“Let my soul smile through my heart and my heart smile through my eyes, that I may scatter rich smiles in sad hearts.”---P. Yogananda
Time was when the Subterranean Circus was new and its workers were passing fair. The second head shop in Florida, ensconced in a $75-a-month ex-fertilizer warehouse on a nondescript side street in Gainesville, took off nonetheless, zooming to stratospheric success in a matter of months. It was the Age of Aquarius and like miracles were popping up everywhere. Before long, the shop’s physical plant was too small to contain its burgeoning array of products and the building next door was annexed to house its clothing and jewelry items. Among the first to be hired to run the ship was the inimitable Rickey Childs.
“What’s the first thing you consider when you’re trying to dress someone?” I asked him. “Complexion,” he replied, launching into a litany of other considerations. “You had me at ‘complexion’,” I told him, and he started the next day, the first of 6,480 that he worked at the store.
Rickey was not so much a salesman as he was the ringleader of a fashion-conscious posse eager to greet the night resplendently attired. To his unquestioning customers, he was the Guru of Taste, the Swami of Style, and he knew what you should be wearing better than you did. Many of his clients, like hairstylist Barbara Ciarel, left their wardrobes up to him. “You know what I look great in,” Barb would phone in, “just pick out some things and I’ll be in later to pick them up.”
Far from being a mere fashionista, Rickey lived and died with his customers highs and lows, presenting a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, even after-hours companionship when circumstances were dire. If Rickey was a contestant in the Mr. Universe contest, he would easily win the Empathy Prize. A sad tale would inevitably bring a tear to his eye, a relationship in trouble a furrowed brow, an outright breakup cause for alarm. “So what are we going to do about Rita?” he would ask the calloused lot of us who were paying far too little attention to this gnawing problem.
Rickey’s life as a churchgoing gay black man gave the rest of us needed insight into neighborhoods we rarely trod. He came to me one day, a certain reluctance in his expression and advised, “I know you’re not going to like this idea but if we want to be a serious fashion destination we have to sponsor a candidate in the Miss Florida contest.” No, not that one. The one with the drag queens, which you’re obligated to dress, launder and fluff, not to mention hover over and pay serious entry fees for. And then, when they lose, cajole and wipe away their tears. Okay, that was Rickey’s part of the job. To the amazement of everyone, including me, our girl won. The next day, Rickey was back efforting for a preposterously expensive sponsorship in the national contest. “In for a dime, in for a dollar,” he smiled. “Sure, but we’ll have to take it out of your pay,” I told him. Both of us agreed that we’d done more than our share already. The Miss America contest managed to march on without Subterranean assistance.
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| No longer a mere 114 pounds, Rickey Childs settles down to dinner across from Bob Sturm at Marty Jourard's publication dinner. Marty (blue shirt) is next to Bob. |
Boogie Nights
A hard day’s work for Rickey was mere prelude to a full night of bar-hopping, often with co-workers Debbie Brandt and Mike Hatcherson. Rickey was a whirling dervish on the dance floor, never seemed to tire, but no matter the exertions of Saturday night, there he was at his mother’s church on Sunday. Later in life, he dabbled with the Baha’i Faith, which reflected Rickey’s beliefs in the unity and equality of all people, but eventually he fell back on liberal Protestantism and was active in his church until the end.
Though Mr. Childs was incontestably gay, he did fall for a lovely white girl, a co-worker named Patty Bert, for awhile. It seemed an impossible pairing but it lingered for months, through ups and downs and huffing and puffing as Rickey investigated the wonders of life with a girlfriend. It had its moments. One night, we went to pick up Patty at the Gainesville airport and Rickey decided to hide in some foliage to surprise her. Patty rewarded me with a brilliant rose for picking her up, but we quickly passed it on to Rickey when he leapt from the underbrush. He was incredibly touched by Patty’s gesture.
In these times, there was an outrageous merchandise extravaganza held twice a year in New York, an expo called the National Boutique Show, where peddlers showed their wares in the murky cocaine-dusted rooms of the McAlpin Hotel in mid-town Manhattan. Exhibitors brought out their best frocks and the like for the coming season and all the little stores sent buyers to inspect and acquire. It was fashion-mania and Rickey craved a piece of it. One year, we decided to take him along.
A trip to The City, of course, meant that Rickey would have to actually fly, something he was deathly afraid to consider. Fortunately for all, the Orlando airport has bars, and RC cemented himself in one of them until takeoff. We poured him onto the plane, semi-conscious, and he made it to New York alive. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said groggily on deplaning. “Can we drive back?”
Setting Rickey Childs loose in New York was a risk but we all have to grow up sometime. Rickey immediately sped off for the Christopher Street bar scene but was prompt for breakfast next morning at eight. Thereat, he pulled me aside. “It was a grand and glorious night,” he proclaimed, telling tales of a tall cowboy and a spiritual journey. “We rode the subway and talked all night. If I believed in ‘The One,’ he might be it.” The whole week was one of nightly adventure and discovery for our man Childs, but he dutifully reported in at eight each morning. “Fashion comes first,” he steadfastly proclaimed and Rickey was always true to his word.
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| Bill (l) with Circus employee David Scoates and Rickey Childs. |
Adventures In Criminology
Despite his inclinations to truth and beauty, Rickey was nobody’s fool. Would-be shoplifters were culled and reported to the store’s bouncer Rod Bottiglier, but not before they got a severe scolding from Rickey. “It hurts my feelings when they do that,” he often told Rod the Biker, earning miscreants an extra kick in the ass on the way out.
One unfortunate woman played fast and loose with The Truth at Silver City, the Circus’ alter-ego store, and suffered a rough comeuppance. Having spent hundreds of dollars on previous visits, she showed up one day, bought close to $1000 worth of shoes and left the smiling Rickey a nice check. Since she normally used a credit card, the cynical Bill called the bank, where he knew a couple of tellers. They told him the check was no good and the perpetrator was flying to London next day.
Bill, Rickey and Debbie Brandt drove to the address on the check, a nice apartment complex. The shoe collector was not at home and the door was locked, but there was an open transom above. Only Rickey, at 114 pounds soaking wet, could fit through, and he did. He let Deb and I in and we gathered up the stolen goods, plus a lid of pot which she had in the refrigerator.
Naturally, as good businessmen do, we had reported this outrageous theft to the local police. When they went to the lady’s apartment, she told them we had illegally retrieved the goods. Naturally, we were forced to deny this crime of breaking and entering so she was still on the hook for the check. We let her simmer for a few days before dropping the charges. Rickey regarded these shenanigans as “the adventure of a lifetime.” I have to admit it was right up there with wooden roller coasters.
The Return Of Mustang Sally
I’m not certain whether it is a cultural deficit or merely personal failings, whether it is peculiar to this country or abounds elsewhere, but it seems that close relationships of decades often disappear when a man leaves one job and heads for another. After cavorting almost every day for 18 years with Rickey, we lost touch with him for 26 years. But thankfully, three years ago in April of 2016, we tracked him down at his job at the University of Florida’s golf course restaurant and invited him to a banquet at Leonardo’s 706, celebrating the publication of Marty Jourard’s new book, Music Everywhere. Rickey showed up with bells on, of course, driving a spiffy late-model black Mustang convertible, a testament to his finally learning to drive.
It was a glorious affair, also attended by the Circus’ ex-store manager Bob Sturm and our old curmudgeon/employee Chuck LeMasters, now in mellowness rehab. Rickey spoke of heart issues in the past but was in fine fettle that night, showing off his fancy ride, recalling the days of Circus past and comrades lost to the ethers. He even gave my future bride instructions on what type of wedding ring would be appropriate for me before we all departed, making the usual false promises of getting together again soon. It was only one night but it was a fine one, all the more so now in our time of travail.
Despite the years, we have not lost many of the Old Crowd. Perhaps our ex-employees have been preserved in Sandalwood incense or strengthened by early exposure to cannabis, most of them continue to roam the Earth. Rickey’s departure is a cruel reminder that even Camelot reached the End Days, however, and we should make the best of the time remaining, which Rickey Childs surely did.
I’m not at all certain, though, that mere death can quell Rickey’s rampant spirit. If the Cosmic Arbiter plays favorites, Mr. Childs must certainly be one of them, and it is no chore to imagine him navigating the Land of Milk and Honey with the same aplomb and merry disposition he displayed at his previous address. I have it on good authority that the subway runs all night up there and tall cowboys are available for conversation and a friendly snuggle. I can almost see Rickey bouncing toward us down the aisle of the train, a big smile on his face, joy in his heart, ready to share himself with whomever he finds. He is, of course, elegantly attired.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
Rickey Gerald Childs, a piffling 67, can be visited one last time at the Duncan Funeral Home in Gainesville on Friday, June 25th from 2-7 p.m. The address is 428 NW 8th Street. Funeral services will be held at 10 a.m. on Saturday at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, 100 NE 1st Street.
