by Bob Purssell
* * *
Next day, at breakfast, my father informed my mother and me, “You two are on your own today.”
Automatically, I asked my favorite question, “Why?”
“I’m going to see if I can get you some more information about Gisele.”
Wanting to protest my not being part of my father’s efforts, I hesitated when my mother teased, “Going to spend the day interrogating showgirls?”
My father bantered back, “I’m prepared to make any necessary sacrifice in a good cause.”
My mother looked at me and, in her ‘authoritative voice’, said, “I think you’re a very lucky daughter to have a father who wants to put himself out for you like this.”
‘Getting the message’ I said, “Thank you, father,” as I gave him a hug.
My mother and I spent the day going from one end of Las Vegas Boulevard to the other. To my amazement, we even did some shopping, with each of us splurging and buying shoes. Of course, I thought continually about what progress my father was making, but I kept these wonderings to myself.
Just after five, my father called me on my cell and asked to speak to my mother. This wasn’t out of the ordinary; my mother seldom used her cell. After speaking for a minute, the call ended and my mother said, “You’re father wants to meet us at the Bellagio for drinks and dinner. I think he’s been successful.”
Terrifically excited, I decided to wear my pantsuit. Why? Perhaps I was hoping that being well dressed would increase the probability that I would learn more about my birth mother. However specious the reasoning, I arrived—all but towing my mother—at the Bellagio full of anticipation.
We met my father at one of the cocktail lounges in the casino. As drinks were ordered, my father said, “It’s been a long but very fruitful day.”
I could hardly contain my excitement. I wanted to scream: TELL ME.
My father smiled. He knew his daughter. After a sip on his newly arrived beer, he said, “We can do this one of two ways.” When I nodded in anticipation, he explained, “I could tell you what I learned, or ….”
My curiosity unchecked, I asked, “Or what?”
“Or you could meet and talk with two women who personally knew Gisele.”
“WHEN?” I shouted and patrons at two nearby tables looked in my direction.
“Tonight, after their last performance, Ms. Richards has scheduled a rehearsal. You’re invited to watch. After they finish, you’ll meet with some of the cast who knew Gisele.”
Overflowing with excitement, all I could do was embarrass my father with a very public hug.
* * *
The three of us attended the second Bally’s Jubilee! show of the evening. I found the performance unsettling in two ways. First, if beanpole skinny me envied Elizabeth Sue’s feminine figure and looks, then you can imagine what a whole stage full of super beautiful women did to my head. Second, I could never stand confidently topless, my breasts clearly visible to all.
After the curtain came down, standing at the theater entrance, we waited for the patrons to exit. My father asked, “Any second thoughts? Do you want us to stick around?”
“No, I’m cool.”
My mother and father gave me hugs and then my parents began walking away.
Almost as if my father’s words were her cue, Daphne Richards’ assistant appeared. As I reentered the theater, I looked back. My father smiled and I gave him a small wave.
* * *
During the rehearsal, I stood in the control booth—situated in the center of the orchestra seats—next to Ms. Richards. Later, after the rehearsal, I would learn the show girls in the cast called her “eagle eyes.” That she was. Directing all, Ms. Richards barked out orders, solved problems, offered encouragement, and gave direction on how she wanted the cast to perform.
Since the curtain was left open during the rehearsal, I got a view of Bally’s Jubilee! not seen by the paying customers. Before each number began, elevators, built into the stage, lifted huge sets that gave the performance its three-dimensional aspect. Amazed—I had never considered the possibility of using elevators—this technique made a tremendous impression.
For the rehearsal, the showgirls did not wear their extravagant costumes. Still their non-descript clothes, mostly leotards, did not hide the beauty of the statuesque dancers. Thinking of my beanpole body, I wondered if my envy actually gave my skin a green cast.
There was no doubt who was the boss. In silence, I watched and listened. Much impressed, before the rehearsal was over, I knew I wanted to be a leader like Daphne Richards.
* * *
The rehearsal ended just before two AM and Ms. Richards told me to wait in front of the stage. Fifteen minutes later, Ms. Richards returned with two older but still gorgeous women. After introducing me to Veronica and Christine, Ms. Richards explained that she had an hour’s worth of work to do. The two women told Ms. Richards that, after we talked, they would see that I took a cab back to the Venetian.
Figuring we would talk in the theater, I was about to ask my first question when Veronica asked, “Are you hungry, because we’re famished?”
After I replied, “Sure,” we left Bally’s and went to a nearby all-night restaurant on Las Vegas Boulevard. As the three of us walked, I had an experience, an epiphany actually. As a tall, skinny kid, usually no one gave my presence a second look. That night, flanked by the tall, buxom, blonde Veronica in her leotard and the equally tall, brunette Christine in her tight-fitting tee shirt and Capri pants, passersby on the still crowded street gave us look after look. Well, not us, them. However, I did experience the impact of being a strikingly beautiful woman walking down a street.
My companions paid not the slightest attention to the admiring, envious and licentious looks they were receiving. Instead, they quizzed me and I explained what I knew about Gisele Brower, my birth mother. In effect, I was the center of attention of the two women who were themselves the center of attention.
I ate it up.
* * *
At the restaurant, which was mostly empty, both women ordered salads while I had a bowl of onion soup. As we waited, I learned that Christine, now a dance instructor, had been a show girl in the eighties and nineties, while Veronica—now the oldest member in the chorus at Bally’s Jubilee!—had started in the nineties. When our orders came, the small talk stopped.
Christine asked Veronica, “When did we know Gisele?”
“I knew her at the Stardust in ninety-eight. You knew her before that?”
“Yes, Gisele and I were at the Sands in ninety-two and three, and then again, in ninety-seven, at the Stardust.”
“What was she like?” I asked.
Christine answered, “When I first met Gisele I thought she was so beautiful, one of the prettiest girls in our chorus … and so sweet. Everybody loved her.”
Veronica made a sound that voiced her disagreement.
Reacting to Veronica, Christine explained, “It was different later on. Gisele had become harder. The innocence was gone and so were some of the looks.”
“When I knew your birth mother,” observed Veronica, “I was just starting out. She was a ‘nude’[20] like me and we often worked next to one another in the chorus line.”
“What was she like?” I asked.
“Daphne told us you wanted the truth,” replied Veronica.
“Yes, tell me. I know it won’t be good.”
“She was on the way down. She was missing shows, making mistakes. It was just a matter of time before the management would ask her to leave.”
“What happened?”
Veronica replied, “They warned her, then one day the assistant manager told us she was no longer in the show.”
“No, I meant, why—why did she … go downhill?”
Christine explained, “In ninety-three, she was doing okay, then she too
k up with this wealthy Arab. He was older, had a lot of dough.”
After a pause to see how I was responding, Christine continued. “Gisele and this Sa’eed Ben El Sharif shacked up. Then she got pregnant and had to leave the show.”
“Was that you?” asked Veronica.
“Probably, I don’t know for sure. He paid my birth mother to keep his name off my birth certificate.”
Christine declared, “That sounds like something the Sa’eed Ben El Sharif I knew would do.”
Veronica lit up. “I remember him. He was a stage-door Johnnie: A ton of money and not much else.” She then asked Christine, “He was in his forties?”
“Fifties. Before he took up with Gisele, I dated him for awhile.”
“What was he like?” I asked.
Christine emphatically replied, “Bad news. Think dissolute. When I learned Gisele had taken up with him, I told her to stay away.”
Veronica explained. “Your birth mother was a nice kid, but she fell in with the wrong crowd. It’s an old story; Vegas isn’t for everyone.”
* * *
Later on, while we were waiting for the check, Veronica joked, “So, how much time do I have?”
“How much time?”
“Before you take over for me?”
“Not me, I could never be a ‘nude’.”
Veronica replied, “In the beginning that’s what I thought. But then you realize it’s a performance like any other, so why not make the extra money.”
“You make it sound like a job.”
“Because that’s what it is, a job. You do what the boss says and you make the customers happy.” Veronica paused, thought, and then with a serious voice said, “People like me, Christine, and Daphne have lasted because we understand what we do is fantasy. When we’re working, we’re making the customers’ make-believe a reality. When the show is over, we go home to our real lives. When you start thinking the fantasy is reality, that’s when you have problems.”
“Is that what happened to Gisele?”
“Probably. In this business, you can’t let the customers manage you; you have to manage them. Make their fantasy seem real, then bring down the curtain and end the show.”
“That seems so harsh.”
“It keeps your dreams from becoming nightmares.”
* * *
Next day, while we were strolling in front of the fountains at the Bellagio, I opened up about my conversation with Veronica and Christine. “I think I know my biological father’s name.” As my parents looked at me with amazement, I responded, “It’s Sa’eed Ben El Sharif.”
My father had me recount every detail of my conversation with Veronica and Christine. When I was done, my mother grinned and said, “You’re quite the detective, young lady.”
His tone serious, my father counseled, “Today, the world thinks your biological father was of South Asian descent. Since we’re not entirely sure that Sa’eed Ben El Sharif is your biological father, because it could cause a lot of complications, I suggest we keep that information to ourselves.”
Thinking of my confrontation with Melissa and Kim, recognizing that many Americans did not distinguish between Arabs and Islamic terrorists, I understood only too well his point and nodded my agreement.
* * *
About two weeks after we had returned from Las Vegas, I was having dinner with my parents. My mother asked me, “I’m curious what you thought of Sin City?”
Ever since we had gotten home, I too had been giving that subject considerable thought, so I told my parents, “I liked the people I met. They were nice, especially the dancers. But I think Las Vegas is a dangerous place.”
My father, curious, asked, “In what way?”
“It could be really bad for you and you probably wouldn’t even know it. If you lived there, you’d have to be careful all the time.”
My mother asked, “Careful, how?”
“It’s the feeling that anything you want to do is okay to do. I found that scary.”
“Why?” asked my mother.
“Take Gisele; she probably thought she was doing okay, but all the time she was making things worse.” When my parents didn’t interrupt, I continued, “I might do the same thing.”
My mother told me, “You’re not Gisele. I’m sure you wouldn’t live your life anything like hers.”
“But then I’d have to be like Ms. Richards, Veronica, Christine, and the other dancers, always keeping my guard up.”
My father said, “I thought you liked the women you met?”
“I do, but I don’t want to be like them.” Knowing they would ask why, I explained, “Those women know what Las Vegas can do to a person. To protect themselves, they become, well, hard. I don’t want to be like that.”
My insight first caused my father to smile and then to ask, “You think the women you met have a cynical view of their world?”
He had said it correctly, and I readily agreed. My mother seemed happy and she said, “You don’t know how this pleases me. I worried that you were too young for Las Vegas, but I was wrong.”
One last note: Although I hadn’t met the man and heard his side of the story, after Las Vegas, I believed that Sa’eed Ben El Sharif had ruined Gisele Brower’s life and was the cause of her death.
* * *
Determined not to repeat Gisele’s mistakes, after I returned from Las Vegas, I decided that I had to be very careful and avoid living a life like hers. Unlike Gisele, I would keep my behavior tightly reined. Let others be sexually active, I was going to be abstinent. Not because it was morally correct, not because others encouraged me to do so, but because I had determined that to do otherwise risked everything. I wasn’t going to end my life floating in a canal like Gisele!
JUNIOR YEAR
While completing my course schedule in the summer before my junior year, I made a discovery. Barely containing my excitement, that evening at dinner, I told my parents, “By June, I’ll have enough credits to graduate high school. With the exception of Advanced Placement Chemistry, I will have taken all the courses offered.”
“You’re saying,” observed my mother, “if you wanted to, you could go to college next year.”
Somehow surprised by her logical observation, I stammered, “But-but I would miss my senior year.”
Neither of my parents spoke; the magnitude of the decision I had to make began to sink in. With trepidation in my voice, I said, “I have to think about this.”
My father responded, “You should. When you’re ready, we can discuss all of this some more.”
I looked in my mother’s direction and she nodded.
In that moment, for the first time, I realized that the life I had led for the fifteen years since becoming Barbara O’Leary was coming to an end. Within a year, two at the most, I would be leaving home and its security. For years, I had been preparing for college, but that eventuality had always been in a distant place called the Future. Now, that future was about to become Reality.
While some of the kids at school could not wait to escape the confines of their family life, for me that had never been a problem. My parents and I lived comfortably with one another. They seemed content with me, and they had continuously expanded my universe. Now my comfortable life was going to disappear. In its place, I would be on my own, doing everything for myself.
That evening I could not stop thinking about the change that leaving home would create.
* * *
Being on my own did not scare me. Actually, self-sufficiency was my problem. By choice, I tended toward the solitary, comfortable with my own company. I was by no means anti-social. My parents, my mother in particular, stressed that I have good manners. Those ingrained habits made me polite. However, my friendliness had its limits. One of the girls on the ice hockey team described me succinctly: “Barb, you’re friendly, but you
’re not a friend.”
Several days before I began my junior year—my father was away on business—my mother and I had dinner alone. During the meal, she expressed her concern by asking, “Are you happy?”
Taken aback, I replied, “Yes, sure, everything’s okay,” and then asked, “Did I do something?”
“No, you didn’t do anything. I was just wondering.”
Somewhat defensively, I asked, “Why?”
“You rarely bring friends home. I worry about you.”
More defensively, I answered, “I do a lot of stuff with the other kids. I’m on the hockey team.”
“Barbara, I’m not criticizing. I was just wondering if you’re happy.”
Definitely defensive, I replied, “It’s just my way. I’m not like the other girls. I’m good with myself.”
“I’m not asking you to be like someone else. I’m just wondering if we’ve done the right thing by you.”
Alarmed by my mother’s expression of doubt and its implicit assertion that I was coming out Wrong, I responded, “I know you want me to do more socially. I promise I’ll try harder this year.”
My mother smiled and patted my hand. I had completely misunderstood her concern as a request for action.
* * *
Editor’s Note: In a letter, dated 27 August 2059, Barbara O’Leary explained: Over the years, I have thought about why I ended up a loner. In the best pop psychology tradition, I looked for the famous traumatic event that explains all. Was it my parents who inflicted some form of abuse? Was it my birth mother’s abandonment of me? Did I have a terrible experience as an orphan? Trying to be as objective as I could about myself, I have concluded that none of these reasons, plus many others, explained the root causes of my behavior.
Did my being a loner affect my life? Undoubtedly. On the positive side, I readily studied or practiced long hours, which, not too surprisingly, contributed to my academic and athletic success. Unfortunately, my loner bent retarded the development of my social skills. For example, at a social event, if a boy, particularly a handsome boy, approached, I either froze or found an excuse, usually unbelievably stupid, to flee. If permitted, I would have avoided all social affairs. However, because my mother made my playing ice hockey and racing karts contingent on my participating in school social events, I was effectively compelled to attend. Uncomfortable, I did my best to meld into the surroundings, content to be part of the crowd, watching, participating when asked, but in an emotional sense, uninvolved.