Copper Pipe/Living with Ecedro

Following the barks of raised voices, I walked through the front screen door and up the stairs to my bedroom where I found a man with a penis much larger than mine, and a short woman¹ whose body has never met a razor, in a heated discussion.  But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.

It's 7 PM and I'm out of the office a bit early.  On the walk to the station, wrestling to keep my computer bag on my raincoat shoulder, I thought about what line I would use today when I get tired of looking for an open seat on Amtrak Regional 170, save the one seat next to the woman who is feigning sleep². I was also thinking about why in the world I still wear a raincoat when it rains.  Today was what many would give a right arm for - or a right leg.  I was promoted, literally "upstairs", to a corner office with more windows - the envy of my peers.  I did not do the happy dance in the lobby, because I've learned to be humble during the highs of life and tolerant of the lows, and that maintaining an "even keel", even though I'm sailboat free, is practical and sensible.  You see, I have apparently been in training because I share a house with a man named Ecedro.

I don't have to explain, but I will tell you that it's not a romantic relationship or anything like that.  I saw a sign on a phone pole.  It said

"Need a place to live?

Lets share a place.

Good life.

Ecedro.

Cook across the street."

Much to the annoyance of the diner's manager, I asked to speak to Ecedro the cook, and we decided to spend a few Saturdays together looking for a house to rent together - two strangers who seemed to feel comfortable with each other.  Actually, that wasn't the case.  I felt comfortable with Ecedro, and he would never even think about how he was feeling.  He assumes everything will work out.  His internal tattoo probably says just that.  "Everything will work out.  Hang loose baby." Surely we looked to all like one odd couple, since I only owned business shirts and he only wife-beaters.

It was 8:22 when I walked in the door and met the naked pair in my bedroom.  We exchanged pleasantries, which mostly consisted of repetition.

"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"

Quickly realizing that the dangling schlong had no particular problem with me, or with standing naked before strangers, I explained that the bed they had been using was mine.  They expressed gratitude that Ecedro gave them a "place to crash".  I had thought that "hitchhiking across the country" was eliminated from our vocabulary in 1980, but either I was wrong, or they just stepped out of a time warp.  Here I considered either possibility equally likely³. They smiled and walked out of my room, home, and life with their clothes draped over one arm (each)⁴.  As they passed I uncontrollably stared at her beautiful left nipple; she paused and kissed my lips.  At that instant, I understood that body hair is irrelevant in life; for that instant I would have died for her.

I took off my tie and pants before heading downstairs, because this is a house tradition of sorts.  Ecedro always wears a flowered shirt and boxers in the house, and I liked the look, so I joined him on the boxer part.  I could hear him puttering in the basement, whistling and clattering.  He's been trying to figure out how a hot water heater, house heater, and washer/dryer could somehow be combined for more efficiency.

"Always thinking about the planet," he'd proclaim, "plus, there's nothing more sweet than copper pipe and melting solder.  It's a beautiful thing." 

To him, life is a beautiful thing, and I have to take him at his word, because he says it as if he knows for certain.

By the looks of the kitchen, he probably already had his favorite recipe, cup-of-chili, for dinner.  He has a set of open cans on the counter at all times, each with foil on top, and 3 baggies in the fridge - six components to cup-of-chili that get scooped into a cup that he puts directly on the burner.

Cup-of-Chili Recipe

one tablespoon black beans

one tablespoon tangy chopped tomatoes with jalapenos

one tablespoon chickpeas

one tablespoon green enchilada sauce

one tablespoon chopped onions

one teaspoon chopped jalapenos

If you'd met the cup in its previous life, you'd know it had MSU in green block letters on one side and a cartoonish Spartan character on the other, but such decorations have mostly been erased by fire except for the top of Sparty's helmet.  You might think it strange to even consider cooking in a cup, then picking it up to eat out of, but when you live in the world of Ecedro, "strange" would not be found in the S's of the house dictionary, probably in the E's.  OK, that was a stupid line.  "Strange" would not be found at all, because anything you do is what you do and requires no additional labels, I've learned.  I also learned that there is a 99.8% probability that the dirty cup currently sits on the bathroom sink - if nothing else, Ecedro is efficient in the use of his time.

We've not discussed it, but mostly we cook for ourselves - split house expenses but keep food and TP as individual purchases⁵. 

I opened the kitchen cabinet and reached for a plate, not yet knowing what said plate would eventually hold.  The cabinet was empty, as was the fridge, except for beer.  Our mismatched but extensive collection of plates, bowls, cups and saucers seem to have found a new home.

"Ecedro," I yelled down the steps, "where did you put the dishes?"

"Uh, the dishes are gone.  Sorry man.  Don't come down, OK?"

"Relax.  I won't come down.  The dishes - they grew feet?  Learn to drive?"

"We hired a new cook," he stated, as though the conversation was disrupting his concentration.

"Excuse me?"

"We hired a new cook at work.  He's Guatamalan.  Illegal.  He has two kids and a wife and nothing.  I gave the dishes to them from us.  I made sure to tell them about you.  They need to know Americans are good people.  Plates are nothing.  I'll steal plates from work.  Show love, man, eh?"

"Right, Ecedro," I respond, wearily but authentically, "Show love."

"You are my brother," he replied, followed by the scrape of a striker as he lit his blowtorch back up.

That was Ecedro's way of saying "thank you for understanding me" - you are my brother.  He tries to say it straight and simply, but he understands the consequences of the things he does, so it usually serves, at least partly, as a request as well as a statement.  Often the sentence ends not with a period but a lower case question mark.

Ecedro spent most of the night in the basement and I didn't actually see him.  I watched some American Idol as I did a little work I brought home on my laptop, and fielded two phone calls on our dirty little house phone⁶.  The first was some guy who told me to stay away from his sister, and before I could ask what her phone number was, he hung up.  The second was a squeaky woman's voice who asked if I still had dishes for sale.  I told her, for some reason that "Elvis had already left the building."  Now, I'd never say anything that deconvoluted to anyone at work or in my family, but in this house, I feel like I'm just visiting in Ecedroland , so I can be free and silly without bounds and no one particularly thinks anything of it.  It is wonderfully liberating, but sometime it's hard to keep this side of me suppressed when I'm with the straights.

The next set of interruptions for the evening was two different people who stopped by.  Neither seemed to notice the boxers.  The first was a girl in a green tank top and denim miniskirt.  I'm pretty sure she said her name was Bejewel, but I wasn't about to ask her to repeat it.  She said she stopped by to "return this plant".  I hadn't recalled seeing "this plant" before, but asking for more information in such situations, I've learned, only digs the hole deeper.  At 10 PM, on the dot⁷, the second visitor knocked or landed or whatever and, I kid you not, pointed a bandaged finger on a bandaged hand at the African violet I had sat on the TV an hour earlier and said "I came by to see if you were done with the plant yet."  I suppressed the urge to ask if I was being Punk'd, motioned that he help himself, and went back to my database with no further words spoken.

At 4:32 AM, I was awakened by a loud crack - hopefully not a gunshot.  I listen.  Silence lulls me back to sleepy-bye land.

At 4:56 AM, I swear that, as I awoke, I heard someone "shushing" someone else.  Nothing follows.

At 6 AM my alarm goes off and I sense, while my eyes are still closed, that I'm not alone.  Ecedro is sitting on the corner of my bed.  With his head cocked to see my face, his curls rest on his flannel shoulder. 

"Wake up sleepy head" he says, like a comfortable wife.  He hands me a very nice omelet, and toast.  It is a beautiful thing.  It's served in a hubcap, which has obviously been extensively scrubbed, at least on the inside.  As I stare at the omelet I detect black beans, chickpeas, onion, and at least a pepper or two.

"Sorry about the plates, Bud," he said, "but I had to do it.  I know the red plate was a favorite of yours.  We OK?"

Almost a mantra for me now, I said, "Sure, Bud, we're OK."

Then two things happened, at the same place and the same time, or so close that I can't tell you which happened first.  The one thing that happened was that I remembered looking into the fridge last night and there were no eggs in there.  The second thing that happened was that some big thing jumped out from under my bed into the hallway.

"Oh yeah," Ecedro happily said, "I traded our African violet for two chickens.  Good deal, huh?  Now eat up, you're gonna be late for work, and so am I!"

A touching moment⁸; life with Ecedro is always a surprise.  I share this breakfast-in-bed story because, for some reason, my mind has tried to accurately replay that moment in time repeatedly.  Was I thinking about the empty fridge when cluck popped out from under my bed, or did the picture of the empty Frigidaire shelves just happen to have decided to form right after the fluttering began?  We can neither understand nor control what our minds do with their free time, and it certainly seemed unimportant, but the brain returns to the scene often.  One night, Ecedro and I were swatting skeeters, sitting on the front porch with two cold ones, and I told him about how this instant had become my mind's recent obsession - replacing the "I'd like to teach the world to sing" soft drink commercial.  Ecedro turned away from me, to try and seriously think about this.  Silent minutes passed.  Then he turned back with a decision formulated. 

"You have a mind that is old and deep and knows to focus on the highest issues of man," he proclaimed.

This is when I got this the scar that you see across my lips, the same lips that beautiful nipple had earlier kissed.  I can't tell you which of us fell first - probably at the same time, but maybe me first.  We both fell off of the porch and onto the concrete below, laughing as little ones whose tummies would soon ache from laughing pains, as he explained it all to me.

"I don't know why you can't figure it out, bro.  Your mind saw this as the opportunity to determine absolutely which came first . . . (wait for it) . . . the chicken or the egg."

Reader, "I am sorry" seems so inadequate.  But as I stand here before you, I can swear on a stack of hubcaps that I kid you not.  After laughing and bleeding for almost 20 minutes, Ecedro drove me to the emergency room for my stitches.

The next day, the managers met with me to outline my new job responsibilities.  It was a perfect day except that I was really hoping to wear my one gold tie, which I love, but when I left in the morning, Ecedro was asleep on the sofa, and had it tied around his forehead.  Peace, baby.

Anyway, the managers explained that I should expect a few bumpy moments in the next few weeks, because I wasn't exactly "next in line" for a promotion, but they needed me because of my talents.  They used words like "level-headed".  They really did need me, particularly at executive meetings, because they've seen me in action.  They know that, when voices became raised, I'd not get caught up in the emotions, but could treat all people, words, and ideas with the respect that drains out of the strainer called anger⁹.  I don't think anyone at work knows I was a problem throughout school.  I had seriously hurt a kid in 8th grade because I didn't like him, and was destined for probably a not-so-good life.

But then I met a phone pole.

That night, when I walked up the front walk, home at last, I saw something new - Ecedro standing at the front door waiting for me.  I'd never seen him out of his wheelchair before, but from the smile as big as the serving plate that I used to have, I could sense that the wheelchair wasn't local, and he was somehow wireless.  There he was - standing.  I never knew he was taller than I.  As I opened the screen door, I was struck¹⁰ by the lengths, elbows, and tees, of shiny copper.

"Well, what say you?" he asked as he smirked.

All I could do was look.  He had constructed, with copper pipe, extensions for both legs, copper "feet", and an interesting pair of things that might be called crutches¹¹.

"I love copper," Ecedro said (possibly editing his inner tattoo), as a chicken crashed out the front door.

"Well go get him!"  It was the only thing I could think to say.  Lame.

I dropped my computer bag on the porch and ran to get two cold ones.  Within minutes . . . OK, tens of minutes . . . we figured out how the Ecedro/bionic man could be configured from a standing position to a sitting-on-the-porch position.  (Note to self: buy four hinges.)  This was when my cell phone rang, with the ring tone announcing that it was my mother.

"Hi, Ma, what's up?"

"Well, first I wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed Ecedro's phone call today (?) and I am happy that you live with such a nice roommate.  Your father and I did discuss your¹²  request (?, or better yet, huh ?) and we have decided that we will loan you the money for a new hot water heater."

By the time I tried to formulate a scowl for Ecedro, he had started rolling down the porch.  The rhythmic sound, alternating copper and boxers against paint-bare wood, almost reminded me of a steam engine.  It was a shame to be scuffing up all of that polished metal so early in the evening.

Fortunately, I'm still, at least for the moment, faster than he is.

FOOTNOTES___________________________________________________________

1.  She had thick black hair that flipped up on the ends.  The hair alone reminded me of a style I had seen on an old pornographic post-card.  The fact that she was naked may also have contributed.

2. Yesterday the line I used was "If I don't sit down soon, I'm going to hurl."

3. This would be a good place to apologize for the excessive use of quotation marks.

4. I never had the chance to explain to them that the wallpaper was there before we moved in.

5. I don't know what prompted me to point that out, but there you go.

6. That's what it is, and that's what we call it.

7. That's what we call the digital clock.

8.  Ignoring the "our" that preceded "African Violet" . . .

9. Pretty good, eh?  You're right - sophomoric.  For the phrase "with the respect that drains out of the strainer called anger", cross out everything but "with" and "respect".

10.  figuratively

11. These things could surely be patented.  If you're a patent lawyer, call me!

12.  your (pleural)!  You may be asking how I can distinguish in a conversation between your (singular) and your (pleural) and, well, I just can.

© 2012 John Allison

Sam the Jersey Beefsteak

Sam the Jersey Beefsteak                                               

There are a few special summer days when the Jersey sunset is an incredible combination of reds.  Tomato red, mixed with a red pepper red, streaked with a pimento red.  When it comes, my neighbors' response is to yell "Garden State" to each other, from yard to yard.  I love my neighborhood on days like this.

Saturday, 9:30 AM, Home

"Garden State," I yelled across the fence to Caesar, remembering the night before. 

"Garden State," he hollered back and smiled, flashing me a thumbs-up.

(You all know the story by now, disturbing as it has become.  I wanted to recount the real story from our own ground zero.)

I had set six tomatoes and a cucumber on the windowsill in my kitchen, having picked them a bit prematurely from my garden, now waiting for them to quickly ripen.  As I was washing the dishes, I barely noticed a few ripples, small lines, across one of the beefsteaks.  I watched the horizontal wrinkles move.  They were almost like a face.  The lower two ripples started to move like lips, and my tomato, now known to the world as Sam, started to talk.

When Sam talked, it wasn't real talk.  A kind of face was simulated on the surface for my benefit, Sam explained, and while he didn't actually make sounds, I could hear him.  I stared at him. I knew it was really happening.  I asked him the question that everyone asked - What's it like to be a tomato?

He told me what he could.  We spent our first hour trying to find a common language - a set of words we could both relate to.  There are many aspects of growing and ripening on a vine that people just don't have words for.

I called, with Sam's encouragement, everyone.  We agreed that this was an earth-shattering event.  I had access to a world-class biologist, a Nobel Laureate from The University of Pennsylvania, within 8 hours, and we were on the national TV news quickly.  Sam couldn't look into the camera and talk to people telepathically, since he had no idea who might be watching, but a long line of people confirmed what he was saying.  People had to understand it was real; tomatoes around the world had started to speak, so there was little doubt that it was not some kind of trick.

"Why now?" many asked.  After trying to field the question a few times, it was clear that Sam didn't know, so it just didn't matter.  

A new species was born, at least new to us . . . seemingly a surprise to them too.  While Sam couldn't explain it at all, he did tell me that he felt at home.  Somehow it felt like New Jersey had been chosen - they chose here and they chose him for their beginning. 

It was the most exciting time of my life.  Unfortunately, human beings were again given the opportunity to show what we are made of.

Monday, 6:00 AM, NYC

"I suppose someone had to be ground zero.  It's not like I was chosen or anything.  I was just at the right place at the right time," I explained to Robin Roberts on Good Morning America.

"Well this has been quite a week for you two," she replied.

We nodded.  (Well, I nodded.)  "It certainly had been.  And it's only Monday!"

Tuesday, D.C.

Sam talked to forty or more people on the Amtrak to D.C., where we met with an emergency joint session of Congress, which included the President.  It was organized in a day, and we all understood the urgency, but no one would verbalize it.  The House drafted, in real time, on the floor, a short declaration, that we must cease and desist doing anything to/with tomatoes besides talking to them, until we better understand them, and what is happening.  It was simulcast to the United Nations.

One question Sam was often asked was whether he looked forward to being on a salad, or in a tomato sauce.  He would never answer, but the thought of a knife slicing through his face, sacrificing him, without understanding who he was, what he was, what he felt, must have made the mere question horribly cruel.  Fortunately, the concept of cruelty wasn't in his vocabulary.

The President and lead members of Congress quickly contacted the Presidents of as many countries as they could, urging similar laws.  Most other countries fell into place before the day's end.  As a planet, we had never worked so fast to do something so good.

Wednesday, Home

Sam was a young and sweet soul.  He was a joy to interact with, until the pain became so great that he was almost unable to speak.  He could sense that, around the world, sentient tomatoes were being sliced up, torn apart - not for dinner, just because people were curious what would happen as they sliced across the almost-face.  Would they scream?  Are they still red inside?  People seemed to have no concerns over experimenting with these little captive souls.

The term vego-sadist was coined by Wolfe Blitzer.

The laws could not be enforced, of course, so anyone attempting to buy a tomato was looked at with suspicion.  Countries rapidly attempted to stop all tomato sales, trying to keep them away from people.

Thursday, the World

Piles and piles of tomatoes started to accumulate.  They kept coming off of vines but couldn't be sold, so farmers had no place to put them.  Tomatoes were talking to each other, all 7500 varieties (some with the greatest accents), not knowing quite what was happening or what to do.  They called out for help.  They called and called.  Everyone on the planet heard their cries for help, but the demand on us, to make all tomatoes comfortable, was more than we could provide.

Sam looked up at me, and asked me to hold him.  As my hands cupped his red skin, I felt it.  He was changing.  He was now past ripe.  He was getting soft, and had a particular soft spot on top.  He asked me what was happening.  I told him that tomatoes don't last forever.  He'd thought he would.  He was confused.  I tried to cool him with water, but he slowly began to shrivel a bit, and within two days, our alpha vegetable, my hero, became silent.

He did give me a gift.  As he realized that something was happening, he not only felt the pain and suffering of his own kind, but my own personal pain.  He sternly said, "John, thank you.  I know this isn't your fault.  I was happy to learn the meaning of the word friend."

Then with a weak half smile he managed to say, "Garden State?" as if he wasn't sure it was appropriate, but it was all he had.  I think I might find it difficult to live with myself now if he hadn't said those last few words to me.

Friday, 4 AM

They all became silent - the ones we had and the new ones that came along.  Silent.  There was no place in this world for a sentient vegetable, apparently, so they found a way to collectively "go away".  I hope for their sake they are gone, not still with us, hiding, suffering in self-imposed silence.

We did not do them well.  Apart from the sadists who seemed to enjoy a new chance to experiment, we were unprepared to wrestle with the choice of friend or food. 

Sam was collected from me by the FDA.  He has been well kept and preserved.  Perhaps he will help us, in death, to understand how and why he was so special.

There are a few special summer days when the Jersey sunset is an incredible combination of reds.  Tomato red, mixed with a red pepper red, streaked with a pimento red.  This was the sunset we watched on the day that they left us.

Since

Good people on the planet had a long memory of Sam and his associates.  Sales of tomatoes have never been the same since, and the Tomato Growers Association made it clear to me that they were less than pleased.  There are apparently enough decent people out there, who just decided to demonstrate that, in memory of Sam and his brood, they could live their lives without tomatoes in their diet.

Once the dust and Miracle Grow had settled and I had the opportunity to slip out of my 15 minutes of fame, I got back to a normal life, but not for long.  One day in the Farmer's Market, I swore I saw a pattern on the skin of an onion.  I picked it up, but it was, thankfully, not prepared for a conversation.

I hope for us all, new sentience was just a random event, not exemplary of things to come.  I've known no greater joy than talking to Sam, but the feelings he felt, the price he paid for being able to communicate - were painful beyond words, ours and theirs.

Since then I've told our story many dozens of times, on TV, to audiences, for magazines, and I always remember to include the color of the sky.  One day, after speaking to a group of biologists in the Atlantic City Convention Center, I was standing on the boardwalk, and several people nearby were watching the sunset.  It was just a normal sunset.  Two people next to me looked at each other, smiled, and simultaneously said "Garden State".  I heard two others repeat it - my neighbor's little occasional salutation!  I asked the two people next to me why they said it.  They said they say it every night to each other at dusk, as do many others - to remember.

© 2012 John Allison

Rocco Ate the Neighbor's Dog

Rocco ate the neighbor's dog.  Not that Rocco was in any way a problem in the neighborhood, it's just that he liked to help people, and was good with a hammer and nails.

When the widow Mrs. Davis' pine steps fell apart from weather, decay, and lack of a yearly painting, Rocco knew he had to do the right thing for his aging neighbor, and built a new set of steps to her front porch.  Of course, Mrs. Davis had to somehow pay Rocco back, but she had little money, so she lured Pa-Pow, the fluffy little dog who lived on the other side of Rocco, into her house, bopped him on the head with a little frying pan, skinned him and made a nice little lentil soup that she gave to Rocco.  Sweet thought.  Pa-Pow’s skin/fur and guts left the premises with the regular trash, and that was that.  Rocco had soup for dinner for two days, and his neighbors frantically searched for their baby puppy for close to six weeks.  No luck.

On Christmas day, the lady who lived directly across the street from Rocco, Sarah Evans, went to get a long hot shower.  When she got out, she took time to smell very good, all over.  She dried and fluffed out her hair, and, dressed only in her fluffy tan robe, came down the stairs to thank her husband of 25 years, John, for the lovely Christmas gifts.  In the months that followed, she'd repeatedly explain, to anyone who asked, that he apparently put on his coat, walked out the door and never returned.  Ever.  Too bad it wasn't a white Christmas, because if it had snowed, someone smart would have been able to trace one set of footprints from Mrs. Davis' house to John and Sarah's front door, and two sets of footprints back. 

Now one thing we know about each other on the street is when someone is getting a shower, because the bathroom windows are notorious for fogging up.  Perhaps Mrs. Davis knew one of them was in the shower when she knocked on the door requesting help with a clogged drain, or the smell of natural gas.  We can only guess why he put on his coat and accompanied her back to her little house, where he was promptly hit over the head with a little frying pan until he stopped breathing.

Mrs. Davis was very proud of herself.  She was looking for a hobby and settled on making decorative holiday candles.  She read endless articles about wax and fats and somehow stumbled onto a forensic article about people who die in bed by falling asleep with a lit cigarette in their hand.  The story was about a particular woman, an oddity even before she died, being extremely obese.  They found a big pool of her fat, that had melted in the heat and ran through the big bed springs' remains, and had resolidified on the big floor below.  Mrs. Davis had made some sticks and pine cones, covered in wax, as Christmas fire starters, and knew they would burn for a long time, with each wax-covered pinecone ear acting as a long-lasting candle.  This lead to her invention of which she was quite proud - the perpetual fireplace.  She filled her fireplace with wood.  Leaving the details to your own ghoulish imagination she somehow hung John's body inside of her chimney, probably with some kind of cable, with the plan that, as the fire burned, his melting fat would drip down onto the wood, creating small wax/fat-covered sticks that would burn for as long as John's body had something to contribute.  The first few times she burned her new fireplace, a few little buttons and a little zipper fell, and the smell was peculiar, although not unpleasant, she thought, reminding her of her Great Aunt Annie's meatloaf.

Five weeks after John's disappearance, the police spoke with each person in the little neighborhood, for the third time, trying to jog their memories.  Perhaps they might still remember something that could help crack the case of the walk-away husband.

Deputy Tom Hettinger sat in Mrs. Davis' living room.  It was she who had insisted that he light the fire as she brewed a pot of Black Powder Tea, that she insisted they share.  They sat in the twin stuffed chairs behind the glass-topped coffee table, facing the fire, drinking out of her white china cups with the gold rim trim.   "Could you have possibly seen John outside, carrying a grocery bag perhaps?"  "No," she replied, "I believe I slept in late on Christmas.  Not much reason to get up early for a lonely old lady like me."

"Oh, I'm sure Santa still comes down your chimney every year," Tom joked.  She didn't smile.  The clink, the round tone of Tom's cup returning to it's white saucer with the gold rim trim, was doubled by a much less dainty noise, a thud, as John's skull, finally free of the muscles, veins, nerves, and fat that held it to his suspended torso, fell down into the fire.  Tom looked at Mrs. Davis.  Mrs. Davis said "Oh my dear, embers on the carpet!"  With that she did her version of "moving quickly" to the kitchen.  She returned, not with a little pot of water, not a little fire extinguisher, but a little frying pan.

Rocco knew what to do with gift horses, and while it was a surprise, he certainly would never turn down Mrs. Davis' stew, much less what she had named Valentine's Day stew.  When he had emptied the Tupperware container and returned it, it came back to him with a refill!  Life is good, eh Rocco?  Why a little old woman creates such large batches of stew and soup is a mystery to everyone, but no one would ever complain.

At 4 AM, on the day after Tom visited the neighbors, the police chief was awoken by a call from Sylvia Hettinger.  Perplexed over why Tom had not come home, they were even more confused over why his police cruiser was still at the corner of the street - the street where the presumably late John Evans lived, as well as the still-missing Pa-Pow (who would have surely wagged his little tail in thankfulness if he had had the opportunity to sample this latest culinary delight).  The police chief decided to let it sit there for about a week, just to see if it made anyone nervous.  It did not, so he finally went to pick it up, only to return to the precinct with not only the car but also some stew from an appreciative neighbor.

© 2012 John Allison

Old Memoires as New Gifts: Cutting Paper Snowflakes and Making Scrapple

I was awarded a federal grant to collect evidence for an afterlife.  I guess that was the topic.  The actual title of the proposal that I wrote was Pre-Death Intervention Experiences.  The head of the Psychology Division of the National Science Foundation personally arranged it for me.  He only asked that I write an extensive report at the conclusion of the funding period, but that I neither publish the data nor ever make a public presentation on it.  We were both interested in getting the "experiments" done, and it will all be just anecdotal - no proof of anything - but it was good enough for me, and apparently him.

I loved my 90 year old, 85 pound, 4 foot 7 inch Aunt Florrie.  As a child, she was on the boat that brought our family from Nottingham to the States.  She was always sweet and kind and supportive of everyone in our family.  As her money ran out, we talked to a social worker who arranged to have her stay in a state-supported facility, essentially an apartment.  She was old but still sharp.  She didn't need the typical care of someone with dementia; she needed a roof over her head.  It turned out that all 12 floors in this building on the corner of 38th and Chestnut in Philadelphia were occupied by those in similar situations.  It was a building full of poor elderly waiting to die.  I couldn't bear to think of her stuck in this place alone, and was quite surprised to learn that, if there were empty apartments, "normal" people could petition to rent them.  There was one empty apartment, right next door to Aunt Florrie, and they were happy that I was eager to be near her, to help her.  I had no idea at the time that I'd get so attached to so many others in the building, but it was for me a labor of love.  They all needed just a little attention from someone, anyone, and they all had great stories; it was an easy decision for me to move in.

I walked into her apartment one Saturday morning so she could make me breakfast.  Yes, it was what she liked to do, and she made scrapple just like my father used to, so it was a treat.  I was surprised that I didn't smell grease in the air when I entered.  Instead I found her sitting in her chair, reading the Inquirer.  I stood there and looked at her.

"It's supposed to be a hot one today," she said.  "Another day above 90!"

I stared at her.  I glanced over to her table next to her chair where her glasses would sometimes sit.  There they were.

"You're not wearing your glasses," I said.

"Don't need them," she answered.

Now this is not the kind of conversation she and I have had in a very long time.  Usually I have to repeat, word by word, every sentence, multiple times, to get her to hear me.  Not today.

"So what's going on?" I asked her.  "Your vision has improved and it seems like you're hearing me better!"

She smiled.  "I don't know, but I'm not going to complain," she laughed.  "I guess you're here for breakfast.  I just hate putting the paper down, I've missed it so."

And with a few bats of her eyelashes, I ended up in the kitchen, making pancakes for her.

The next morning we found her dead in her bed.

I don't know exactly what happened, but if she was given a day of health before she died, I was just grateful.  It was an interesting occurrence, a medical oddity perhaps.  I wondered how many times such things happen. Does everyone get a healthy day at the end?

As I got to know the other people on our floor, and on many others, I always shared with them the story of my Aunt Florrie and this peculiar event, in the hopes that perhaps I'd get the chance to see it happen again.  It very much is a right-place-at-the-right-time observation, if it ever happened again at all, but I tried to talk to more and more of the folks in the building.  If they ever saw or experienced something similar, perhaps they would share.

Bob, like most of the tenants, was alone.  His wife had died years ago.  He would often talk about his mother, apparently a feisty woman, his three other brothers, and his sister - his "baby sister".  It was the kind of family that seemed to always be squabbling rather than enjoying the time they had together.  One day, Bob got into a phone conversation with his baby sister, who was living in Delaware, about how he felt growing up in the projects, and how he knew that being poor took a special toll on her.  She was surprised and asked him why he was talking about his feelings - not a typical conversation for them at all.  He replied, "well you are my little sister," and from then on their relationship changed.  If he didn't call her every Sunday night at 7 PM, he'd get a call at 7 AM on Monday - always with the same salutation. 

"What, did you forget about your little sister?" 

She kept him on his toes, and they made up for many years on those Sunday nights.  He was devastated when lung cancer took her so early.

I was in Bob's apartment, trying to plane a little wood off the top of his bedroom door, which was constantly sticking because of the heat and humidity.  The phone rang and I heard him answer.  I listened.

"Oh no I didn't.  I never would . . . OK, that sounds great.  See you soon.  I love you."

And that was it.

After demonstrating to his satisfaction that his door could swing free I had to ask him why he was smiling like a fox in a chicken coop (a favorite line of his).  He said that his sister had called.

"What, did you forget about your little sister?"  she asked.

He assured her that he did not.

Then she apparently said that she'd see him soon, he said "great", and that was that.

"But Bob," I smiled, "your sister has been dead for three years now."

"I know," he replied.  "Pretty amazing phone call, eh?"

"Well why didn't you ask her how this could be?  Where she was?  Anything?"

"Well she said she'd see me soon, so I guess I can ask her whatever I want then," he replied.

"Well if she appears to you tonight standing by your bed or something, you'll tell me won't you?"

"You bet I will!"  he agreed, looking forward to it.

Bob died later that day.  The coroner estimated the TOD at 5:31 PM.  He was found sitting on the sofa with his phone in his lap.

More than a year of trying to keep in contact with as many people as I could in the building had paid off.  I realized that we can know very little about a person's last hours and what may happen, especially relatively healthy people such as my building mates. 

How much don't we know about?

Since I was teaching Psychology at a small college in New Jersey, I wrote a proposal to the NSF on my theory/interests, and asked for one year's pay.  This would allow me to go on sabbatical, and spend more time with my peeps, and hopefully get some more anecdotal information on the topic.

The Director didn't have the proposal peer reviewed, which all proposals are.  Often they are read by as many as a dozen experts in your field, and comments collected.  Based on these comments, a decision is made on whether it is worthy of funding.  Instead, he read it himself and told me he'd fund it.  He was more excited than I was!  I could now interact full time with as may of the folks here as possible.  The timing was bad and my Department Chair wasn't very happy that, at the last minute, he'd have to find a temporary replacement for me.  He was very frustrated that I would not provide a copy of the proposal to him, but I gave him the budget pages, which is all he needed.  I wasn't making any friends with this one, but that was OK.  Work was work.  The apartment was life.  Work doesn't matter.

Mr. Davis was not much of a talker, but he liked to have someone sit with him and listen to the radio, so this is what we would occasionally do.  We were sitting, sorta listening, the windows were open and I could hear birds chirping outside, wondering why that didn't bother him.  Suddenly he let out a yelp, then started laughing.  "Michael!" he said, "you're a character."

I had not detected the slightest bit of Alzheimer's confusion in Mr. Davis, ever, but I explained to him that my name wasn't Michael.

"I wasn't talking to you John, " he cheerily snapped.

He slowly got up from his chair, very slowly picked up his cane, very, very slowly walked around behind my chair, and stood there.

I tried to be patient.  I sat.

"Out of the blue" as he would often say, he "flicked" my ear - you know, he held his index finger back with his thumb, then let loose, flicking me!

"Ouch!"  It was my turn to yelp.

"I'm just an amateur," he replied.   "Michael used to always do that to me.  Big brothers are such a pain at times."

So, he had had his ear flicked.  There was no one else in the room, and he assumed it was from his brother Michael.  He seemed very pleased with it, not scared or nervous.  As he was shuffling back to his chair he hit the floor hard.  Heart attack.

The woman everyone just called Aunt Helen smelled the lilac perfume that her mother used to wear about an hour before she died.  I happened to have been there.  I smelled it too.  I couldn't tell you where it came from, but it made her happy.

There's no intentional scrapple theme to this report, but it is Philadelphia!  James Buchanan (no relation) in apt 321 and I often shared a laugh over our very common experience.  We both used to look forward to the weekend when our fathers would let our mothers sleep in, and they would make breakfast.  They both would make scrapple, or sausage, or bacon, and eggs.  The only difference was that Mr. Buchanan's father used to make what he called pepper eggs, constantly putting pepper on them as they cooked.

I wasn't planning on stopping by to see James but I smelled food cooking so I knocked.  He yelled, "Come in".  This was pretty typical.  Most tenants left their doors open so they didn't have to get up; visitors let themselves in.  He was happily sitting at his little kitchen table, with a plate of scrapple and pepper eggs half finished.  I smiled back.  He even offered some to me!  He took his coffee cup off its saucer and moved a little scrapple and a little egg onto it for me.  Just a little.  He was clearly enjoying it.

I told him that I was pleased he decided to cook!  He had only used the microwave since he arrived.  He assured me that he didn't. 

"I smelled and heard the scrapple cooking, so I came into the kitchen.  There it was, on the range, in the pan, all done.  All I had to do was turn off the range and eat it," he explained to me.

It was a very common feeling that I saw at this point - not one of amazement or surprise.  He wasn't alarmed or astonished that food appeared cooked in the kitchen.  He knew who it was from, and didn't leave a scrap on his plate.

I took a chance, went to my apartment and called 911, requesting an ambulance.  I wanted to catch him before he died.  I wanted to know more.  When they arrived, only 20 minutes later, he didn't answer the door.  His breakfast and he were gone.

I would encourage tenants to reminisce when I visited, to try to learn about the people in their lives who perhaps loved them the most, or influenced them the most.  Mrs. Alice Yokum, 86 years old, who insisted on going by her lifetime nickname "Baby", was wheelchair bound, but mentally in excellent shape.  One evening, when American Idol came on, I knew there was going to be nothing on that Baby would want to watch, so I visited.  Every story of hers led back to her mother, who was a good and loving parent.  Baby was an only child and her mother worked hard to keep her content, always sad that she did not have a brother or sister for Baby to play with.  On rainy summer afternoons they'd dress up, get some pots and pans and spoons, and march around their house banging their "drums", having their own little parades!  If they were within three months of Christmas and Baby was bored, her mother would cut out snowflakes with her to keep her busy.  Talk about a lost art!  Folding up a piece of paper, cutting pieces off/out of it, then unfolding it to see the snowflake you made.  When she told me the story, she surprised me by pulling out of the junk drawer of her dining room bureau a piece of paper, brown around the edges, which thankfully unfolded without crumbling.  It was a snowflake her mother or she had made many years ago - she still had one!

Baby was such a quiet person, I was blessed to have her living over me.  I was actually surprised to hear something hit her floor.  It was a metallic sound.  Now people do drop things - I had just never heard her drop anything before, so I went up and see if she had a spoon that needed to be picked up or something.

Her wheelchair was next to a simple dining room chair, both seated before the living room coffee table.  She was slumped over, scissors in her lap, and half a dozen cut but as yet unopened snowflakes before her.  In front of the empty chair, there were several snowflakes, some still folded, some opened in all of their glory.  They were really impressive.  Baby never learned this intricate style.  Between the chair and the table, a pair of scissors lay on the bare wooden floor. 

We can never know if everyone gets some sort of personal treat in their last day, if possible.  I'm hoping we all do, but I'm not someone who believes in fairy tales, or in the afterlife.  Still, in my year spending as much time with 130 people over the age of 70, I "witnessed" nine deaths, that is I was there just before, and for each one, there was something good.

After my year was over, I filed a pretty extensive narrative on my activities and how I spent my year with the self-proclaimed "house of old farts" inhabitants. I was surprised to be invited down to the NSF to make a presentation.  Thirty-four scientists from the National Institutes of Health were hand-picked as my audience, each because of their specific areas of specialization.  Most I believe were psychologists or medical doctors.  The Director who invited me encouraged me to just come prepared to tell some stories of the people I knew.  He would even have a nice overstuffed chair for me on the stage, so I could just relax and talk to the audience.  I asked for a pipe and a blanket for my lap, and he smiled as he told me that it wasn't in my budget.  The question and answer period lasted an hour and a half, following my 50-minute talk.  The response was very warm, although they asked me to, for now, keep my observations to myself.  It was nice that they trusted me and I was prepared to keep my word as well.  I did, however, find it all very peculiar.  It felt like I was not exactly trail blazing with my work.  They had other data.  I had no idea what it was.

When I returned from my visit to D.C. (actually, my talk was held in Bethesda), there was a letter awaiting me from the Director.  I learned that I had been awarded, without even submitting a proposal, a second year of funding.  My salary plus 10%, for a third year, was also provided, with some wording suggesting that additional support would be provided for as long as funds remain available to the agency. 

I turned 60 this week.  This is not the career I was planning on, but one I'm happy to pursue.  My Chair was shocked when I submitted a request for a year of absence, right after my sabbatical.  I don't know what he'll do when I request additional time off. 

While my immersion into the lives of these senior citizens has been great, and the occasional surprises continue to be shocking to me, I occasionally think about another question.  When my time comes, what will my surprise be?  To be honest, I can't wait see!  I wonder if I'll even get time to write it down.  I just hope it somehow involves scrapple.

© 2012 John Allison

Red Light Plywood

I must have been quite a sight, standing in front of a boarded-up storefront on 42nd Street with my only "business suit" and a starched white blouse on, touching an indentation in the plywood under the fading red paint they'd slapped on it, with my worn leather bag on my left shoulder and a crowbar in my right hand.  If that wasn't enough, the brown leather work gloves clashed with my dark blue suit!  I was still absolutely soaring from my meeting at the bank. The 90's were gonna go out with a bang for me after all.  I was now a businesswoman, ready to hire a staff! The sight of him, as he turned the corner, shattered my moment of pride, my moment of joy.  Now walking slower, with a cane, he headed in my direction.  I was sure he wouldn't even know who I was.  So how would I remember this day?  Would it be the start of a bright, exciting new future for me and my dear friends, or the end of my life as I know it for the sake of justice, to release years of anger with a moment of revenge?

I wasn't the only poor girl in Manhattan who took on the position of stripper.  You can dismiss me, but I probably made more than you!  In my 18 years in the business, starting in the 70's, I've met so many sisters who I grew to love - but you also learn not to get too attached, because they tend to be transient, always looking for a better opportunity.  It was only natural that I became most fond of the full-time staff that made their careers here as well.  I remember the day I had my interview, first with the owner, then with Dear Miss Amanda, the House Mother.  The title has great meaning, since she was the only mother for many of the girls who passed through.  She took care of us in and out of the house, and was an amazing makeup artist as well.  When she first saw me, Miss Amanda told me how beautiful I was and how my slim waist and young boobs would take me far.  I asked how much girls made.  She said the house paid $26 a night.  From your tips, you had to make a contribution to the house, and one to the non-performing staff.  Typically a girl would take home about five hundred a night.  My heart jumped.  Five hundred dollars a night?  Did I really hear this?  Then she took me over to a corner table in the empty house and sat me down.  She was so good at this.  I came to learn that she was from Cuba, which is why we could talk about anything and she could never offend me.  We were two colored girls.

"Dear," she said, "you're a beautiful thing, and men with money come here to drink and look at the bodies of beautiful girls.  But even though you have such a smooth light skin, you're a colored girl.  For the men, you're a dilemma.  You're part of every man's fantasy, a near-naked beauty within arm's reach.  But you're not white, and some will have a problem with that.  Each one will be different, you'll just never know what to expect.  For some, the thought of being close, or getting excited over a colored girl, will make them feel uncomfortable.  I know, darling, it’s not a simple planet for us.  Men want to treat strippers well, and they do, but many won't let you into their dreams.  You'll constantly feel the excitement that some girls can generate, that you may not.  You'll be reminded every day that you're a colored girl.  I just have to tell you the truth, hon.  A pretty white girl will walk away with $500 a night easy.  Black girls, maybe $200.  A light-skinned beauty like you, I just don't know what to tell you.  Maybe $250.  But if you attract a following, if they grow to love you, you could pull in $800-900 a night.  I've seen both.  Either way, you'll pay your bills."

I took a deep breath.  Will this crap ever change?  Well maybe society will be slow to deal with the color of my skin.  Maybe it’s all up to me, a stripper, because when we shook on it, that's what I became.

I was terrified, but I had to tell my Grammy what I had done, and I was so pleased that she didn’t scream!  I don't think anyone knew, but she was actually a stripper for two years (or so she said)!  She had some interesting stories of her own, and swore that stripping was invented by Negro slaves in the United States.  Of course, she'd tell you they were the first to do most everything.  I think they even invented the Big Mac.  I love her so.

I assume you have some basic picture in your mind of this job.  Everybody thinks they know what it's like to be a stripper.  We run around naked a lot, do each other's makeup, constantly talk about our routines, perform a bunch of 15 minute sets between 9 PM and 2 AM six nights a week, and we deal with sweet, luscious men, drunk men, angry men, confused men, sweet women, crazy people, whoever looks like they want a smile from us.  When we're not dancing, we're "meeting" our guests, making them feel like they almost have us, helping them to spend money. 

Each of us has a stage name, one that we often change, and our lives hang on three coat hangers, each with a plastic bag attached, to keep the pieces of a complete outfit together.  I've been lucky to have seen it all.  We were a go-go bar for a while and I danced for hours in a bathing suit.  I've worn pasties on my nipples.  I've danced topless.  I've danced in a G-string, which is the absolute best because the men love to slide a dollar bill into your string.  You'd think they'd all be grabbing you but most are nervous and perfect gentlemen, thinking they're getting away with a little something as they slide a folded bill under the elastic.  So often, they're cute.  It was hard in the beginning, not knowing what to do when those fingers would get a little too big, but I learned to push them away, or kick them away, and flash my biggest smile while doing it.  I grew confident that I could deal with whoever came along, you know?  I was, after all, their goddess on stage.  I was in charge of them!  I've done some flash dancing, we called it, where they would get an occasional glimpse of pussy during the dance, but only "by accident", since full nudity certainly wasn't allowed.  And of course, as the costumes changed, the girls changed.  The new young things that came in always had more curves, bigger boobs, and skinny legs, and were willing to do anything for money.  They gave stripping a bad name.  Yes, we older girls had to step aside and let it happen, but they weren't us.  They didn't know how to do it right.  They saw a few music videos and thought they were pole queens.  Still, you just have to let the art evolve.

I can't let you in the back room, but I'll describe it for you on a typical night, around 8:00 PM.  It's New Frigging York, for God's sake.  Floor space is at a premium, so don't expect much.  Boobies bounce as girls run back and forth, asking to borrow your boa or big hat for the night.  Miss Amanda is curling a girl's hair with one hand while putting rouge on another girl!  Two bathroom door mirrors have been mounted sideways on the wall, with a plywood table under them, with old, numbered barstools for each of us.  We're very sensitive about our stools.  They are all we can call our own. The chairs are arranged by number.  Each week, you'd sit according to how much you grossed for the past week.  Every girl, of course, wanted chair #1!  However there was a chair before #1, which they "lovingly" numbered zero.  That was my chair.  I was always in chair number zero only because I can be so easily squished up against the wall.  It seemed like the place for my skinny body, and it was quite a wall!  Plywood.  Does that even count as real wood?  I don't know.  We offered countless times to do the work, paint the place, put up some hooks and things, if the management would give us a few dollars for the materials, but it never happened.  So on a typical night I'd be naked, putting on makeup, smooshed up against the naked wall.  I decided to make it my wall, something good for me, not a problem.  I'd thumbtack pictures on the wall out of Cosmo if I thought they could be an idea for a new outfit for someone.  I always had a picture of Carol Doda up, the patron saint of strippers, who performed topless in 1964 and completely nude in 1969 in San Francisco.  The woman had balls.  She was a trailblazer.  She is worthy of being displayed every day.  Whenever Miss Amanda spotted Carol she'd start telling us stories of burlesque days and the Condor Club.  They were just her memories, but some of our best shows were based on ideas that came from her stories.  Art lives on!

The first day I was performed, I found a carpenter's pencil and drew a line deep into the plywood, to remember that day.

The first time I had a $500 day, I drew a line on the plywood, above the first.  On the first Monday of every month, I would touch the first line, and recite the date and event.  Then I would move up to the second line.  It was my way of recording turning points, and to keep my life fresh in my mind, since Grammy told me the worst thing you can do is make the same mistake twice.

You'd probably see Ed walk through our little room.  It's embarrassing that, as good as he was to us all, we all only knew him as Ed - never thought he might have a full name like the rest of us.  He was the House Father, if there was such a title - the bouncer, our drunk handler, and street barker.  He could read a lone gentleman from a block away and come up with just the right thing to say, to make him stop and turn into The Strip Shop.  They all wanted a reason to come in, but most wouldn't on their own.  So he'd tell them about a special performer of the night, or about the chance to spend some time with a pretty lady who likes tall men, or maybe just to provide them with the alibi they wanted - just stop in for a drink! 

"The girls love to perform for you.  These girls could be acting in Hollywood, but this is what they want to do.  Make them feel appreciated, would you please?" 

He barked when he needed, he talked like a friend when it's what they needed.  He was our Ed.  He also knew when tits were peaking in the back room and it was always when he just had to "cut through". 

I made the third line on my wall the day after my first softball game. Yes, strip joints have softball teams!  I must admit we were pretty good.  We always looked forward to playing the Blue Boys, the team from the homosexual strip joint.  We would just laugh the whole time, watching boys swing and throw like girls.  Our laughing would make them laugh.  We looked like a bunch of drunken ex-lovers who decided to have one last softball game.  We'd hug them and they'd pinch our bottoms, and we'd flash them when they were supposed to be watching the ball.  They gave us such a sense of relaxation and freedom - God bless their oiled little bodies.

I had a few lines on my wall for what seemed important events at the time, but within a week they weren't so special - like the first time I danced topless. The seventh line on my wall, one that I recited and relived the first Monday of every month, was longer than the others.  He came into the Shop one night around 11 PM.  He made it known he was from Milwaukee, looking to settle and start a business in the City.  He flashed some money around and quickly got the best table.  He wasn't necessarily good looking, but money makes them look better, and he was certainly smooth if nothing else.  He was particularly attentive to me, and was slipping 20's into my G-string which lusciously clashed with the one's.  He whispered in my ear, "You take my breath away."  I looked into his eyes, and could tell he was sincere.  His smile was so attractive, so genuine.  Between sets he bought me drinks.  This was at a time when the management realized they could make a lot of money on alcohol, so put up "Hey honey, can I buy you a drink?" signs in the bathrooms, and encouraged the clientele to treat their favorite dancer with some champagne (available by the bottle only, of course).  He was happy to do so, although I was working and wasn't supposed to touch it.  Maybe I did taste test it a little more than I should have.

He was addictive.  He never actually asked for sex.  He just smelled like sex with him would be heavenly.  His hand on my arm made me feel warm down there.

"Please come back to my hotel room with me.  I'm so alone.  Just a short visit.  I have a television!  We can have a drink and relax, watch some TV.  I so enjoy being with you.  It will be nice to have company."  He was good.  He described all the things that I wanted.  I wanted to be pampered a little; wanted to take a night off for a change; wanted to kick off my shoes, watch TV and have a drink, and yes, there's always the fantasy that this could be the one, the real deal.  He handed me $400 as we walked out the door, and put his finger to my lips before I could object, before I could ask what it was for.  As we strolled down the street he slipped his arm around my waist and I felt so good.  This was so right.  He was the perfect gentleman as he held his room door open for me.  When it closed, the first punch sent me flying across the room.  I knew that was gonna leave a mark.  I don't remember much after that, just bits and pieces of him grunting, pumping me with his little cock, then some of the others.  I think, just like he'd promised me a special time, he'd promised a little something special to a few male hotel staff, who happily took what was offered, then held me up against the wall and beat me and beat me and picked me up when I collapsed so he could hit me some more - all in silence.  There was not a word of why.  The staff then efficiently threw me into one of the dumpsters in the back alley.  I think that night he decided that New York City was the place for him.

Perhaps you can't understand, but my first and biggest feeling was not anger, but embarrassment.  I didn't want to tell anyone what happened, but I had little choice. Nobody wants to see this many bruises - not the girls, not the clientele.  I was shocked when someone first used the word rape.  It was my stupid mistake.  I trusted him.  My mistake.  But yes . . . it was rape.  I can be important enough to myself to call it rape.  My saying the word was the start of my becoming stronger.  I wouldn't report it, for fear of being killed, but I found enough of myself left to label it.  Still, I was just a stupid colored girl.  That's how I felt inside.

I was certain that no one wanted to see a black and blue stripper.  There probably isn't much of a crowd waiting to see a pregnant stripper either, I assumed.  Yes, I'd gotten more than bruises from my stupidity.  As my bruises healed, my belly grew.  Jack, the manager, felt uncomfortable when I asked to do a set, but he agreed.  Stripping was what I did.  It's how I paid the bills!  Plus, I had to go back.  If I didn't, HE'd have beaten my soul.  Jack didn't like his girls to ever be hurt in any way, and probably even would have let me buy paint, if I'd asked with my belly sticking out!  I warned Ed.  Instead of trying to talk me out of it, he ran out the front door.  The Barker man went to work! 

"The only stripper in town brave enough to let you see her naked pregnant body, and we have her!  It won't last forever folks!  This is something you'll be telling the boys about around the water cooler!  Hell, this is something you'll tell your grandkids about!"

And, thanks to big mouth, I actually developed quite a following.  As the music would start, the spotlight would focus on the ratty velvet curtain at one end of the stage.  I'd start to come out, always belly first, and they would cheer!  So many men, daddies for sure, would put an extra $5 in my G-string and whisper "A little something extra for the kid," with the sweetest looks on their faces.  They cared about me. The bar stocked a drink called "Baby Faced", which clients could buy to have a drink with me.  It was a pitcher of orange juice, and a bottle of whiskey (for the man to add to his).  They made more on juice then the bottles of cheap champagne they were selling. 

Ed was right.  It didn't last forever.  In answer to my prayers, sweet Jesus lovingly blessed me with a stillbirth.  I was so relieved.  I named her Julie, and as soon as I did she became real, and I sobbed, and I begged for her forgiveness, and begged my Lord to never do anything I ask for again, ever.  All I could see were tiny baby faces, and tiny baby fingers, in my mind.  I made myself small and stayed there.  After weeks of self-isolation, there was a knock on the door.  It was Ed.  He handed me a ratty book called "Get in Shape in 30 Days".  He took my face in his hands and said “She died.  You’re alive.  We need you back now.  They’ve been asking for you.  Find any reason you need to come back.  Live for yourself.  Live for her.”  Then he reached behind him, pulled a softball out of somewhere, threw it to me, and left - no hug, no smile, no words of encouragement.  He’d said what needed to.  He knew not to help.  He knew I had to do this alone.

I spent a night saying goodbye to those images of little fingers.  They just wouldn’t wrap around a ball.  I started to picture all the loving faces who gave me extra money “for the little one”, and swore that I would make it right with them.  I knew I had to do this.  My life was not going to become a series of bad turning points.  I was better than that.  My Grammy taught me so.  “Even when you got nothing, girl,” she’d say, “you got your strength.  Use it.”  I’d just forgotten for a minute.  And so I worked with that stupid book, worked for a killer body, better’n before.  I knew my goal, because the first game was ten days away - a ball game in the real world - a ball game in my world.  Mine!

And so, through a door built with sit-ups and push-ups and jumping jacks, I pulled myself from out of the shadow and into the light that felt  . . . different . . . but good.

For some reason, Ed wanted to give me a new stage name, so he called me Betsy Ross.  "Your flag pole will never be the same, my friend, my countryman!" he'd yell, as he ambled around in front of the place.  Too funny.  My first day back, tummy tighter than ever, I watched lots of my regulars come in.  I peeked through the curtain as they took their usual seats.  When the music started I stripped down, fast!  They whooped when they saw me in a G-string and a big, filled (!) lacey bra.  As I danced around the center stage, I told my regulars to reach into that bra for their present.  Their eyes got wide, and I got a big smile from all of ‘em, as they found that it was filled with rolled-up $5 bills, each with a little pink ribbon tied around it.  On every bill, I wrote, "bless you".  I was giving something back to as many of them as I could.  I couldn't ever return the love I felt, but it was a start.

Do you understand how much family love you can feel in this job?  Those on the outside just thought of us as dirty, degrading exotic dancers.  It's too bad they don't know how much the performers and the regulars become such a close family - always there for you.  It is true that New York City had become quite a stripper Mecca, and since we attracted people with "vices", an unsavory crowd slowly grew around our street.  The pushers came in.  The first sign of that was when drink sales went down and the smell of pot went up.  Crime did go up in the area, as local thugs would roll our clients (on the way in, when they still had money).  I'm sure there was a little Puerto Rican boy, who owned a big knife, not far from here, who paid cash for a used Cadillac, and counted out the money, all in one's.

Rudy Giuliani.  Mayor Rudy Giuliani.  Perhaps he did the right thing.  He decided to clean up New York City which meant get rid of us.  He declared all adult establishments a threat to public health, safety and welfare, and said we made New York City sleazy.  Rules were passed, ordinances they called ‘em, which said that no adult establishments could operate within 500 feet of a residence, school, or place of worship.  There were ratty high-rise apartments above all of our places.  And so they started to shut us down - the strip clubs, the adult movie theatres, and the stores.  Some said Mr. Giuliani Disney-fied Times Square, and while everyone in the business was fit to be tied, I knew it was the right thing.  It was too bad for the strippers and the go-go boys, who really had no other skills to fall back on.  But, hey, I was a taxpayer too, baby.  This hurt New York!  It took a few years to chase us out, and we were among the last to leave.

Even before we got our final eviction notice, the Shop had become more of a bar with dancing girls than a strip joint with a liquor license.  It was over and everyone knew it.  Most of the girls stopped showing up altogether, but I came every night, whether we did a show or not, and touched the lines on the wall, and recited every turning point in my life, including the line I'd drawn in for tomorrow, when we would be out of business.  When the time came to go, I turned up the music ("Girls, Girls, Girls" - God, I how we grew to hate Motley Crue), turned up the lights, and I slowly swung a wide circle on my pole.  Miss Amanda leaned on the wall and watched. When the electrician walked by I slid a screwdriver out of his belt, got up on a chair and took the screws out of the plate that held the dance pole to the ceiling.  Then I pushed it over.  Surprisingly, I found myself sobbing and crying as I pushed and pushed, until the screws in the floor creaked and gave way.  As the pole fell, the power went out, the room went quiet, with only a few worker lights remaining on.  As we walked out the door, I hugged and kissed Miss Amanda, and turned back for one last look.  The pole was gone.  It wasn't a strip club any more. 

I noticed that the carpenter was standing in front of my wall!  Gently he eased it off the 2x4's it was nailed to.  I stood by the door and watched as he hauled it out past me and hung it onto the store front, boarding it up.  All the bars and stores on the whole block - all boarded up.  Time there had stopped. 

I didn't like unemployment, so I looked hard for a job every day.  It kills your savings account, and I had a pretty good one going for a while!  I printed my resume on business cards.  They had my name on the front and said "ex-stripper" on the back.  It made people smile, which made them talk.  I did, after all, have some schmooze abilities! 

For three years, I moved around, mostly as a Kelly Girl, working a few months in an office here or there, then a few months stuffing envelopes in a cold warehouse, then, I don't remember, it was a blur.  One Monday morning, I picked up an old, dog-eared copy of the Sunday Times and read an article about how there was a block on 42nd Street of boarded up storefronts, and some local artist had been hired to brighten it all up.  So he painted each one a bright primary color, so the one-block walk wouldn't be depressing, but "uplifting" for visitors who wandered around Times Square.  The article reported that the block still sits, still painted but a little less bright and shiny, undeveloped, three years later.  The writer wondered if anyone would ever risk trying to reinvent this real estate.  The city was even willing to help!  There was also a story from San Francisco.  A new idea was sweeping the Bay Area - New Wave Burlesque Halls.  They were classy, upscale, modern, rooted in the basics of pure Burlesque, but updated with smart new looks, intelligent humor, and magic!  Low on the strip, big on the tease!  And fun!  As soon as I saw "Neo-Burlesque", in the time it took to read the phrase, I knew exactly how I was going to do it.  It would be fantastic - not a place for drunks, but for hip couples and groups.  And not cheap either!  There would be no walk-ins.  You'd have to buy tickets for this one, baby.  We were going theatre!  I remembered a Miss Amanda story of a girl named Charmion, and I looked her up because I thought her act would be a great classic to recreate!  She was actually in vaudeville, a trapeze artist, and Thomas Edison made a movie of her way back in 1901 called Trapeze Disrobing Act.  Is that sweet or what?  I didn't know who to turn to so I found a lawyer who helped me write up a business plan.  I found Miss Amanda, my bottomless pit for the history of Burlesque.  I found Ed, who now had a job as a machinist, who knew about how to run an entertainment business in New York.  He'd done everything from working with distributors, running a loading dock, maintaining stock - all the things he did by day; to being a people mover - a schmoozer to the kind, and a bouncer to the ornery - at night.  He was a licensed bartender too!  Once we talked, I had no idea how much he actually had done!  Both agreed to help me, if I could get money to buy a space and hire a staff, and we all agreed that The Strip Shop and the store next to it was a pretty nice little starting point, with ample floor space, high walls, and what was probably, at one time, a beautiful bar and kitchen. 

I was 40 minutes early for my appointment at the bank, and practically peed my pants, I was so excited, as I made my presentation to two of the staff.  They listened like they had no face muscles.  It was hard to go on, but they had to loan me money.  This was a great idea, a sure thing!  After I was done, they thanked me.  I expected them to go out in the hall and probably talk about the Yankees for five minutes before they came back in to tell me they couldn't help, but it's not the way it went down.  I finished.  The suit on the left wrote something on the back of a business card, slid it over to the suit on the right who nodded.  Then he slid it across the table to me.  It was an amount, with a big check mark after it.  It was everything I asked for plus 10%.  They stood up (so I did as well, not sure why).  The suit on the left broke into the warmest smile I'd ever seen.  He (professionally) gave me a hug, told me he wished he had 5% of my energy and excitement, and the suit on the right gave me his business card and told me to call him in 24 hours to get the account set up, and the contract signed.  He thanked me for picking them, and said that they were excited to be part of re-energizing Times Square.  Only a few years ago, we were a blight in the neighborhood.  Now a burlesque house was going to be part of "re-energizing Times Square!"  They didn't know how I'd managed to line up such an amazing staff, but with them in place, it was a sure-fire investment for them!  If I were white I would have run out in the street and thrown my hat up in the Minneapolis air!

The Strip Shop (possible new name Bottoms Up Burlesque) was mine!  I walked 14 blocks back to 42nd Street.  I'd not seen it since.  I stopped in a goofy little junk/hardware store that had old tools in the window, and bought a used crowbar.  There was some young kid behind the counter who claimed it was a valuable collectible antique.  I handed him a ten, and he took it, and without expression, he reached under the counter and slapped down two ratty workman's gloves (they must have been a set).  Then he went back to reading a magazine.  I tried on my new fashion statements, and they fit! Off I went.

So there I was.  The storefront had been painted red - nothing fancy, just a fingernail-polish red.  I could see, under the thick coat of cheap paint, faint indentations in the wood.  My lines.  My diary.  My turning points.  My finger slid slowly over the first one as I started to recite the history I knew so well.  After that, I was going to oh-so-gently remove my wall and take it inside, because it was a part of me and I just wanted it!

I must have been quite a sight, caressing painted plywood on a boarded up storefront with my only "business suit" and a starched white blouse on, my worn leather bag on my left shoulder and a crowbar in my right hand.  If that wasn't enough, the brown leather work gloves clashed with my dark blue suit!  I was still absolutely soaring from my meeting at the bank.  I was now a businesswoman, ready to hire my staff!  And I was ready for this.  I was a different person now.  I felt strong.

The sight of him, as he turned the corner, shattered my moment of pride, my moment of joy.  Now moving slowly with a cane, he walked in my direction.  I was sure he wouldn't even know who I was.  When he was six steps away, I reached into my bag and released the safety on my handgun.  I'd bought it after he assaulted me, and always had it with me.  My little 9 mm bodyguard!  When he was five steps away, I imagined taking aim and pulling the trigger.  When he was four steps away, I decided that this gun was never me.  I choose a better life.  This is my decision. 

                        Let him go. 

                        Let him pass by. 

                        I didn't get this far to throw it all away. 

At three steps he looked at me, a stranger to him, smiled and said, "you take my breath away."  I actually started to feel something, the feeling of melting into his smooth line, a line he'd used on me years ago.   

                        He violated me. 

                        What he did to me was unspeakable.

                        How many other women had taken his breath away? 

                        How many more will there be?

When he was two steps away, I reset the safety, and let the pistol slide out of my hand and back into my bag.  I calmly and deliberately took my best batter's stance, both hands in place at one end of the crowbar.  One step away - it was my best homerun swing - going for the left field wall.  I swung through his fat head.  I heard the crack of the cranium, and was amazed at the speed at which his head and aging body flew, almost two feet!  His head stopped when it hit the dumpster that was on the edge of the sidewalk. 

"Did that take your breath away, asshole?" I asked.  He didn't respond.

His fresh blood was a perfect match for the cheap, fading paint.

His body had crumbled onto the sidewalk and his head flopped over the curb, with his blood nicely draining into the sewer grate.  He looked good.  I bet that one will leave a mark! 

I realized I was shaking.  I ran over to my plywood wall and slammed the crowbar into it, making one large gouge above my other turning point marks.  Blood ran into the gouge as it blended into the paint, disappearing from casual view.  It was magic.  It was a sign from Saint Carol.

The sound - people running, shoes against cement, people yelling,

"I saw her, stop her!" 

I strained to hear the sound, but I didn't.  There was only silence.  I looked around.  The street was empty except for a small group headed in the opposite direction.  I spotted the bulge of his wallet in his back pocket, threw it down the sewer grate, and watched its shadow rush off with the flowing water.  If his wallet was missing, they'd assume he'd been robbed.  My mind raced - what to do with my sweet metal bat?  I looked at it, and realized that these gloves were so soft; I'd forgotten I'd been wearing them.  No prints, only his red blood cells on the crowbar, which I just dropped beside him. 

I slipped the gloves into my bag and went down the nearest subway steps.  As I got to the bottom I thought I heard a woman's scream from the sidewalk.  I thought of my Grammy and silently explained to her that I chose not to shoot him.  "I made that choice," I told her.  "In the end, I did what I had to do.  I won't feel guilty about it.  I promise Grammy, I won't make the same mistake twice - but I did allow myself to make it once." 


© 2012 John Allison