Stilettos and Steel

by Jeri Estes

  My brother Max and I had celebrated his birthday with Speedy at Gazzarri’s Nightclub on the Sunset Strip. Afterward, we went with Speedy’s friends to a party. The hippies lived in Venice Beach where the debris meets the sea. That night whiskey and weed persuaded me to travel on the mainline express. Speedy shot meth and I fixed Sweet Georgia Brown heroin for the first time. Max went back home to Woodland Hills, and I woke up in the East L.A. projects. A few weeks later, my one-night stand with the seductress of escape had turned into a bad marriage.

  I wanted to get back home to San Francisco. First though, I had to get off this couch. I’d passed out last night fully dressed in a white wife-beater t-shirt and a pair of Levi’s. My Saint Christopher medal dangled around my neck, showing off under my unbuttoned baby blue shirt.

  Struggling to get my head together, I forced myself to sit up. Violent pain radiated up my arm. I studied the sore on the back of my hand next to a distended red vein. Judging from the look of the recent track mark, it was infected. Gingerly, I lifted my tender hand and rested it on my chest. I wanted a shot of whisky to numb the pain. That meant I needed to get to the bar over on Alvarado Street.

  I could hear Speedy and his mother Dolores talking in the kitchen while she prepared breakfast. Dolores was a soft-hearted, silver-haired old lady who doted on her only child. Social Security checks and memories of more glorious days sustained her.

  My temples pounded. Outside, Mexican children played in the streets. The strong aroma of greasy pork sausages from the kitchen assaulted my senses. Why did Delores have to pick this morning of all mornings to cook chorizo and eggs?

  I sat up on the couch and stared vaguely at the braided area rug under my feet. My head spun and my stomach churned as my eyes followed each shade of green in the oval rug. I prayed aloud, “God, please let me make it to the bathroom.” On the coffee table I spotted the joint I had left there last night next to my silver Playboy Zippo lighter. The Playboy rabbit’s black perky face greeted me. Reaching down slowly with my good arm, I picked them both up.

  Like a seasick sailor with his eyes on the horizon, I focused on the hall archway. My land in sight was the bathroom. I put my bomber and lighter down on the toilet tank cover. Courageously, I peered into the mirror. Much to my relief, the rest of me wasn’t yellow like my arm. I smiled at my reflection.

  “My arm might be ugly, but I’m still cute,” I thought. Leaning against the stained white porcelain sink, I checked myself out. My brown bedroom eyes danced in the rays of the morning sunlight. Their hazel flecks sparkled and coupled nicely with my sun-lightened hair. Luscious, wavy locks, cropped in a boyish cut, fell around my soft, tanned feminine face. My eyes, lined with thick dark lashes, were arched by well-shaped brows; soft full lips accented my slightly cleft chin.

  I thought I resembled Kookie, the sexy television star in the hit series, 77 Sunset Strip. He played a cool valet who was always combing his hair before he parked a car. Imitating Kookie, I grabbed the comb from my back pocket and ran it through my hair with a cocky smile. How funny it was that I now looked like Kookie and was living in East Los Angeles.

  Back home in the Valley, I’d been a regular Gidget: cheerful and clean-cut, with my long blond hair styled in a girly flip. At Taft High School, I wore sweaters and skirts that would have made Doris Day proud. Like any proper young lady, my social wardrobe consisted of basic black, white pearls and good leather pumps.

  When I was fifteen and fell in love with my best friend, my life completely changed. I was terrified that someone would find out, including her. That dread suffocated my soul. More and more, I felt like a lonely imposter living in a straight world.

  Then I heard rumors that the queers had formed a colony in Hollywood, and I decided to run away. Fleeing shame, I abandoned my friends, family and beautiful home. My journey of liberation began in Hollywood and later led me to the Tenderloin.

  Turning away from the mirror, I shook off the runaway blues and looked forward to getting down to the bar. Maybe I could pick up a trick and make a little cash. I could at least have a few drinks and talk shit with the sissy drag queens. Maybe one of them would buy me a drink.

  Putting the joint in my mouth, I clicked open my Zippo and stroked my thumb against the wheel rapidly a few times. I heard that beautiful “click” just before the flame lit the grass. I took a deep drag and listened to the pot crackle. While putting my Zippo in my pocket, I found a wadded dollar bill and some loose change.

  Tucking away the lighter in the little pocket within a pocket, I tripped for a second on how awesome it was. It’s like Levi Strauss knew it would make a perfect little house for my lighter.

  Feeling much better, I ventured out into the living room. I could see the crown of Speedy’s little bald head as he leaned over, talking to Grady. Poor Speedy was only in his early thirties, but he already looked like an old man. His rotten buckteeth protruded over a thick bottom lip, exposing vampire-like side teeth. They’d become sharp and pointed from all the years of grinding.

  Today he was wearing his favorite watermelon-seed necklace. The huge black peace sign on it hung over his hippie fringed leather vest and his tie-dyed long-sleeved shirt. Around his balding head was a bright yellow headband with a large white, wilted daisy hanging from it, drooping over his eye.

  Speedy grinned, then noticed my swollen forearm.

  “Holy shit, your arm looks awful. Hey man, you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay, but my arm is fucked up. It’s killing me. I’m heading down to the Open Door. You wanna come with me? Maybe some old whore there can fix me up. If they can give themselves abortions, they can help me with my arm.”

  Speedy nodded his head and methodically stroked his stringy, gray, Fu Manchu. Grinding his teeth, he had a pained expression, as if he was in deep thought. His dilated pupils stared off into la-la land.

  Speedy finally replied, “I’m too tired to go to the club. I think I’ll stay home with my mom.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’m stuck without a car in East L.A. To get to the State Street bus stop, I’ll have to walk through the middle of the projects. I’ll be lucky to get past the gang members that line the streets.”

  “Jesse, it’s early, they’re not up yet,” Speedy said reassuringly. “Anyway, it’s cool. Manuel’s got your back.”

  Manuel was my homeboy and the leader of the Ese Gang. He offered me protection because he knew my grandmother was Spanish. He had nicknamed me “SFV Ese” because I was a Valley girl. Hoping that my passport stamped with Manuel’s protection would suffice; I headed out the front door and walked down the hill through the beige brick buildings that made up the project compound.

  I was amazed how peaceful this little neighborhood of welfare recipients looked. I started to sweat, but it wasn’t from the hot July sun. This benign-looking housing crackled with violence, exploding at unexpected moments.

  Finally, I reached the bottom of the hill and exited through the main gate of the projects onto State Street. I saw the bus stop on the corner. It was a relief to be able to sit down on the little bench in the shaded shelter.

  Seeing a large display poster for The Mamas & The Papas concert at the Greek Theatre, I couldn’t help but notice how fat Mama Cass was now. I heard the group in my head, singing “California Dreamin’.” Those hippies singing about L.A. didn’t know this part of town, that’s for sure, or they’d be happy to stay Back East.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the approaching bus. It was the L.A. Express that would take me down to Alvarado.

  “Thank God!” I said aloud.

  The bus door opened, revealing an Afro-headed gigantic-breasted black bus driver. She smiled down at me and said, “Hey, baby, come on in. Where you going, sugar?”

  “Eighth and Alvarado,” I smiled back.

  Cheerfully, with the big steering wheel in her hands, she said, “Put your quarter in the meter and go sit down. We don’t have all day.” Chuckling, she added, “Get a move on! This is the L.A. Express, ch
ild!”

  I put my money in the meter and walked down the aisle to find a seat in the back. I passed Mexican maids, busboys and the L.A. poor, careful not to look at the curious faces. Walking with my head down was a habit I had gotten into for my own protection. It was a shielding maneuver I used in the straight world. I also knew better than to talk much, since my voice was not as deep as a young man’s. No sense in giving myself away. The last thing I wanted was to get busted for impersonating the opposite sex.

  By mistake I stumbled on the shopping bag of an old Mexican woman. As I apologized, the woman’s black eyes bore into mine for a few seconds. I saw in them pity and contempt. Dismissing me, she grabbed the child sitting next to her protectively.

  After settling into my seat, I thought about her dirty look. I didn’t know if my arm grossed her out or if she just hated queers. Whatever it was, she could go fuck herself!

  The stink of diesel fuel wafted through the open windows as we rolled by small wooden houses, countless billboards covered with graffiti and assorted taco stands. Our bus lumbered alongside low-riding Vatos in their dice-adorned Chevy Impalas. Gang members cruised by old pickup trucks, loaded with lawnmowers and laborers. Overweight women pushed shopping carts down the littered sidewalks with little children in tow. Groups of Mexican men dressed in cowboy hats and boots lingered outside the liquor stores.

  I closed my eyes to shut out the ugly streets. The hot sun beat through the bus window onto my face and I felt homesick for San Francisco. I could be myself in the gay ghetto. Amid the rhythm of the city, I mingled with friends and freely walked the sidewalks lined with gay bars and restaurants. The girls were crazy about me. I had been making good money and it wasn’t going into my arm.

  The vision of Carmen’s beautiful face and long auburn hair kept me company on the lonely bus ride. My lady could put up with my philandering but drew the line when it came to hard drugs. I could never let Carmen see me in this condition. To top it off, the vein in my hand looked like freakin’ Frankenstein.

  My arm was killing me. It felt frozen and stuck to my chest. Each time the bus stopped or jerked my arm would throb. Much to my relief, I finally heard the bus driver say, “Eighth and Alvarado!” The announcement of the dirty streets that queers and dope fiends roamed sounded like heaven. I grabbed the rail with my good arm, pulled myself up and started to leave.

  As I passed the Mexican bitch with pity in her eyes, I stopped and said, “Have a nice day.” I was a polite Californian and a nice Valley girl. I was not going to give up my good manners for any rude Ranchero.

  Long, busy Alvarado Street was flanked with small shops, liquor stores, restaurants and bars. It also hosted two of the oldest lesbian bars in the country, the Open Door and the If Club. Straight-laced square homos avoided them like the plague. What separated these particular cocktail lounges from your average queer hangouts was their commerce of human flesh. They were meat markets for heterosexuals with a taste for lesbian prostitutes.

  A good portion of my L.A. business came from straight housewives. They wanted sex with a butch and liked my youthful looks and soft appearance. With any luck, one of those lustful suburban perverts would be in the bar today.

  I caressed my Saint Christopher, the good luck charm I always wore around my neck. The cold medal would startle the lady lying underneath me as it touched her pussy. I would make a mental notch of her face. I felt as cool as one of the cowboys I used to watch on TV when I was a kid. Bang! One down!

  As I walked, I recognized a tall, thin, black-haired butch named Dino sitting on a stool at the Chicken Shack. Dino was a good-looking gangster pimp who frequented the If Club. She sat in the hot sun dressed like a full-fledged high-roller eating a piece of fried chicken.

  Dino sported a fedora-style white hat and a lavender sharkskin suit which I knew hid her silver plated .45. Dino was a gun totin’, Tiparillo smokin’, no shit takin’ New Yorker. Her most recent claim to fame was that she had shot a john right in the ass. Dino was hiding under the bed while her bitch turned a trick with a rough john. As soon as the john got a little too forceful, Dino fired away, almost taking out her whore.

  I had been raised to be a perfect young lady. My parents’ goal in life was not for me to end up on Alvarado Street. We had planned for me to go to Julliard in New York to study Theatre Arts. Years of private drama lessons were an investment designed to enhance my sophisticated demeanor. Instead, my sorority sisters were characters that Sergeant Joe Friday in “Dragnet” would have liked to put away.

  The Open Door was dark and cool inside, a welcome refuge from the L.A. heat and smog. As my eyes adjusted, I looked for someone to help me with my arm. I noticed there was not one old whore in the place. Not even a fucking trick.

  My situation looked bleak, especially since I had only a dollar and forty-five cents to my name. At least someone had fed the jukebox. One of my favorite songs was playing and I tripped on the lyrics: “I’m your puppet, I’m hanging on a string, I’ll do anything.” Right now, I definitely was in need of a puppet master.

  The only other person in the joint was Bunny, a beautiful, petite femme playing bartender. It really surprised me to see her tending bar. God knows she didn’t need the money. Bunny was the biggest moneymaking hooker on Alvarado Street. I didn’t know it then, but she would turn some of that money my way. She was about to give me the opportunity to become the most infamous female pimp in San Francisco’s history.

  Chapter 3

  OPEN DOOR

  I lingered by the jukebox, mesmerized by the steamy femme. Bunny was a glamorous lady of the night, wrapped in designer fashions. I was intimidated by this goddess of femininity who exuded pure sexuality.

  Usually Peaches, a girly-girl friend of Bunny’s, served me here. She was a drop-dead gorgeous lesbian prostitute, a high-yellow fox who worked the bar as a way to meet new tricks. The two femmes were a team of money-making barracudas that devoured their johns.

  Bunny’s butch girlfriend, Tattoo Jean, kept her on a short leash. The tattooed pimp dyke made the Worldwide Wrestling Heavyweight Champion, “The Destroyer,” look meek and mild.

  I glanced sideways and noticed Bunny was eyeballing me as she wiped down the large wooden bar. Her cleavage inspired me to swagger, and I did my version of a rich pimp daddy’s strut to mask my desperation.

  The familiar voice of shame tapped at my spirit. “That beautiful femme doesn’t want to serve your lowlife ass. Bunny is a top-notch professional girl with the eye of a financial expert. She knows you don’t have any money.”

  I decided to check out the jukebox to bide some time. Maybe someone would come in and buy me a drink. Then that cute little femme wouldn’t have to see how broke I was. As sick as I felt, I straightened my shoulders and held my head up high in my finest finishing school walk as I crossed the room.

  My grandmother Nani Lou had taught me how to walk with books on my head. She used to say to me, “All wealthy people walk with elegance and ease. Always move with your head held high and steady, as you gracefully glide to your destination.”

  Despite my outward calm, my heart started to race. I was totally broke and alone. I knew the hooker standing behind the bar could see right through me and was not fooled by my cool, debonair stride.

  I leaned against the glowing red and blue jukebox, trying to focus on the flip boards holding the song titles. Just then a Ray Charles song came on. He was happily singing, “Hit the Road, Jack.” I realized I had to do something. I had to either sit up at the bar and face my embarrassment with the sharp-looking femme or go across the street to the If Club. My mind was made up. I was going to go sit at the bar and order a beer. That snobby bitch was going to have to serve me whether she wanted to or not.

  Turning around, I focused on the enticing red stool with silver legs. I put my leg over the soft round cushion, and sat down in front of Bunny. I had never really seen her up close before. Usually she was all dolled up, but I couldn’t get over how plain-Jane she looked today. With her
shoulder-length brown hair styled in a pageboy right out of the 1950s, Bunny looked like a conservative young secretary. Underneath her tight little white cashmere sweater was a pair of huge firm tits accented by a simple strand of white pearls.

  Hypnotically, I watched the round mounds slightly rise and fall with each breath she took. I saw the quickness in her baby blue eyes as she studied me. Leaning forward, resting my good arm on the bar, I looked up at Bunny and nonchalantly said, “I’d like a draft, please.”

  She stood across the bar from me and said, “Sure, Jesse.”

  Stunned that she knew my name, I gathered my composure and smiled at her. Bunny’s tone was sexy, soft and caring, like Marilyn Monroe’s. It occurred to me that her freshly fucked, out-of-breath voice was why she made so much money.

  I had to fight the urge to throw my head between those soft pink breasts and cry like a baby. All I yearned to do was fuck this clean-cut little girl and have her hold me until I forgot my pain.

  As she turned to fill my glass, I admired her tight ass wrapped in a black miniskirt. Bunny set the mug on the bar in front of me. I detected a hint of a smile as I said, “Thanks for the beer.”

  I raised the frosted glass to my lips and took a sip, enjoying the cold damp feeling on my fingers. Never had a cheap draft beer tasted so good. I swallowed the cold amber liquid and felt it go down my throat. As I licked the foam off my upper lip from the head of the beer, the tension started to leave me. Booze and being in a gay club often had that effect on me. I was now safe in a cocoon of darkness, protected from the outside straight world.

  I lit up a Pall Mall with my good hand, careful to keep my other hand hidden under the bar. Yet she had already noticed. “Hey Jesse, you okay? Is there something wrong with your arm? Why don’t you want me to see it?”