gary says, That was cool, Kip, the way you handled that. That was really cool.
Blake, Rowan, and Preston don’t show up at Berlin for the gig. New faces appear. One boy, in an industrial band called White Car, whispers to Gary, I’ll suck your dick or punch you in the face, whatever you like.
Gary’s other friend, Freddie Mascara shows up. All he talks about backstage is promo events sponsored by Bacardi. He wants Gary to play LA and promises that he can get the whole thing sponsored by Bravo, cocktails, photographs, food, he knows Andy Cohen. Freddie is a fashion person, works with Jeremy Scott, got his start interning for Anna Sui in New York. The show begins and Gary calls Freddie up to do a number. He walks onstage bare-chested, wearing a velour yellow thong. As he looks towards the wraparound wall mirrors and sings, Gary shoves him into the crowd. Freddie falls, startled, almost lands on his face, lets out the most unattractive yelp into the microphone; Gary laughs theatrically as if it were rehearsed.
After the show, we go to the Logan Square IHOP for pancakes. Gary’s now in a relationship with the artist Jacolby Satterwhite. It’s only his second real relationship and Jacolby is just like him, an artist. Gary stands up from the table, goes outside, calls, walks around the parking lot with the phone to his ear. I’ve never seen Gary like this. He walks back into the diner and says, Y’all, I love him so much. I just had to hear his voice.
Gary, Dora and I watch Madonna’s Truth or Dare at Dora’s apartment, smoke weed, Dora falls asleep. Gary stretches out on the couch, touches my thighs with his feet, it’s the first time he’s ever touched me. I say, Oh my god, Madonna’s seriously cool, she’s like Keith Richards cool. Gary pulls back his feet.
Gary plays the Do Division Street Fest in June. He says, I hate Chicago, and stands under the backstage tent, bored.
We go to Lula Café. Our friend Yvette, the bartender, a DJ with whom Dora performs at Rumors, stops the music and puts on Gary’s album. We ask her to turn it off, please, stop, don’t play Gary to Gary, no. It doesn’t matter. She wants to hear it. Gary blushes and buries his head in his forearms on the bar counter. Please, he says, make her stop.
Gary writes on Dora’s Facebook wall—I miss sucking your dick.
Gary wins everything he gets with friendship, force of personality; even now, on my own page, I cannot bleed him out.
Gary is the opening act for a Danish electropop band at the Aragon. The promoter rents him a hotel room. Before the show, we hang out and watch him get dressed. Gary has a suitcase full of vintage Moschino shirts that his boyfriend Jacolby set aside for him while working a day job at the used clothing store Beacon’s Closet in Williamsburg. Last week, Gary met A$AP Rocky in a hotel lobby in Miami. They were both there to perform Art Basel. Gary tells us this story twice. After the show, back at the hotel room, we don’t talk, we watch Killer Karaoke with Steve-O. Dora passes out. Gary looks bored, the concert was a wash, none of his people showed. He tells me to stay and crash, but I want to go home to take out my contacts, so I leave. He says we should grab breakfast tomorrow but doesn’t call. I track him and Dora down anyway.
Gary wants to watch the new Melissa McCarthy movie Tammy. We don’t laugh once. We go back to Dora’s apartment and sing the lyrics to the new Lana Del Ray album Ultraviolence. The songs are about bad boys, jazz and LA, now we’re laughing.
Gary headlines a show at Lincoln Hall. It’s August. The weather is good. Everyone shows up. I watch by the bar with Marko, we sing along and clap as Gary dances, stage dives, croons a pop ballad in his beautiful high-pitched singing voice. He’s looks so alive on that stage.
Gary texts to find out what’s going on after the show, accuses me of not attending. I tell him that I was there, that I just didn’t go backstage. I invite him to join me at Neo, the old industrial goth bar in Lincoln Park. They’re playing Skinny Puppy records, it’s empty, we’re snorting coke in the bathroom and dancing, no problems. Gary’s at a house party at Niall’s that I know won’t be fun. Niall wears neon blue clothes, acts loud and crazy online, but doesn’t know how to be a person at a party, he just nervously checks his phone and replies to people on Twitter. He’s a Tumblr celebrity. All of his friends are. These awkward internet party kids, it all seems so strange and new.
Gary texts me, asks me to please come to Niall’s.
A young blonde offers me a bump of coke on Niall’s balcony. Gary’s mad, accuses me of always flirting with the twinks. We walk to IHOP, order pancakes and milkshakes, and gossip about our friends who live in New York. Gary talks about people I’ve read about online but have never met, people with big Twitter personalities who don’t follow me back. I don’t have much to say about them. Gary grows bored and requests an Uber that we ride back to my Humboldt Park apartment. I’ve never been in an Uber before, it’s unsettling and efficient. It kills what little is left of the vibe.
Gary sleeps face-down on my couch, wakes up late, wants a cold brew from Intelligentsia, says that it’s basically like over-the-counter Adderall. We get buzzed at the coffeeshop. Gary says that fame makes him paranoid, that everybody seems like they’re just trying to get something from him. I nod like I know what he means, like I’m not one of the ones trying to get something from him, even if it’s just a little bit of that boost, that luster, that shine you get by standing next to him.
We have a day to kill. We go to the Mag Mile, YSL, Marc Jacobs, Jil Sander, drink champagne from a can and try on clothes. Gary’s eye works quickly. He knows what fits and what he likes the moment he sees it on the rack. He buys a rose-pink watch at Marc Jacobs, decides to wear it on the cover of his next album, it’s perfect, it’s so ugly, so great, so Marc Jacobs.
Gary says, Hold this, and hands me the tiny Marc Jacobs bag. He takes a picture of me, shows me the screen, it’s on his Instagram account like he’s about to post it to his hundreds of thousands of followers, puts his phone back in his pocket, doesn’t post it.
Dora meets us downtown at the hole-in-the-wall gay bar The Second Story. Gary and I gossip and laugh, we’re day drunk with our Marc Jacobs bags. Dora says, Wow, you two are really sistering. I’ve never hung out alone with Gary for so long. I feel like we get along better without Dora, that we might even be better friends.
Gary comes to Chicago, opens for Beth Ditto, invites Dora and her new girlfriend to hang out backstage, but doesn’t go out for dinner or drinks. They don’t call. I look angrily at the Instagram posts and vow never to go to another one of his shows.
Gary comes to Chicago, opens for DJ Hell, doesn’t contact Dora.
Our shine is fading. The carnival is over.
Dora texts Gary, says her feelings are hurt, says that she really needs to talk to him.
Gary doesn’t respond.
Matt Kessler lives in Los Angeles. His writing has appeared in The Guardian, The Atlantic, MTV News, Dazed and Confused, Pitchfork, Candy, and Vice. He is currently pursuing a PhD in Literature & Creative Writing at the University of Southern California. He can be found on twitter at Omg_MattK.
21 October 2022
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