Stress Center
- Nico Sansegraw
- 2 days ago
- 5 min read
Chapter Five:
“Here bitch, take this,” Chad said, handing me a warm washcloth from the linen closet. I was throwing up, and it was only 11 a.m.
I sat up from the toilet and wiped my mouth. “I feel better now,” I said, trying to rally.
“Yeah, well, we’re just getting started. Get it together, girl. This is a stress center.”
That was our code for when everything was a mess, but we weren’t ready to admit it. It came from when Lindsay Lohan would go to rehab but the press would call it something else. Like it was just a little break. A refresh. A stress center.
It was Mardi Gras in St. Louis, and I had driven up the night before, right after my restaurant shift. There had been a snowstorm, and my car slid half the way up, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to miss it. I never missed it. I had been coming for years out of tradition. It was chaos. And I was ready for it.
Chad’s apartment was warm, loud, and full of people by 9 a.m. There were beads on the floor, drinks in hand, and someone was frying bacon. Chad was passing out vodka shots like we were training for something. The playlist was loud and gay and dramatic, just how we liked it: Whitney, RuPaul, a little Shania. The crowd was a mix of our hometown people and his St. Louis circle. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had a red Solo cup.
Tonya was there. One of Chad’s newer friends. Big personality. She told people she answered fan mail for Raja, the famous elephant at the St. Louis Zoo. She said it so seriously, you’d believe her. I loved her instantly.
I noticed two missed calls from my mom and figured something was up. I stepped into the hallway.
“Hey, are y’all watching the news?” she asked, shaken.
“Uh, not exactly. It’s Mardi Gras.”
“Well, turn it on. It’s Britney Spears.”
That’s all she had to say.
“She shaved her head. Son, I just know she’s not well. I feel so bad for her.”
My mom talked like Britney was a cousin going through it. But she also knew how much I loved Britney. And, like always, she was right.
I turned on TMZ in the living room. People were half-watching, half-drunk. Some said it was no big deal. Just a haircut. But it felt like more than that. Chad looked at me, raised a shot glass, and said, “To Britney.” I clinked mine and downed it.
We called a cab because that’s how you got around then. Four of us squeezed into the backseat. Me, Chad, Tonya, and Joe. Joe ended up half-sitting on our laps, which somehow made sense because he was tiny. We were drunk, loud, and wearing too many layers.
Chad leaned toward Joe and said, “I had a dream last night.”
Tonya and I gave each other a look. We knew what was coming.
“I found myself in a desert called Cyberland,” Chad started. “It was hot as hell, and my canteen sprang a leak. I was parched.”
Joe looked confused but polite.
“A cow named Elise showed up. I asked if she had anything to drink. Elise said she was forbidden to produce milk.”
Joe blinked. “Where the fuck is this going?”
“Elise told me I had to jump over the moon,” Chad said, now laughing.
He was quoting Maureen’s protest monologue from Rent. The one where she protests the eviction of homeless people with this wild spoken-word performance. She ends it by mooing like a cow and getting the crowd to do it with her. If you didn’t know Rent, it sounded like complete nonsense. But I knew it. I loved it. Chad introduced me to Rent, to Wicked, to Broadway, to drama in the best way. He took me to see Wicked recently, and I cried through half of it. It was a real friendship. One that cracked something open in me and let some light in.
We finally made it to Soulard, where the Mardi Gras madness was in full swing. Snow was still on the ground. The streets were packed. People were shouting, drinking, and flashing. It was disgusting. And we were home. Women flashing their boobs everywhere. Even as a gay guy, who doesn’t appreciate a nice rack? Men slobbering over themselves and throwing the beads at the girls.
We dipped into alleys to pee and held each other up when the drinks hit too hard. At one point, I was wearing six necklaces made of plastic beads and no coat. We made our way to Clementine’s. The gay bar. The only place I wanted to be.
Clementine’s was packed wall-to-wall. The line to get in snaked down the block. It didn’t matter. Chad looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, “Stress center,” which made me laugh.
Inside, it was pure chaos. The music was pounding. Lights flashing. Big, beefy guys everywhere. I was surrounded, and I liked it. People were grinding, making out in dark corners, and flashing their dicks like it was some kind of contest. Someone did a body shot off a stranger’s stomach. Another guy had his pants halfway down before anyone even flinched. No shame. No rules. Just gay chaos.
Clementine’s was one of the only gay bars I had ever been in. I’d use a fake name and say I lived in St. Louis. Not sure why, maybe because it made me feel cooler or safer. Or maybe it was something I picked up from Aunt Carolyn, who once recorded tapes pretending to be someone named Cindy. I didn’t fully get it back then, but I do now—sometimes a name helps you play the part.
I flirted. I danced. I made out with a guy by the jukebox. No one cared. No one judged. For a night, I got to be a louder version of myself. And that meant everything.
Chad and I kept finding each other across the crowd. We’d shout our stories over the music, laugh at how stupid and amazing everything was, then disappear into the room again. It was messy and hot and perfect.
Eventually, after hours of drinking and dancing and lying about where I was from, we stumbled into a diner. The kind that never closes and doesn’t ask questions. We ordered hash browns and pancakes and sat in the booth like we had just survived something. I was exhausted and a little too happy.
Back at Chad’s, we passed out watching Showgirls on DVD. I fell asleep mid-dialogue with a half-eaten mozzarella stick in my hand.
Mardi Gras wasn’t just about beads and booze. It was a weekend when I felt completely myself. Or at least the version of me I was trying to become. The one who laughed too loud, sang Rent in a cab, took shots for Britney, and felt safe in a bar full of strangers.
The Hay Bales to Halsted series consists of stories and experiences from the perspective of Nico Sansegraw. These narratives are solely his own and do not reflect the views or opinions of GRAB Magazine. This series is intended as a work of storytelling and in no way seeks to glorify, endorse, or promote any specific subject matter. It is simply a story—nothing more, nothing less.
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