A magazine rack is at the back of the shop with issues of a neon pink zine, also called Shiny Dancer, with a blurry black-and-white picture of Glow and a short punk girl on the front, both wearing knee-high boots and feather boas. Above is a sign that says:
shiny dancer is a nonprofit that provides information, supplies, and advocacy to sex industry workers, drug users, and other marginalized members of our community. our programs include needle exchange; a thrift store and community education center; local, national, and international labor and public health advocacy for sex workers’ rights and well-being; and a quarterly publication. racism, sexism, and homophobia will not be tolerated here.
The only other person Iph’s heard use the term sex worker is Mom. Once, when Orr had first learned to read, they’d seen the word whore tagged on the wall of a parking garage. When he asked what it meant, Mom said, “Whore is a mean way of saying prostitute, honey.”
“What’s a prostitute?” Orr had asked.
Mom didn’t hesitate. “A nice lady who has sex with people for money.”
Iph flips through the zine. She has a small zine collection herself, things she’s picked up from Powell’s and others she’s written away for. There is a body positivity one she especially loves called I’m So Fucking Beautiful that has helped her feel better about her big hips and belly and thighs—or to at least question why she feels so awful about them. She also loves the more personal zines—more like illustrated diaries—like the one about a girl and her cat and a deeply sad illustrated memoir by a girl who was abused by her dad. Iph will never forget the look she saw on Mom’s face when she picked it up from Iph’s bedroom floor and read a little. Mom won’t talk about her past, but Iph has always known some sort of abuse was there. She feels it. The more she learns about the way things can go wrong for kids, for brown people, for girls, the surer she is that something really bad happened to Mom when she was younger.
Iph’s way of finding things out is often like that—intuitive and roundabout. She always thinks of the bread-crumb trail in Hansel and Gretel. People forget that trail was their downfall. They used pebbles at first, a smart plan. The bread crumbs were what sunk them—birds and animals ate them up. How do you find your way then? You find the ghost of the thing, the echo of the trail, the little tells everyone has to show you who they are. That’s theater done right. In her limited experience, it works for life, too.
Iph takes a copy of Shiny Dancer and sits on the pink faux-fur sofa. The low-quality fur prickles, but it’s good to be off her feet. The zine is both serious and funny, with a mix of handwritten and typed articles and great cartoons. There are reviews of different strip clubs from the worker perspective, some poems, an article about what to tell your family about your job and how to form a childcare co-op with other sex workers to make sure your kids are in good hands while you’re at work. In the back, there’s a feature called the Bad Date Sheet. The scrubbed, simple language of it is stunning.
Anthony, white male, dark hair, gray beard, heavyset, at least six feet tall. Followed dancer home from Magic Gardens and rang her doorbell for three hours. Police called but never came. Became abusive when bouncers refused to let him into the club after the incident.
White Ford pickup with dent in passenger side near door. White older male, bald, gold aviator glasses. Picked up worker from 82nd and Powell, took to a vacant lot on Columbia Blvd. and assaulted. Injuries required stitches.
White older male. Black late model Cadillac sedan. Violent with male workers. Refuses to pay. Strands workers in remote areas.
Younger male. Brown skin, dressed business casual. Newer Honda Civic with child seat in back. Raped worker.
Kelly, fifteen years old, white, brown hair, green eyes. Missing since May 17th. Last seen in Old Town. Leave any information about whereabouts at Shiny Dancer, 6th and Burnside.
The missing persons listing has a sketch of the girl, pretty and so young. Iph thinks of George’s index card and the story about Lorna. She wonders how George knows Glow. On a table next to the rack is a sign on heavy cream paper with crisp lettering in front of a blue ceramic bowl.
rose city transmutation
publisher of forgotten poets
healer specializing in
dreamwork, transformation, transmogrification
discounts for sex and service workers, animal helpers, strapped witches, teen moms.
come find us.
Come find us? There’s no address. Iph giggles. She’s been raised on Dad’s old Monty Python reruns and appreciates the surreal. At the bottom of the sign is a stamped hand with a finger pointing down to the bowl with the words free poetry.
The poetry is printed in matchbook-size volumes. Iph squints. The heavy-framed glasses are almost too clear for distance but make it oddly difficult to read close up. She takes them off. The front cover is a meticulously detailed watercolor of a forest. On the back cover is a tiny logo, the letters RCT made of climbing roses.
“Ready?” George says.
Iph startles. “Sure.” She starts to take a copy of Shiny Dancer to the counter, but Mom isn’t here with her credit card now. She puts it back but pockets the free matchbook poem.
At the front of the store, Scout is up on the counter eating chips with Glow.
“Gracias por los tacones,” Glow says, dangling the shoes in one hand and beckoning Iph to the counter with a twenty-dollar bill in the other. “These are so about to be my lucky work shoes. I can just see those hundreds raining down on the stage.”
Ah! Iph had wondered if Glow was a sex worker herself. “You’re welcome!” she says, leaning on the counter. Iph loves when people speak Spanish to her but hates that she never speaks it back. She sighs for the gold shoes a final time. No wonder Mom had them in a giveaway box. She and Iph share the same weird feet. Maybe Glow will have better luck.
“No hablas español?” Glow says, kicking off her platforms and setting the gold shoes reverently on the floor to be tried on.
“Ugh!” Iph hides her face in her hands. Scout, still happily up on the counter, whines and tries to pry them off with her muzzle. “Kind of? Pero malo? I spoke some when I was little. I had this Sesame Street book with Spanish words I loved. So, like, if you know any babies or Cookie Monster fans, I can talk to them.”
“I learned after college when I lived in Peru—and Spanish was my freaking minor in undergrad. I’m super rusty now. I guess it was the shoes. They moved me.”
“These shoes for sure speak Spanish. They used to be my mom’s. I wouldn’t part with them, but they totally chewed my feet up,” Iph says, stroking a gold strap. “I think they run small. I knew when I tried them on, but they were so pretty.”
“Hmmm.” Glow takes a few steps. “Damn,” she says. “Like, they fit, but I know with a little swelling it’s gonna be all over. It’s one spot right by my big toe. Oh well, some other lucky babe is gonna score. I’m charging an arm and leg for ’em, though. Fleet Week’s coming up. High-end vintage is gonna move great.” She puts the shoes on the counter next to Scout, who’s sitting like a little Buddha propped against the huge antique cash register. She promptly licks each shoe in turn. “Yes, baby, kiss them goodbye,” Glow says. Iph blows them a kiss, too.
“You women are crazy,” George says. “Those things are little torture chambers.”
“It’s a deep femme mystery, Georgie my love,” Glow says, waving a hand. “The lure of the high-heeled shoe. So, are you coming to see me tomorrow?” Where does she mean? Here? At the strip club? You have to be eighteen to go into those places, right? Or even twenty-one?
“And don’t forget the benefit Saturday. I think it’s all ages.”
“I’ll be at needle exchange for sure,” George says. “And hopefully the benefit.”
Glow hands George the now-empty backpack. “Maybe I’ll see you, too, Iph?”
“Sure,” Iph says
. “I’m kind of just visiting, but if I’m still here . . .”
“Hey, wait a sec,” George says. “I almost forgot to ask. We’re looking for someone.”
“Haven’t seen her,” Glow says. “And if I did see her at needle exchange or at work, I couldn’t tell you.”
“No,” George says. “Not Lorna. I figured you’d say—if you could.”
“But I can’t,” Glow says, no-nonsense. And wait . . . are they saying Lorna is a stripper like Glow? How old is this ex, anyway?
“Understood, boss. I know I was a pest in the past. Never again, I promise. This time it’s actually important. We’re looking for Iph’s little brother.”
They explain about Orr and boot camp and the girl band. “That sounds like this girl Mika’s band.”
“Do you know how to get in touch with her?” Maybe this is it!
“I met her a few months ago at a self-defense workshop and I’ve seen her play, but I don’t have her number or anything. She seems like a righteous babe, though. Used to volunteer for needle exchange downtown and works at Powell’s. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who got them to carry our zine.”
“What’s the name of the band?” Iph’s whole body is suddenly one pounding heart.
“The Furies,” Glow says. “Rad, right?”
“Thank you so much!” Iph’s mind is already outside racing toward Powell’s.
“Thanks, Miss Glow,” George says. “C’mon, Scoutie. No bag, but you gotta go on the leash.”
“Bye, little burrito!” Glow calls to Scout. “You be good, Georgie. You, too, Georgie’s cute friend. Hope you find your brother!”
2
Unwound Her
Heavy Knot of Hair
“Wake up, babe.”
Orr startles. One eye, two eyes. Why is he asleep on the sofa and not in his closet? The last thing he remembers is sitting down to have some tea. The tea is there on the coffee table, cold. Meltdown recovery requires sleep. Usually he makes it to bed, though. Well, things are different at Penelope than they are at home, but—a novel thought!—maybe that’s all right.
“C’mon,” Jane says. “Get your shoes. We’re going out.”
He goes to the hall to get his sneakers off the shelf. His feet are better today. He puts on the pair of socks Jane lent him—the ankle kind people wear for sports but rainbow-striped and sparkly. A little small, but workable.
“Orr, dude. This situation is life-changingly rad.” Jane is so psyched about his hall organization project. She couldn’t stop saying “Dude!” and “Wow” when she first saw it. Mika and Allison like it, too.
Outside, Portland is hot but beautiful. Orr doesn’t always think this about the city, but usually he’s riding in a car with his headphones on. Today, he and Jane walk. Roses trade scent for sunlight. Lavender sways lightly in the wind. They cross a major street—Belmont, Orr notes. Mom got him a Portland map before she left. She wanted him to start thinking about taking the bus into the city for his cello lessons. “Just consider it,” she said when she saw the look on Orr’s face. “I’d say Iph could go with you, but honestly, you’d be better off blindfolded. No sense of direction, that girl.”
Orr notes how Iph’s name slips past his brain’s sieve like a tiny minnow through a net. She’s probably not even awake. In the summer Iph is almost completely nocturnal.
As for Mom’s suggestion that he come into Portland on his own—it seemed absurd at the time, but maybe she was onto something after all. Orr pictures the booklet she made him. He only managed to read a few pages before freaking out. In addition to his daily routines, Mom listed some suggested activities—cleaning out closets full of outdated stuff, spending time outside, going places on his own. All stuff he’s actually been doing.
The rest of the memory flares, this time from a different angle. Huh. He lets it play, sound off. Much less upsetting. This way, he sees that even though she’d been onto something about being more independent, he had been a little right, too. What Mom was trying to do defied the laws of physics. There was no way she could be two places at once. Now, instead of being mad at her for it, Orr feels sorry that she was so torn.
Jane is a surprisingly fast walker, given that she is also smoking a cigarette and drinking a Diet Coke. They pass the Bagdad Theater, a beautifully renovated 1920s movie house that serves pizza and the best strawberry lemonade in addition to popcorn to eat while you watch your movie. Iph and Orr love it, even though Dad thinks the place is hideous because it’s made to look like a white person’s idea of Egypt. “Not to steal your mom’s catchphrase, but all I see is imperialism when I look at that place. I’d rather go to the movies in the mall.”
Dad! Ugh. Thinking of him is exhausting. Or maybe it’s the meltdown hangover. It’s suddenly hard to keep his eyes open. The neighborhood’s big-boned Craftsman houses have such wide, inviting porches, like nice ladies with soft laps. A patch of sunlit grass in a side yard beckons. Orr lets them pass and dutifully follows Jane. She won’t tell him where they’re going or why, but Orr has lost any leeway for protest after this morning, and he knows it.
They finally stop at a once-green house, its paint flaking like the skin of some huge molting reptile. Jane bypasses the front door for a gate that leads to a narrow side yard. Orr runs his nail along a peeling green shingle, pretending the house is a dragon with an itch. The narrow path is dim and cool, a tunnel of faded jasmine with a hint of sweetness left.
Jane gives his arm a gentle pinch. “C’mon,” she says. It’s the first thing she’s said since they left Penelope.
Around the corner the yard is bright with weeds and waist-high wildflowers. If there is a fence, it’s invisible, covered in tall roses with wicked thorns that completely obscure the neighboring houses. The yard could go on for miles, Orr thinks, walking around a lacy gingko, like the rose hedge around the castle in Sleeping Beauty. A deck is built around the tree connecting the yard to the back of the house.
He follows Jane up the stairs to the back door. A hot tub is recessed into the far side of the deck, smaller than the redwood tub Dad installed for Mom’s thirty-fifth birthday. The cover is off, propped awkwardly against the snakeskin siding. The sun is shining like a spotlight on the octagon of water, and first all Orr sees are flower petals and white light. The light resolves into fabric, and the fabric clings around the shape of a person. A girl floats in the tub in a white dress, eyes closed, covered in rose petals and jasmine blossoms, crowned in sunlight, a mane of crimson hair floating around her like blood in the water. Orr looks away. His mouth is suddenly so dry.
“Kids today,” Jane says, shaking her head. She sits in a rickety Adirondack chair whose paint has worn away. Orr touches its arm, soft like the paper bags they rubbed together in kindergarten to make buckskin clothing for the Thanksgiving play. Mom had come to help that day and was livid when she read the script of the racist, historically inaccurate skit. The other kids’ eyes were wide. They liked Orr’s mom. All kids did. The teacher had no choice after she’d told the real story of Thanksgiving but to the change the script on the spot.
Orr is smiling now. Smiling makes him forget where he is, but when he notices again, he sees the girl, her eyes closed in the water, and worries she’ll be frightened when she realizes they are there.
Jane lights another cigarette. Orr is suddenly parched, overtaken with the desire to fall to his knees and lap at the water in the tub like an animal. Would it taste like the rose tea Mom gets at her favorite café? Or would it be salty with the sweat of the girl?
Jane blows smoke toward the tub. The mermaid’s nose wrinkles. She opens her eyes.
“Hi, Jane,” she says, rising ungracefully and heaving herself out the tub. The fabric of the dress molds to her skin, and Orr feels a surprising flair of want—what, exactly, he doesn’t know. Still thirsty, he watches her wring the water out of her hair, longer than even Orr’s used to be. She has to pu
ll its heavy wet mass over her shoulder to avoid sitting on it.
Settled in the sun on the bare wood of the splintery deck, which has needed to be sanded and refinished for many years now by the look of it, the girl finally turns to Orr.
“I’m Plum,” she says. “Who are you?”
“I’m Orr.”
“Huh.” She takes her thick rope of hair in her hands and wrings it out again. Orr touches the moss-soft velvet of his own skull. His head is throbbing a little. Jane’s cigarette, probably. Or the heat.
“I had a Jane’s-coming inkling this morning when I woke up and smelled Irish whiskey in the bathroom,” Plum says. “I thought it was premonition, but it turned out it was an open bottle someone left in the shower where the shampoo goes. Now I’m thinking the premonition still counts.”
“Jimmy partying a lot?” Jane asks, a little frown between her brows.
“The usual,” Plum says. “It’s more the girlfriend and her friends. But she won’t last.”
“Well, you would be the one to know, Plum Jam.”
Orr notes the look they share, the little nickname, and realizes Jane has known Plum for a long time.
“Jane was my mama’s client,” Plum says, like she can hear Orr’s thoughts. “At Outside In. Then they became friends. She used to babysit me. She even lived with us to take care of Mama when she got sick.”
“Your mom is sick?”
“Dead,” Plum says gently, as if she doesn’t want to scare Orr. But it’s too late—Orr is scared. He thinks of Mom dying and cuts the thought short as fast as he can, erasing as he goes. He cannot think about losing Mom. And what about Iph? Why isn’t he thinking of her more? She must know he’s gone by now. Must’ve found out the other night when she and Dad got home from the party. She will be so worried. And so, so mad.
Summer in the City of Roses Page 11