Joey Brooks, The Show Must Go On ______________________________________
By Joey Brooks & Todd Kachinski-Kottmeier
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Copyright © 2011 by BecHavn Publishing Group All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. First Edition.
ISBN 978-1-105-08205-4
Printed in the United States www.BecHavn.com Cover photos: visualfx
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This book is dedicated to my family and friends, who not only supported me my entire life, but gave me the confidence to accomplish goals I never thought possible ______________________________________
Chapter One ______________________________________
Tricks Are For Kids ______________________________________
“I started out playing kick the can in my mother’s high heels” Hudson & Landry
Joseph Lawson
Joey Brooks
“Fuck, my feet are killing me” I could tell that the bartender couldn’t care less. He handed me my Goldschlager, as he walked off to the opposite end of the bar, leaving me to some customer rambling about the good old days of El Goya. Why is it that so many people spend so much effort discussing the good old days? I picked up my shot glass and drank my Goldschlager, slamming the glass to the tile bar. A few of the customers around me laughed, asking if Joey Brooks had a toast. A toast. Sometimes I feel the best things I have left behind in life will be the toasts that I created standing on stage over the past thirty-four years. Holy crap did I just say thirty-four years? No wonder an old man keeps trying to stare back at me in the mirror. Thirty-four years ago, I could not stop staring at the reflection of myself between an Absolut and a Blue Skyy Vodka bottle. Thirty-Four years ago. Over three damn decades… I cannot believe I was seventeen years old, sitting with my friend Tony Waddell, in the front seat of my yellow 1973 Firebird Formula, with its four slant square headlights reflecting across the building in front of me. I turned the key counterclockwise, took the gearshift out of position, and engaged the brake. The 455-cubic engine rumbled to a halt echoing off the building, in a low tone, reminding me, this may be the last production of the Detroit muscle cars. Seems to me, the vice-president of King High School’s Bible Club should not have been sitting in the slums of Tampa waiting to go into his first gay bar. This is not the behavior of a teenager, who plays the church organ three times a week at the Baptist Church. My mind questions, if perhaps I could use his time for more spiritual activities. I tell you, my brain freaked out. I never realized the black interior of my car helped create a shadow, adding to the overcast of darkness created by the dinosaur of a building in front of me. I had never been to Ybor City. It was not a place where good people went, to tell you the truth; it was not a place, where any decent human being went. How many times in your life do you enter a good part of town under a friend’s advice, “whatever you do, do not come to a complete stop at the stop signs?” If West Florida has a ghost town, it is Ybor
City, which wraps the docks of North Tampa Bay. Every building on Seventh Avenue looks dark and desolate, the kind of place you find inside some Hitchcock movie leading up to death. My friend Tony was a little older than me, and quite the regular at the bar that we were about to enter. In the darkness of my Firebird, I could see his dumb ass grin as he mocked the fear stained on my face. It did not matter. I was dressed to kill that night. I had my best beige polyester pants on. The collar on my shirt stood three inches, pointing out in each direction, and I was wearing the coolest tan loafers in my closet. I looked into the rear-view mirror, seeking a glance of confirmation of my good looks to see only the shadow of the back of the building, darkening the front of my car. “Who the fuck makes their customers park in the alley of the hood,” I asked Tony? He did not respond as he opened the door and jumped out, running to the back entrance of this massive building. I reached over and locked his door, catching my breath with a prayer, asking God to protect my car and exited the vehicle. This is one big damn building! It seemed so out of place in Ybor City. I stood in front of its red bricks, practically alone, because Tony vanished into the beast, adding to my intimidation. I inhaled one more time, praying that it would give me some confidence, reached out, pulled the door open, and entered the building. There is something about music that always changes your outlook of life. A fast song played at the right time can make you stand up and dance. Songs define episodes of our life. A sad song can slow your mood, a romantic song can often touch your heart, and a song by ABBA will make you feel like a superstar. This is the age of disco, in its infancy. Only a few months before, a new movie called “Saturday Night Fever” brought the Bee Gees, Donna Summer, platform shoes, and the belief that even the most masculine Italian men could dance. The soundtrack for the Bee Gees released just the previous year, displaced the music industry. Blue jeans became polyester leisure pants. Pullover turtlenecks in my closet transformed to collared long sleeve shirts, and tennis shoes now shared space with black patent leather platforms. That night, on the outside, I looked like a superstar.
Outside is not inside. That night I felt like that building. I drove up to this barren building, drab with no life, to enter its door to discover a vibrant atmosphere hidden within its walls. I was the opposite that night. On the outside, I was spectacular, while inside, I was scared shitless, and I could tell Tony loved every moment of it. Entering El Goya seemed like a maze. I was walking down aisles and pathways totally lost. I entered the building into a country bar, surrounded by customers and employees that knew Tony by name. There was no way I could ever remember everyone’s name he introduced me to, but each smile was definitely calming me down. “Rum and Coke!” Tony screamed at the bartender, as he looked at me and shrugged. I was still a year away from turning eighteen enabling me to drink legally, but the thought of drinking that night, did not sit well with my stomach. I ordered a plain coke. Tony was obviously the social butterfly hopping from one conversation to the other, as he slowly led me down the pathway to a leather store, tucked in the belly of the beast. Dildos, dildos, dildos, cock rings, dildos, some leather thing that goes on your head, dildos, dildos, dildos, and do not even ask me what the thing is on the third shelf. I bet in 1890, when they built the Las Novedades restaurant on this location, did they ever imagine so many gay people packed in their building. I giggled, as I looked at all the rubber paraphernalia, knowing that even the most famous customer in history to walk on this property, Theodore Roosevelt would have found himself stumped for words. It gives “Carry a big stick” a new meaning.
Chapter Two ______________________________________
Abracadabra ______________________________________
“Here’s to the hole that never heals, The more you rub it, the better it feels. You can rub it and scrub it from here to hell, But you’ll never get rid of that fishy smell” Author Unknown, Toast by Joey Brooks
With Phillip Pinkerman and a fan, at Tracks
As Charro
To the left, to the left, to the right, to the right, shake your tail feather; shake your tail feather… Ah, I remember as if it was yesterday. I finally found a home. Well, El Goya is not a home, unless your house resembled a midcentury dungeon. The building was a cavernous skeleton under repair, after the November 13, 1977 fire tried to destroy the building for its third time in history. The stains of the fire still lingered in the atmosphere of the bar, disguised by the incredible energy of songs, “Shadow Dancing,” “If I Can’t Have You,” and, “Disco Inferno.” Disco was full throttle across the nation with Donna Summer and any of the Bee Gees tearing up the radio. To the left, to the left, to the right, to the right, two steps forward, two steps back. Gosh, I do not know at this point, if those were the steps to the hustle, I learned with forty people on the dance floor, or the moral compass of my life. This was not King High School. For the education, I was embarking on, concerned being in a safe place, and learning about myself. At King High, I had to be the good boy, with the good grades, with the good reputation, coming from a good family. In El Goya, I have the chance to be Joseph Lawson. In El Goya, I am proud to be a gay man, in my sexual prime, making my rounds in a bar best suited for a mouse seeking a wedge of cheese. This massive building became my school of higher education, disguised behind positions created for me. I had assimilated myself into the non-staff staff, by assuming the duties of operating the spotlight. By now, I was far past the point of someone describing me as a regular customer. Palm up, turn left hand, twist, close fingers; wave right hand slowly over the left hand, tap left hand knuckles. Return right hand to side, turn left hand facing the audience, slowly open fingers to reveal palm, as I quickly catch a bright red ball that has magically appeared catching my friends in the restaurant off guard. Damn, I was a great magician. I sat there in the Dutch Pantry Restaurant showing my friends my new magic trick. Two of my new friends, were slightly older. Brenda Dee and Tommy was a married couple that was both transgendered in opposite
directions. Brenda was a red-hot headline performer and the show director for El Goya. Brenda convinced me that I should enter the next talent show at the nightclub. I sat there in the restaurant eating my Apple Fritter Sundae, contemplating as I stared down at the little foam ball rolling amongst the pre-bussed plates, wondering if my magic act would be appreciated. Across the table sat an enthusiastic Brenda Dee. I explained to her that it would be hard to compete in a gay bar doing magic tricks amongst talented, new drag queens vying for the customer’s attention. She reminded me that the prize was $100 cash. With that said, back in the days when $100 meant something, the date was set. Wednesday was just like any ordinary Wednesday. I do not necessarily remember the weather. I cannot recall if I attended classes that day. I vaguely remember that I worked at the Montgomery Ward Automotive Department. I do however; remember arriving at the spectacular dressing room for the talent contest. To this day, I cannot recall any of the eight to ten drag queens sharing the room with me. El Goya’s Grande Dame, Brenda Dee, pulled me away, and explained her vision. I laughed, realizing that Brenda had wrapped herself in a turquoise blue gown, standing in front of me looking like Norma Desmond, with a matching turban wrapped around her head, held up with large rhinestones, an inch above her forehead. In Brenda’s right hand was a red wig. She placed the hair on my head. It caught me off guard, until I realized the direction that she was leading me. I stood there in the green room, on the second level of the club smirking, realizing that the other performers, that I was to compete against, were limited to lip-synching against each other. The showroom consumed about forty percent of the entire square footage of the first floor of the building. The stage consisted of black and grey painted plywood with no curtains. The backdrop was also plywood, still painted from the last major show revue. One by one, each of the other performers came out on the stage, trying their hardest to work the crowd, with their best version of Gloria Gaynor and Olivia Newton John singing, “You better shape up, ‘cause I need a man”.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the audience puzzled, when a table took center stage for my act. The music queued up, as the amber glow of the spotlight blinded my view of the entire audience. I reached onto the table and held up my Zombie ball, which seemed to hover mysteriously between my extended hands in midair. Trick by trick, supported by audience appreciation, as registered by the applause. This led to my closing act, of me placing a match inside a pan, setting it ablaze, placing a lid on the container to control the fire, re-opening the pan, to the amazement of the audience, as a white dove appeared. I won the contest, I got $100, but more importantly, a new, unnamed performer had entered the Tampa Bay scene.
Many people keep scrapbooks… it takes 3 large storage bins for all my memories
Esme Russell
Melanie Minyon
Chapter Three ______________________________________
Inspired ______________________________________
“Here's to the boys I fucked the best. I fucked them east and I fucked them west. When they're dead and long forgotten, I'll dig them up and fuck them rotten.” Author Unknown, Toast by Joey Brooks
After a Production Number
Bobbie Lake, Eve Starr, Brenda Dee, Tommy Jackson, Kim Ross, Miss Vicky from Parliament House, and now me; too funny! The thought of me doing drag fell nowhere inside my imagination. Most of the audience helped me win with their applause, later they confessed they never saw magic done in drag. I couldn’t care less. I sat there on the risers in the Cave Bar, with a smirk on my face, still receiving compliments from patrons, and $100 in my pocket. I thought on my drive home, “This kind of money I could get used to!” When you own a car with black interior, living in the state of Florida, you learn quickly, items cannot be stored inside your car. You do not leave soda containers, for they will explode. You do not leave an exposed black interior vinyl seat waiting to scald your exposed flesh, when you sit upon it. You quickly learn not to store makeup inside the trunk of your car. I was not crazy; my classmates, Montgomery Ward co-workers, or my family did not need to know the details of my new adventure. To them, I was still Joey Lawson, church organist; and that was fine with me. My trips to El Goya were more frequent, as I became close friends with Candy Kiss, Misha Harris, and Edie Edwards, who had become new cast members. There were two funny things about Candy Kiss. If there was ever a love child of Professor John Robinson, the father on Lost In Space, it was Candy Kiss. To make the correlation even funnier, she lived in Sulfur Springs with an older man, in a house shaped exactly like the space ship from Lost In Space. All of the performers hung out in her Sulfur Springs home, smoking pot, practicing routines, and sharing the latest gossip of the day. I was still the most naïve of the bunch. I did not smoke, rarely drank, and still lived with Mom and Dad. Now do not get me wrong, by now the draw of sexy men, giving me undivided attention, helped make this my sexual revolution. Nowadays you would refer to me, as being a slut. “Put your makeup on to impress the guy in the back seat of the show bar,” so much bizarre information to be learning that was beyond my scope of understanding. It all seemed so bizarre, often
feeling surreal, as if I were another person, inside a dream sequence, hovering above my own body. The people around me practiced dance routines to pantomime, while others in the bar asked if my next routine would include magic. Brenda Dee decided that for the next talent show; I would perform Yvonne Elliman’s, “If I Can’t Have You.” I did not win. I did not come close to winning. I realized that many of my new friends convincing me to not do magic, were using their advice to level the playing field so they could beat me at the next talent show. Most likely, the night’s performance, by another artist, changed the direction of not my upcoming talent shows, but also perhaps my life. I could not foresee a life of magic in drag. The winner did a funny gimmick during her number, instantly winning the audience over. Something inside me said, “This is the adoration I wanted from the audience.” Brenda Dee told me to define a comedy niche. Would I not only possibly win the talent shows, but also have a productive career as a female impersonator. For a week, as I sat behind the spotlight, watching the talent of the cast members, my brain raced to create a clever routine. I knew that success would have to include not only my talents, but also a gimmick, with a perfect song. Not many people understand all the intricate parts needed to create a mannequin used for displaying clothes in a retail store. The audience at the upcoming talent show roared loudly as I came in on a stretcher, with body parts slowly falling to the floor, as Patsy Cline belted out “I Fall To Pieces.” By the end of the song, my wig had fallen off. I once again, won the talent show and cemented my reputation for being talented enough to be funny. My poor friend Tony. By now, my poor friend helped me create imaginative new angles to long established songs. I would like to believe he was having as much fun. The following week I entered the stage in a white evening gown. It was very plain, financed by my meager money, as I sat down at a table. Slowly Tony, the DJ, began the soundtrack for Carly Simon’s “Anticipation.” As the song drifted into the imagination of the audience, I pulled out a bottle of Heinz Ketchup, the sort of bottle that corresponded with the popular commercial playing on television.
The audience watched, as I shook the bottle violently, trying to make the ketchup pour from the spout. About halfway through the song, I reached down, into a lunch bag I brought on stage, secretly pulled the plastic tab that was preventing the ketchup from pouring out of the bottle, and sat my hot dog on the table. Just as the end of the song hit its last note, I turned the bottle over. Using the most forceful slap I could muster, I smacked the bottom of the bottle, as the contents exploded across my prim white dress, winning me my third talent show. I was in my prime. I was so elated with the attention pouring in my direction. I had become Brenda Dee’s protégé, as she hauled me from the Jolly Roger in Ft. Myers to the Green Parrot in Lakeland, Florida. My routines were becoming more inventive, and people were starting to follow my act with enthusiasm. To tell you the truth, it was great for my sex life. The El Goya cast of performers still did not include me. I do not know if it was my inexperience, my youth, or just the fact that it was not my time. However, that was okay with me, because at that this point I believe I was still a student among the masters of the craft. Florida is one of those states with two million residents one year, and the next year had twelve million. During that radical transition of growth, Florida managed to hold its senior citizen mentality of rolling up the streets by nine each night. The only busy bars in Tampa were in undesirable locations. I cannot recall many straight nightclubs known for their over the top atmospheres. On Tuesday night, at the University Mall on Fowler Avenue, the students of the University of South Florida, random gays, and an occasional freak would line up at midnight at the cinema, waiting to watch the “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” In the theater, patrons were dressed as their favorite character. My friend Tony and I stood with a bag of bread in hand for the toast scene. In all of the insanity, we realized that amongst all this craziness was hidden my next prize to win a talent show performance. I had moved out of my parents’ home to my own apartment near the mall, with a roommate that had a passion for picking up hitchhikers for sex. On one of my solo trips to Ft. Myers, I had a hookup with someone I was contemplating dating on a regular basis.
My life was coming together. For some strange reason, I had passed a sign that said Brooks Street, and it came to heart to adopt it as my new last name. I had now become Joey Brooks. The lights go down in the show bar. I was so excited standing there in the darkness waiting for the music to queue. I wished so badly that the people in the attached country bar could see my next performance. Before I had a chance to think about the goose bumps forming on the back of my neck, as loud as Tony could start the music, as quickly as the spotlight could flash upon my body, the audience stood up and took notice as I took charge of the stage. I stormed across the apron and down the center plank that held the stage above the audience, dressed in a black corset, as the music blared “Sweet Transvestite.” In sixteen chords, Joseph Lawson, who entered Ybor City as a magician, had become Joey Brooks the entertainer.
Now get off this section, and go back to buy the rest of my book!