Cruising at the Levee

Rock Island, Fall 1980

After meeting the Mormon missionary on my trip back from Los Angeles, I started my junior year at Augustana College.  Still depressed.

1. I was living alone for the first time, in a single dorm room, and even though home was only about a mile away, I was homesick.

2. My classes in Modern American Literature, The Modern British Novel, and Survey of German Literature were all extraordinary heterosexist.

3. Anything about gay people that I saw on tv, like the drag queen episode of Trapper John MD, or in movies, like Cruising,  was oppressively homophobic.

4. My friends at Augustana were as aggressive in the "what girl do you like?" mantra as they had been in high school.

5. Two years after figuring it out, I had met a half dozen gay people, including Peter the male witch, Mary's brother, the "cannibal" hustler in Colombia, Wolfgang in Germany, and my ex-boyfriend Fred.  Only Peter currently lived in Rock Island, and he never wanted to hang out.

Site of JR's Tavern, Rock Island

How could I meet others?

There was a gay bar in Rock Island, JRs, the former Hawaiian Lounge redone in an urban cowboy motif (It's a straight strip club called the Body Shop now.)

 But you had to be 21 to get in (I had never heard of fake ids.)  Besides, I was scared of the place.

Then I got the bright idea of spying on the patrons, to see where they went after leaving the bar.

So I sat in the parking lot across the street one Saturday night in September, and noticed a number of patrons heading north two blocks to the levee.

The levee, looking toward Centennial Bridge

The levee was a long, narrow embankment to prevent flooding. By the way, if you're thinking of the song "American Pie," a levee can't go dry.  It's the river next to it.  That always bothered me.

 The Rock Island Levee was a sort of lover's lane: you could park and look at the Mississippi and the lights of Davenport on the other side.

Most people parked near the Centennial Bridge, but if you wanted seclusion, the levee extended for two miles, past railroad tracks and deserted factories.

The patrons of JR's wanted seclusion.

Every Friday and Saturday night, when it wasn't too cold or rainy, there were cars parked in the secluded part of the levee, as many as 30 before the night was over, plus some people who came on foot.  You would go up to a car window, and if you thought the guy inside was attractive, strike up a conversation, or wait for him to come to you.  An invitation to his home or to a hotel might follow.

Fratboy

Most of the men were in their 30s, 40s, or even older.  Sometimes I saw a college-age boy, a jock or a fratboy or a hustler, but I never talked to them.  The rule was: younger with older.

I knew nothing of gay political organizations, social organizations, churches, community centers, or pride festivals, so I concluded that all gay life was like this, hidden away, something you do in the dark.

I was too scared to actually hook up with anyone there, until I met the professor with handcuffs.

See also: 36 Hours of Cruising at Lambert International Airport.