I Got Clocked!

MotheraGod, I can’t believe it. I jus’ can’t believe it. It happened. It finally happened. I can’t believe it, but it finally happened. It finally fuckin’ happened. It just happened t’ happen. It just had t’ fuckin’ happen. To me, finally. It finally fuckin’ happened. I can’t believe it, but it finally fuckin’ happened. It happened. To me. Finally. Fuck.

I was walkin’ the dog. Of all things, an’ a’ all times. I was walkin’ the dog. It happened when I was walkin’ the dog. I was jus’ walkin’ the’ dog when it happened. I was fuckin’ walkin’ the dog. That’s when it happened. When I was walkin’ the fuckin’ dog. That’s when it finally had t’ happen. Of all things, an’ a’ all times, that’s when it finally had t’ happen. When I was walkin’ the fuckin’ dog. That’s when it happenend.

I was right outside McDonald’s. On Broadway. Broadway & Cook. I was right outside McDonald’s. On Broadway. And Cook. I was right outside McDonald’s on Broadway & Cook. Tonight. On Broadway and Cook, right outside McDonald’s. That’s where it happened. Tonight. It happened tonight, of all nights, right outside McDonald’s on Broadway & Cook.

What happened? I’ll tell ya what happened. I’ll tell ya what happened, right then and there, when I was walkin’ the dog. When I was walkin’ the dog, tonight, across from McDonald’s, on Broadway & Cook. I’ll tell ya what happened. Y’might not be as int’rested as I’d like y’t’be, but I’ll tell y’ jus’ th’ same. I’ll tell ya, ‘cuz y’must be wonderin’. Y’must be wonderin’ by now. If, by now, y’er not doin’ anythin’ other’n readin’ or lookin’ at somethin’ else, then y’er wonderin’. If y’er not readin’ or lookin’ at somethin’ else by now, then y’er wonderin’. Y’er wonderin’ what happened. So I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell ya what happened. I’ll tell ya what happened tonight. What happened tonight when I was walkin’ the dog across from McDonald’s. McDonald’s on Broadway & Cook. What happened then, and what happened there was... I got clocked. I got clocked tonight when I was walkin’ the dog across from McDonald’s on Broadway & Cook. Yup. That’s it. That’s what happened. I got clocked. I got clocked but good. Here in my own neighborhood, where I’ve lived for two years. Where I’ve lived for two years, an’ where I’ve never had a run-in with any of “my own kind,” so to speak, it happened. It finally happened. It finally happened tonight. Tonight, of all times, it finally happened. Tonight, I got clocked. I got clocked but good. An’ the weirdest part is, I didn’t even know it ‘til long after it happened.

A few hours after it happened, a beautiful young boy said “Hi” to me in a bar. He said “Hi” to me. Long after it’d happened, he said “Hi.” Like he knew me. He said “Hi” like he knew me. So I gathered that maybe he did. I gathered maybe he did know me. So I was game. I said “Hi” back. I said “Hi.” And then I asked, “Do I know you?” He said, “I saw you walking your dog tonight. Right outside McDonald’s. I saw you walking your dog. And when I saw you, I said to myself, 'Oh, there’s gay people here. Cool.'”

Clocked. Fuck.

After all this time here, alone with my dog, I’d gotten used to not being visibly gay. Sure, I was white, I was male; I was even middle class and artsy. But I hadn’t been “tagged” yet as being gay. The racial and socio-economic circles around here don’t have much time for sexual politics. They presume everyone around them is heterosexual. They don’t have time for anything else. They’re too busy surviving to even ponder it. Anything else, that is. Sexually speaking. They don’t have time to ponder anything else sexually. Even if there are a hundred men fucking each other on the “Down Low.” Even if there are a hundred women living together because “their men have all left them…”

But if one gay boy in one gay bar in Brooklyn was able to clock me as being a homo, in my own neighborhood – well, that means the end of my anonymity in that neighborhood. I suppose I should feel good about being recognized. I suppose I should feel “proud.” But I don’t. I don’t feel proud. I don’t feel good, or warm, or fuzzy, or proud to have been clocked by another gay in my neighborhood. Instead I feel sad. I feel sad that my escape is no longer an escape. I feel bummed that other queers have started moving in. I can’t stand that I might be starting the next queer hip neighborhood in Brooklyn. All I wanted was to get away from the gay ghetto. But it seems I’ve just started its next charter.

There’s nothing to repeat here. There’s nothing to wax poetic. Apparently I’m the proverbial self-loathing homo. Apparently I can’t stand my own kind. Why else would I try to move away from them? Why else would I pride myself on living in seclusion? Why else would I hate the appearance of others like me in the area where I’d established myself as separate and un-needing of them and their like?

Getting clocked isn’t good. It’s not a desirable thing. It’s not like getting recognized, or acknowledged, or rewarded. Getting clocked is a bad thing. Gettin' clocked sucks. You don’t wanna get clocked. Trust me. You don’t. I wish I hadn’t been clocked. I wish that boy’d never seen me, no matter how beautiful he is. What’s his problem, anyway? Doesn’t he have anything better to look at?