You have to realize, this was a generation ago. Fully a generation by this time.

Had I married young, my daughters could be grown now and perhaps flickering quicksilver between genders. Now, everyone concedes that Ellen DeGeneres is gorgeous and strong, and the Internet discussions are all about fluidity.

Back then, back there, not so much. "Pride" was just becoming an idea. AIDS was still a whispered death sentence. Being gay, it was clear, would kill you.

But there was Deb. "Debbie," the bar owner fondly called her.

Deb was simultaneously petite and stocky. She'd hover at the end of the bar about every fourth or seventh night: creamy skin, round astonished eyes, always a large beer in her square hand. She never took a table. She cut her own hair and showed it no mercy. But it was mink-dark and sleek where it fell into the choppy scissor marks.

I and remember Deb always in a plaid flannel shirt and construction boots. Because we were firmly foot-planted in the North, and it was cold up there.

Although there surely must have been some intolerance floating around, nobody ever messed with Deb. First, because Deb was a fierce drunk and it was tacitly known that she'd just flat-out take anyone down. Second, because the bar owner, sheep-nosed and heavy-lidded, would lay both his thick hands on the shoulders of whatever first-generation college farmboy was making himself heard, and beerily mutter in his ear, "Oh, yah, that's Debbie. She's our little dyke."

It was thus amiably understood that Debbie was our dyke, and officially protected. If you wanted to set foot in this establishment ever again, you'd mind your manners. And, since there weren't many establishments in town to pick from, that was that.

Small towns, famous for their closed-mindedness, also are oddly protective of their characters. Deb was one of our own.

At one time or another during my waitressing tenure, it was made known that Deb had inquired about me. It wasn't direct. One of the bartenders likely played relay. Equally indirectly, my straightness was made known back to her, and no more was said.

As with all such inquiries, I thought it flattering. But I was too shy to thank her.

I'm not sure I ever once spoke directly to Deb, in fact. But she remains vivid nearly 30 years later: often blurred, always inartful, and -- in retrospect -- almost certainly crushingly alone.

10:35 p.m. - 05-23-13