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constance-mcentee · 10 months

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The Wind Cries Molly

Tuesday, 1 August 2023

This story was inspired by the Atlas Obscura article about Molly Houses, as well as the songs The Wind Cries Mary by Jimi Hendrix and East of Eden by Big Country.

The Wind Cries Molly A Love on this Wasteland Story by Constance McEntee

I could start this with, “It was a dark and stormy night.” But that’s not only cliché, it would be just plain old wrong. It wasn’t stormy on this particular night. Hell, it wasn’t even really night, per se. It was a spring evening. Cold, to be sure, and a bit cloudy. But nothing so dramatic as “dark and stormy.”

Oh, well. It’s a fun phrase.

I was walking this breezy spring evening to the Goldfish Taproom. Though I’d been hoping I’d be walking with another instead of making this trip on my own. I tried not to dwell on my loneliness, but I couldn’t help but think I really looked the part. One hand in my pocket, my other hand on a walking stick, shoulders hunched up in an effort to keep the back of my neck warm with the collar of my coat. I knew I should’ve grabbed a scarf before I set out earlier, but I’d misjudged how quickly the evening air would cool as the sun set.

Misjudging seemed to be something I was doing a lot lately.

I know it’s cliché to say the air seemed colder and the wind a bit stronger as I walked alone down the pavement, but it really did feel that way. It’s often said there’s safety in numbers. Well, one is a number that’s easily overwhelmed. And that’s how I felt just then and there. I felt more than merely alone and lonely. It was something deeper than that. Vulnerable! That was it. I felt vulnerable. It wasn’t like Stone Cross in particular or Westhold in general were terrible places to live if you weren’t heterosexual. There weren’t any laws against our existence. It was more that we were strongly encouraged to reconsider our desires.

Who was I trying to kid? For all intents and purposes, Westhold was a cisgender, heterosexual, Christian theocracy. There might not have been laws forbidding our existences, but the norms of society all but made our existences difficult at the very least. And when people like me encountered trouble, we really couldn’t rely on The Law to aid us. But if you knew where and how to look, sanctuaries could be found. One such sanctuary was in the Goldfish Taproom and its Molly Room.

The trick was to be alert for society’s self-appointed enforcers of Right and Proper Gender Roles while trying not to look like you were nervous as hell. Because if we knew how to find our safe places, so did They. And They would do what They could to make safe spaces unsafe, if not wreck them outright. Maybe if I was walking with another I’d feel a little less vulnerable, but there still would have been the possibility of a risk even if there had been two of us.

But before long, I crossed the threshold of my sanctuary without trouble.

“Good evening, Mr. Frost!” the proprietor, Julian Gold, called out as I stepped inside.

“Good evening, Mr. Gold!” I shouted back, just as happily. I wasn’t necessarily feeling as happy as our shouted greetings sounded, but there was something about Mr. Gold’s seemingly endless cheerfulness that was so— I don’t want to say “infectious,” because that would make his joy sound like a disease. But, I can’t think of a better word. Influential? Maybe that’s a better word, as my mood certainly seemed influenced by his. At any rate, he knew how to make me feel not only welcome but almost cheerful when I wasn’t feeling particularly cheery.

“And how are you on this fine, spring evening?”

“I’ve been better,” I replied without even really thinking about what I was saying.

“Oh?”

“Let’s just say Dean isn’t what I thought he was.”

“Nathan, did you fall in love with another straight?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Julian nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes. Cocoa with whiskey and cream?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Because when you’re happy, you want coffee liqueur with cream. Over ice.”

“You’re a stalker. You know that, right?”

“I am most certainly not a stalker!” Julian drew himself up as if he’d been scandalized. “Good bartenders simply need to know what their regulars like. Go find a seat. It’ll be right out.”

Out. Now that was a loaded word. In this case, Julian meant my drink would be brought out of the main room and into back room where people like me could gather undisturbed.

“And where do you think you’re going?” the molly at the inner door asked archly. Yes: molly. It was an older word from long before the Great Fall. We chose to use that word for our community, as opposed to the words the hateful had for us.

And, yes: there was a ritual challenge to enter the Molly Room. I hated that it seemed necessary, but completely understood why at the same time. While my people weren’t officially illegal in Westhold in general and Stone Cross in particular, those who assaulted us rarely encountered any legal consequences. These self-annointed vigilantes of morality were everywhere, and they occasionally tried to hunt us down in our sanctuaries. It was safer for them to do so in private places than out on the public streets. But in these private places rules and regulations regarding weaponry, concealed or otherwise, were determined by the property owner. That was simply Westhold law, and Stone Cross was one small city in the nation. The building where the Goldfish Taproom could be found was owned by none other than Julian Gold, possibly the molliest of all the mollies. So he set the rules for weapons.

“It’s okay, I’m a friend of Oscar,” I replied, subtly gesturing with my walking stick.

“Well, then, right this way!” the molly said, opening the door with a grand swish.

Being a Friend of Oscar was the password into the Molly Room. And we meant Oscar Wilde, of course. There’s that famous portrait of him seated with a walking stick in one hand. We all had such things. Some had concealed blades in them, but most didn’t. And only the mollies were allowed to be armed in the Goldfish Taproom. Our sanctuaries often trained us to fight with our canes as if we were fencing. There had to be more to our lives than that tired old saying, “Si vis pacem, para bellum; If you want peace, prepare for war.” I hated that this seemed to be the reality of our lives here. But even with these seemingly constant reminders of society being arrayed against us, here among the mollies is where I could feel at ease.

As I proceeded across the threshold and into the inner sanctum of the Molly Room, a sense of peace and belonging washed over me. But even though I felt this sense of belonging, I could still imagine how we looked to outside eyes. I dismissed such thoughts. I knew there was more, much more, to us than how the hateful regarded us. At the same time, it was just so difficult to not think those thoughts when such things were shouted at us quite literally so often.

Taking a seat in an empty wing chair, I just surveyed the room. To my eyes, these so-called mollies were just a specific subgroup of the men of Stone Cross. There were slender effeminates, burly laborers, and everything in between. Some would bring a change of clothes, clothing that wouldn’t be wise to wear on The Outside. And, that wasn’t even including the drag queens and cross-dressers. Yes, there was a good variety of folks there. And so long as Julian Gold owned this building, the Goldfish Taproom would be the premier gathering place in Stone Cross for the likes of me. And there were various mollies in his will to inherit this place after his death.

Just as I was thinking these thoughts, Julian himself came in with my drink.

“A personal delivery? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” he replied. “I simply wanted to be here in person to explain why it might seem watered down. I didn’t add as much whiskey this time. Nathan, don’t try to drown your sorrows with alcohol. Those bastards can swim all too well!”

I nodded, my eyes starting to tear up. “Thank you, Julian.”

He nodded in return, and moved to take his leave.

I was a bit miffed that he’d taken this seemingly paternal attitude toward me. But then, there were those who called him Uncle Goldie for good reason. It was as if he’d adopted all of us, in a way.

He was a source of hope for us, inspiring the mollies of Stone Cross to keep on keeping on amidst all the abuse, harassment, and violence we endured. We’d heard stories about Hellsapoppin to the west, where people like us were treated like regular members of society. There was often talk about making the journey across the border now that the war was over. True, their society and culture was very different from ours. Part of me wanted to emigrate while part of me wanted to stay. Stone Cross, Westhold, was my home! Why should I have to give up hope just to stay here? Why should I give up my home just to have hope?

Julian was right, though: self-medicating with alcohol was not a good idea. I knew there were others who seemed to be able to do tha safely. But it was a bad idea for me. And, the drink still tasted good. It wasn’t so much watered down as just heavier on the cream.

Easing back into my chair, I took Dean’s letter out of my coat pocket. Yes, the same pocket my hand had been in on my walk over here. It was as if I’d been holding his letter since I couldn’t hold him. His words seemed genuinely apologetic, mistaking my overtures for close friendship. He hadn’t meant to lead me on. Sentiments like that. It was all very bittersweet, and gave me much to think about. But my reverie was cut short by a commotion at the door.

“I told you, hag, I’m a friend of Oscar!” A very metrosexual looking man had just blustered his way past the molly at the door.

The room quieted almost immediately.

“Oh, gentlemen, do continue your carryings on,” the newcomer said. “I’ll just cruise around, if you don’t mind.”

“We do mind very much indeed, Constable,” Mr. Gold declared. “If it’s cruising you want, you’ll have to go elsewhere. We don’t do that here. This is gathering space. We talk, drink, eat, but we don’t cruise. Not here. We don’t discourage it, and we can certainly guide you to establishments where you desires can be fulfilled.”

“‘Constable’?” the newcomer repeated. Did he sound a bit nervous? “Why would you call me that?”

I don’t know how the others felt, but I could swear my heart stopped at the word “constable.” Looking around, I noticed other mollies leaning on their walking sticks, some tapping them on the floor.

“Darling,” the door warden molly said, “Uncle Goldie knows a great deal of things, and is a very keen observer.”

“And that does bear another question, Constable,” Mr. Gold continued. Oh, yes: in situations like this he wasn’t Julian or Uncle Goldie. At least, not to me. No. He was Mr. Gold, landed gentry of Stone Cross. Such displays of power shouldn’t have been necessary. But when they were, he played the part perfectly. “Are you here trying to make some arrests on false charges? Or are you really One of Us?”

The constable just glowered.

“I’m betting both,” another molly shouted.

The constable looked suddenly helpless.

“Oh, my dear constable,” Mr. Gold said. “You are between a rock and a hard place aren’t you? ‘Come now, and let us reason together’.”

For some reason, that seemed to work: quoting scripture. The constable nodded and left with Uncle Goldie. It seemed we might have a new molly among us.

#love on this wasteland #fiction #cc by nc sa #queer #queer fiction

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