There is a curse which states that whoever leaves Richmond, no matter the circumstances, is destined to return.
I’ve rented vans for friends and delivered "Dear Johns" to unfortunate significant others. I’ve stored their furniture and even carried a 25 gallon tank, housing an iguana, down Floyd Avenue for the sake of friendship.
I drove more than one friend to the bus station or airport and stood on the tarmac, smugly waving goodbye, knowing very well that he will return before the year’s end.
I am also a victim of this curse. I got out of Richmond for almost a decade. I had packed everything down to the dinnerware and ashtrays. I even took the cats. Perhaps I thought the more of my life I moved with me, the less chance there would be of my return.
Not only was I disastrously wrong, but I had learned that not only would I have to transport my former life back home, but also my newly accrued one. That was not cheap.
What’s changed?
Almost every apartment building has gone condo, VCU got larger and uglier, and the gay clubs have diminished into warehouses and hair salons. Even Grace Street has become non life-threatening.
I walk into Empire and take a seat at the bar. In high school, I used to come here when it was Rockitz, to see upcoming bands like Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians and the Throwing Muses.
When the Hole in the Wall was next door, a man got shot in the leg and died. I gave poetry readings, and witnessed a beating on the corner of Laurel and Broad. We had to drive from one end of the block to the other for a pack of cigarettes.
What is most amazing is that the people are exactly the same. I realize that the ones I knew almost 10 years ago have gotten older. But when they did, a younger generation slid into their places and took over their habits. Maybe they were snakes, sliding out of their dusty skins.
Two doors down from Ipanema was The Red Light, a strip club I got thrown out of twice for demonstrating to friends how to tuck a dollar bill into a dancer’s g-string. Across the street was the porn cinema, which is now a VCU theater. Ipanema gets started later on in the evening, so right now, there are only three other people at the bar when I sit down.
"If you could be any animal, which one would you be?" I say, introducing myself to the guy next to me.
"Ah man, if I have to hear that question one more time today …" Jay stares down at his beer, rolls his head back and forth. "Is an insect an animal?"
"Sure."
"Then it would have to be," Jay squints up his face. "A penguin."
All people are approachable at Ipanema. I’ve held aesthetic conversations in line for the bathroom. The poor have bought me beer. This is where I had met Matteo. Since those days, Ipanema has become a terminus for bike couriers and other cyclists around Richmond.
Half a block up is The Village Café, which used to be A Sunny Day, a clothing boutique. The Village was located across Harrison where there is now an abandoned storefront. I once sat behind that window for more than a of couple hours, being stood up on a date.
The bartender, Graham, has blond hair and tight faded blue jeans. He asks if I like brandy.
"Like her?" I reply. "I did her."
Graham winks and puts down a brandy in front of me. I pick up the drink, catch his wink in my eye, and raise my glass.
A blind man was once beaten and robbed in the bathroom. They also used to serve melted brie with apple slices. Yum! Many nights had begun their trajectories from this barstool.
Maybe this curse is ancient. After all, like my alma mater, Rome, Richmond was built on seven hills: Union, Council Chamber, Shockoe, Church, Navy, Gamble’s, and French Garden. Though there are many others, these are the official ones.
Now you know.
By the end of the night, I have collected three free drinks, a free motorcycle lesson, a phone number with only six digits (but it might actually be a license plate number), and a worn copy of "The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole," which I found in an alley.
Richmond is the usurper of Poe, the place where Mr. Bojangles first tied on his tap shoes, and where creepy Civil War aficionados camp out on Monument Avenue once a year.
To Richmond and its stairwells I tumbled down and the grassy knolls I’ve slept upon. The elevator shaft the son of a famous writer slipped into, and to Shirley MacLaine, Patricia Cornwell and the Southside Strangler.
I wear this city like a loose skin. I left you once and what has really changed?
Cheers Richmond, you f----n’ win.
Jonathan Cade is an American citizen and currently lives in the Fan. He’s been known to teach an occasional creative class at various institutions. He lived in Italy for six years with his boyfriend. He eats tacos, and takes "no" for an answer. His friends call him Jonny Cake. His column, Dating Craig, appears on Richmond.com every Tuesday.
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