Dee-lightful

She was 53 and she had pink hair. This in itself was not the horror show. It was the vision of her in the middle of the dance floor, absolutely wasted, falling out of her meshed, strategically ripped top, martini triumphantly raised above her head as she dry-humped the androgynous goth boy. Smugly thumbing her nose at societies conventions and waving excitedly at us; this was such stuff nightmares were made.

Her name was Dee. Undiagnosed, bitterly divorced, with a fetish for all things Gothic, and barreling down the highway to hell in a leather-studded handbasket. Dee was the main source, the crux, of our small group. She was also (at original 2002 press time), my roommate. We loved her, we hated her, we all lived on the adrenaline of perpetual flight or fight. Her age was unknown when she first entered the circle. We suspected older, but she looked great and was so upbeat and just alive with energy that we accepted her unconditionally. It was one night of drunken bets and distractions that prompted me to lift up her face-downed wallet when she wasn’t looking to peek at the birthdate. More than a little stunned that she was the same age as my father- yet sporting the attitude and personality of a 16-year-old psyche patient, I quietly informed the small group around the table. We instantly, and silently swore an oath to keep this to ourselves.

Sweet, effeminate, goth boy planted a light kiss on her cheek, Dee leered in and open mouth tongued him in the middle of the dancefloor. She then whirled around and yelled gleefully “I think he wants to fuck me!”. We all chugged what was left of our booze and hung our heads, not daring to meet the amused looks around us. This was hell, and there was a gothic/industrial soundtrack in it.

Dee lived in a great little mid-century modern house, complete with gold flecked into the popcorn ceiling, that was absolutely perfect for parties. Decorated tastefully with big chairs and candles everywhere, she had Japanese lanterns dotting the yard at all times and a well-stocked fridge that we were always happy to indulge. We drank copious amounts of alcohol, had raging parties that lasted well into the morning and even got into one or two fights with the garden hose during summer nights (one time she completely ruined her carpet in the foyer with about 2 inches of water). Dee wouldn’t bat an eye at the merest hint of an all-night bender, and since the rest of us were in our collective early twenties, she had little to no resistance each and every time. She was a fascinating train wreck, that would often get drunk and start bawling about whatever young creature she was aggressively pursuing. Dee was a bona fide cougar; we were all twits in our early 20’s.

Dee’s exhausting behavior was everywhere, even at work. There was a pattern.

At first, she would be all smiles, chattering animatedly about her studio, her painting (she was an artist with a unique voodoo theme that I adored) and her amazing, fun life. Two hours later she would either be in tears over her ex-husband, or over her latest 21-year-old conquest, 20 minutes later she would be absolutely livid and having a complete fit in the back room; breaking things, swearing and snarling at anyone that come within 3 feet. By the time you had just accepted that she was not to be approached, out she comes smiling and offering to pick up some coffee. There were many a nervous glance exchanged between anyone around her at any given time.

As is the natural course of things, I was the one who dealt with her the most. I think because I had a measure of common sense and a calming demeanor when called for at that time, I more than likely was the most solid friendship in her life. She rarely snapped at me but vented and freaked out in my presence enough to give fair warning with keen insight in regard to dealing with the mood swings. I would give her space; others would ply her with alcohol. Getting her drunk was always a mistake but seemed unavoidable with our current circle of “friends”.

And there we were, drinking cheap drinks at Gothic night at the Asylum. Being social. Taking in the sights. The usual suspects were there that particular night. A kid who went by Dog Boy who clearly had a ballet background when watching him dance, and a penchant for wearing dog collars (obviously). There was the guy in the fur coat that would always pass out on the floor behind someone’s table. The posh goths, swaddled in velvets, puffing indignantly on their cloves outside on the patio, observing the masses. Dee clearly wanted to take someone home that night and the idea went around the table that maybe someone should intervene. There were no volunteers.

Dee was full blown making out with the goth boy now, martini spilling lightly down his back and dripping onto the floor. To this day I remember watching that spectacle, draining my drink, and looking to pull an Irish Exit to beat her home and lock myself in my bedroom so I wouldn’t have to deal with anyone as per usual during our goth club nights, which were quite frequent.

You have to understand the 80’s gothic scene was having a mini revival in Sacramento in the early 2000’s. Clubs full of thumping bass with distorted vocals were saturated with tattoos and piercings, chain smokers, heavy velvet, lots of tight black dresses, people who thought they were vampires and heavy makeup. It was like playing dress up every weekend except you are tossing on your grandmothers’ clothes that were too small for you and ripping them up with precision. For one year solid I wore my Magenta costume (From Rocky Horror Picture Show-I was a dead ringer) to different clubs (sans apron usually, but I did sport it once or twice) and was showered with compliments. Hop Topic was still just a store in the mall, it was not a way of life yet. We were still dying our clothes black, as dressing in all dark colors wasn’t mainstream enough for clothes we liked to be sold in that color. We were still making special trips to San Francisco’s bondage shops on Haight St. for the fishnets.

Nowadays I’ll see younger somethings in full black regalia, including colorful fishnet gloves and black lipstick and I want to A.) hug them and tell them it’s not a phase, and B.) hope they had goth parents who explained how easy they have it now. At the click of a button, you too can order see- through platforms full of fake spiders, all the black lipstick you can handle and appropriate, gothic attire that is now practically mainstream because of the show Wednesday. Goths never had it so good. Its their time to shine! (Or darken corners.)

In the end, Dee did not bring goth boy home. It was morning after I cautiously emerged, and when we were both making breakfast, that she said something about an argument in the parking lot and was quite hazy with the details. Quite the anti-climactic ending to the softcore porn scene playing out on the dancefloor, under pulsing lights and thumping bass. Maybe there was a reality check on both sides when the club lights came on?

I do remember the club visits dwindling after this event. I was starting to make new friends and get into a different scene, and Dee’s behavior at bars was starting to drive a wedge in between what had to be the most perilous connection ever.

Dee’s influence in my life will never be forgotten. She lived hard and fast, and was just absolutely riveting. You could not tear your eyes away. All you could do was watch her crash and burn in an explosion of flames, and then watch her neatly put back the pieces and start all over again. This time with a stronger drink.

If Dee started teaching Master classes on the art of not giving a fuck, I would pay money to hear from the master.

**I regret I have ZERO pictures from that era of my life. Apologies!