Clemsons: The Gay Cheers of St. Louis - Part 2
Did you read Part 1? If not, back it up. This glorious mess won’t make a lick of sense without the prequel. I’ve got memories swirling like a blender set to “emotional purée,” and I’m about to pour it all out. Buckle up—this epistle’s got marble countertops, rogue rodents, and possibly gravy.
One Friday night, we met friends, including our friend Tom, on the patio at Clemsons—home of the famous marble bar. “Famous” being generous. It was salvaged from the restrooms at the old Stix Baer & Fuller department store, complete with cutouts where toilets, sinks, and urinals once lived their best lives. Classy.
Across from the patio bar sat the “bleachers”—wooden tiered seating where patrons sipped cocktails and judged each other’s outfits. Mid-conversation, someone shouted, “A rat just ran out the back door of the kitchen!” And sure enough, there it was—scurrying through the beat of “YMCA” like it had somewhere fabulous to be.
Michael shrugged. “Well, I guess we won’t be eating here tonight!”
Three cocktails later, we were on the waitlist at The Rainbow Fork. Debster, the hostess with all the warmth of a DMV clerk on her last nerve, greeted us with: “45-minute wait!” So back to the bar we went.
Once seated, I told our waitress, Darla, “Earlier we saw a rat run out of the kitchen!” She smiled like we’d complimented her earrings. “Oh, sugars! Bubba’s on a rampage. Those rats nibble the cheese in the walk-in cooler. But don’t worry—he cuts the ends off. Bubba says he won’t serve anything he wouldn’t eat himself.”
Michael and I looked at each other and said in unison, “We’ll have the chicken pot pie!”
Another night, Darla approached our table looking like someone had stolen her sparkle. Michael asked if she was okay. She burst into tears. “My grandbaby was born last night in Atlanta. He’s got tubes everywhere. They don’t even know if he’ll make it. I don’t know if I’ll ever meet him.”
We ate in silence. When we left, we hugged her. No words.
Then we got in the car, looked at each other, and knew exactly what to do. Michael drove to the ATM. We withdrew cash, returned to Clemsons, handed it to Darla, and said, “Go. Get on the next flight.”
She nearly danced on the bar. “Oh sweeties! Oh sweeties!”
She came back days later with heartbreaking news. Her grandson’s prognosis wasn’t good. But she’d held him. She had his photo taped to her order pad—tubes, IVs, and all. Appetite killer? Maybe. Sympathy tips? Off the charts.
One Friday, our favorite farm boy bartender, John, was missing. We asked Jerry, one of the owners—on his fifth screwdriver—where John was. He slurred, “Barnes Hospital… pneumonia.”
The next day, I suited up in mask, gown, and gloves and walked into John’s hospital room. He was asleep. Beside him sat two older folks in full hospital drag. His parents.
Once they learned I was raised on a farm near theirs, the heavens opened. We talked. They were drowning in guilt and shame = from the years of separation from their son - only separated by an hour’s drive. Hospice was involved. They were taking John home to care for him.
I visited twice. Their dining room had become a hospice suite. On the night he died, his mom said he pointed to the upper corner of the room and whispered, “Mom, look—it’s so beautiful.” She didn’t understand. I think he saw the peace that awaited him.
At the funeral, it was Midwest floral bingo—gladiolus, carnations, and a casket spray that read “Beloved Son.” But smack in the middle? A big-ass bouquet of Birds of Paradise from the Clemsons crew. We laughed out loud. The viewing crowd stared like it had arrived from Mars.
And another memory.
I don’t know why I was home from South Texas on January 30, 1982—maybe a funeral, maybe a wedding. But I borrowed Dad’s pickup and headed to Clemsons for drinks and drama.
Mom warned me about the blizzard. I promised to crash on a friend’s couch if things got dicey.
At 8:00 p.m., the owner turned up the TV. Meteorologist Dave Murray looked panicked. “Record-setting blizzard incoming. Power outages. No emergency access. Good luck!”
A drag queen announced she wasn’t shoveling snow in heels. Respect.
The Rainbow Fork was closed, but Jill made sandwiches for the stranded few. We drank. We laughed. I passed out on the pool table. Woke up at 5:30 a.m. with billiard balls embedded in my spine. Walking? Optional.
We were finally able to leave the bar the next evening. I was emotionally full and physically bruised. Clemsons had delivered.
🏳️🌈 The Glitter Fades
Clementine’s Bar—St. Louis’s oldest gay bar—closed for good on September 28, 2014. The new owners made it clear: no more LGBTQ+ establishment. The rainbow flags came down. The rally towels went up. The jukebox thinks ‘Hot Stuff’ refers to wings and ranch dressing.
Final Round: One Last Toast to the Beautiful Madness
Clemsons wasn’t just a bar. It was a soap opera with a liquor license. An unhinged sanctuary where empathy sometimes wore eyeliner, grief got hugged in the parking lot, and prime rib was practically medicinal.
It was where we learned that chosen family might arrive in bib overalls, cry over their grandbaby, or serve you pot pie with a side of rat drama. It was sticky floors, smoky air, and the kind of laughter that made your ribs hurt.
So here’s to Jill’s one-lung reign of rum and resilience. To John’s farm-forged brilliance. To Debster’s clipboard of doom. And to Darla—our glitter-drenched angel of unsolicited endearments and emotional whiplash.
They may be gone from the building, but they’re permanently installed in the emotional wallpaper of our lives—right next to the jukebox beat of “YMCA” and the memory of that rat doing laps during happy hour.
Raise a glass—preferably something strong enough to disinfect a barstool—and toast the mess, the magic, and the memory of a place that taught us how to live loudly, love defiantly, and never underestimate the healing power of a well-timed hug. And while you're at it, raise one for our dear friend Tom Kraus, who passed away earlier this year. He was a true friend, a brother, our partner in crime—and the St. Louis Cardinals can't seem to get it together without him.