Why was I doing this? I made a cursory attempt to examine my motive for coming here; strove – for one, obligatory moment -- to construct a narrative that would explain this new behavior.
Nothing came to mind but I felt the tingling sensation in my sacrum return.
I put the clipboard on the couch, stood up and walked over to the bulletin board. Written in red marker on the back of a Chinese astrology placemat was an appeal for a roommate … “share studio, split rent… talk to Tamara.” Next to that was a staff meeting announcement… “Wednesday 10am… this is mandatory girls!” and the shift schedule, a checkerboard filled with a variety of fantasy dancer names soft, seductive and silly. “Sheree” 10-4; “Dusty” 12-6; “Cherry Bomb” 2-8.” I tried to think of a name for my new, scantily clad alter ego; something exotic without sounding too made-for-TV-movie-of-the-week.
I was about to turn away when I noticed a flyer taped next to the bulletin board with a picture of Velvet pressed into a microphone and the words “Velvet Underwear” printed in big, black, block letters. Underneath that, in a smaller hand-scrawled font, was “Pin-Ups of Punk.” I studied the muddy photocopied picture of Velvet who was nearly doubled over, her eyes closed tight and fist drawn into her chest. She wore a black fishnet tank top, the same Leather wrist cuffs I’d noticed on stage and a pair of velvet bikini underwear. Thursday and Friday at the I-Beam. “Velvet Underwear. That’s funny,” I thought. And then, suddenly getting the reference to Lou Reed’s “Velvet Undeground,” snorted, “Ah.”
“Guys throw quarters on stage whenever she performs.”
I turned around. A woman with windblown Shirley-Temple curls wearing a torn and faded denim jacket and jeans plopped down on the couch, dropping a dusty backpack next to her feet. Then she carefully leaned a battered, brightly painted skateboard against her knees.
“Pardon?”
“Guys recognize her from here and they start throwing quarters on stage. It’s a riot!”
“Huh.” I was beginning to appreciate San Francisco in a new way. Here, it wasn’t what you did, so much as the level of irony with which you did it.
“So are you new?”
“Yeah. Celeste just hired me… this is my very first shift,” I said sitting on one of six stools in front of a large dressing mirror.
“Cool. I’m Gypsy.”
“I’m… Linda. How long have you been here?”
“Coupla weeks.”
“So how do you like it?”
“Let’s see… It’s better than some bullshit office-temp job. It’s better than some bullshit telemarketing job. And it’s better than asking my dad for money.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“No really. The people here are pretty cool, you can basically name your own hours and the money’s not bad. It gives you the freedom to do whatever else you want to do.” Gypsy tightened her grip on her skateboard.
I smiled and nodded, wondering what this would afford me the time to do that I hadn’t been doing before.
Gypsy stood up, wiggled out of her jean jacket and pants and pulled her tank top over her head. I lowered my eyes and swiveled my stool so I was facing the mirror. Then I picked up a plastic tray of Max Factor eye shadows lying on the counter and, after a moment of indecision, pressed my pinky finger into a cake of dusty blue powder. As discreetly as possible, I watched Gypsy’s transformation from skateboarder chick to voluptuous exotic dancer and considered my own transformation (a casual conversation that led to a phone call that led to an audition that led to a W-2 form and a yet-to-be-determined, fake name….)Gypsy was tall and big, but not big and soft like Persephone. Gypsy was all muscle and curves. Her pubic hair was shaved into a perfect thin strip as if pointing the way to Nirvana. She pulled a string of ribbons out of her backpack and tied it around her waist. Then she clasped a string of bells around her right ankle and inserted long dangly moon and star earrings into her earlobes. Finally, she pulled out a silver can and, lifting her chin, dusted herself with an aerosol spray. When the cloud settled she had an icing of silver glitter over her chest, breasts and shoulders. When she’d completed her costume she walked over to the mirror, tossed her tee shirt over a stool and sat three seats away from me.
“One thing, though,” Gypsy said as she opened a tube of lavender lipstick. “Guys will try to get you to go out back with them. Just remember, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
I realized I’d never considered the possibility that anyone would expect anything other than simulated sex. My jaw dropped.
“I’m just sayin’… some girls do,” Gypsy said shrugging her shoulders. She looked up at the clock on the wall, then stood and said, “gotta go.” She stuffed her backpack, skateboard and street clothes into a locker and secured it with a Master lock.
“See ya on stage,” she said disappearing around the corner.
“Yeah. See ya…”
I turned back to the mirror and then surveyed the random items strewn across the dressing table: a curling iron with long strands of fuchsia hair trapped between the metal tongs, an empty Chinese takeout carton and companion soy-sauce spill, a jar of mysterious neon-blue goo and, sitting atop a paperback book, an ashtray overflowing with lipstick stained cigarette butts. I pushed the ashtray onto the counter and rotated the book 90 degrees. It was Armistead Maupin’s, Tales of the City. I stared at the familiar cover art, a 1940s, art-deco rendering of a woman with suitcases staring up at one of the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Then it came to me and it was simple. I wanted to be -- like Velvet and the quarters -- a tiny piece of San Francisco lore. I wanted to walk away with a story to tell or, even better, to be part of a story that someone else wanted to tell.
I picked up the clipboard and thought for a long moment. Finally, chuckling to myself, I put pen to paper and printed my new name.
Grizelda.
I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. Then, I untied my g-string and let it drop to the floor.I’d do it.
Well… the rest of this shift anyway. We’d see after that.
end.
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