She got the operation?
Damned right! Had to sell a lot of ass to pay for it, but so what? And even though she’s old and fat, well, Latinos just worship fat ladies! My point is, if Dolores can do it, so can you. Just stop whining and do the work. I’ll help you.
That made Judy so happy that she ran home to masturbate, while Xenia remarked to Francine: That’s one rude bitch! I try to give her advice and she takes off on me . . .
Three dollars, replied her oracle, who then reached behind the cash register, straightening that framed and glassed four-by-six-inch snapshot of two brunettes in bluejeans anchoring their arms on a beaming blonde in a broadbrimmed hat; and as her body occluded her hand she withdrew from behind the picture a twist of sticky plastic wrap which contained four pre-ordered goofballs of maximum strength. I met her at the dark side of the bar to slip her the money. When she pushed the pills down into my pocket, I kissed her shoulder.—Love you, too, she said.
7
Apprehensive that various lies might be sinking her deeper into the retired policeman’s bad graces, Judy now committed her second theft on Neva’s premises. She undertook it by claiming to reek of her previous worshipper (me). She said: And I, I feel a little nauseous right now, so how about if you go first?—Gazing lovingly at her with those huge brown eyes which we all suspected perceived every falsehood, the lesbian said: Okay, I’ll shower now . . .—and after waiting for exactly one minute after water began to hiss down in the bathroom, Judy opened the lesbian’s overnight bag and within the top flap’s zippered inside pocket discovered right away a silly photo of some old lady and Neva as bellydancers in purple bras and sequined pants, with jingling mesh belts on their breasts, their arms outspread, big grins on their faces; and beneath that a faded, color-mutated snapshot of a braided young woman on a bed, reaching out to some lover; on the reverse an old-time feminine hand had written: Waiting for E., Stanford ’74.
Forty years ago! Judy had been a six-year-old boy in Cleveland and Neva would have been unborn, or barely born. Maybe this E. was her mother.
The shower stopped. She heard Neva shampooing her hair. Then the water hissed again.
More photos: first the old bellydancer lady looking younger, in a moderately feminine sun-blouse, leaning up against the wooden wall of some outdoor beer garden, her grey bangs low over her eyes, smiling gently, as if at a lover; then in a second snapshot were lesbians at what must have been a Berkeley back yard party, given the San Francisco skyline in the background; the yard was lushly overgrown; several women wore rainbow shirts; the old lady was flipping patties on the barbeque, and the caption said Soy Fest 1968 (Jen & Judith’s engagement).
Like the forethinking addict who harvests only a pill or two at a time from each medicine cabinet she invades, Judy, insisting to herself that she had to go easy on Neva, extracted nothing but those first two bits of evidence—the bellydancers and Stanford ’74. Then she cleared the crime scene. She was sweating so heavily with fear that her shower was actually warranted, so she took it.
In Neva’s bed she had a wonderful time, of course, but felt distracted. The lesbian smiled at her searchingly. The buzzer announced Francine. Then off went Judy to her master, who received the photographs, patted her on the head and said: Good dog, Frank.
What do they mean?
That’s above your pay grade, puppydoll.
8
The tiny phone was burning against the lesbian’s ear as Hunter continued: I feel like I did live a lie in that I slept through my first lesbian relationship and was in it for eight years. I had committed to it and I had to stick it out. She was my second girlfriend ever and at sixteen we lived together and then we were engaged. Are you listening? Neva, are you there?
Right here.
Well, it was a very emotionally abusive relationship. I had built this relationship with another woman and felt that I had to stick to it because I didn’t want to prove other people right, because I wasn’t able to deal with my coming out with hetero people. She would always tell me that I was not really gay, that I would end up with a man. So when we broke up I thought, maybe you do need to be with a man, and trying that was awful and that was how I learned who I was. And then, flash forward to Xenia, the love of my life! And you know, Neva, I’ve committed to her and will do whatever it takes to keep her, but she . . .
The lesbian waited.
She . . . Oh, Neva, I—
The lesbian said: She’s promiscuous. Like me.
Thank you for saying it, because, you see, I don’t come from that kind of background. I dislike it. It brings me down. Sometimes I just . . .
Okay, said the gentle lesbian. So you want to stop seeing me, and you want her to stop seeing me and return to you in a monogamous relationship.
That’s right. When she turns tricks, I don’t count that, because we all gotta survive.
If you and Xenia both stop coming to me, you know I’ll understand. I’ll still love you—
So you’ll tell her . . . ?
I’m sorry, Hunter, but that’s up to her, said the lesbian.
Cursing her, the other woman ended the call. The lesbian felt sick to her stomach. She closed her phone. Softly she began to sing the song of names that Reba had taught her: E-beth, Reba, Belle and Lucia, Judy and Shantelle, Francine and Richard and Victoria and Sandra, Holly and Hunter . . . Then she lay down, waiting for Sandra.
9
They had been in bed together, not thinking about the lesbian, and in the hilarious confiding ecstasy of the moment, Xenia, feeling something bubbling so happily up inside her, not sure whether to share it but wanting to because she had no secrets from Hunter, said: And you know, five months ago Sandra kissed me on the lips.
What? When was this? said Hunter in a sudden massive voice as if some concrete slab had automatically slid aside so that an anti-aircraft gun could come out.
We were at your house, and—
I know. I remember very well. When I went into the kitchen for a minute, and when I came out, you two were . . . Why, that bitch. My own best friend. I’m going to text her right now and let her have it.
No, she was drunk! It wasn’t anything!
Did she put her tongue in your mouth?
Oh, no, Xenia lied.
When you kissed her, did you feel desire?
No, it was nothing like that; she was redfaced and tipsy . . . What are you doing?
I’m texting Sandra.
No, don’t, said Xenia.
If I don’t, will you promise to be faithful from now on?
Fine. I promise.
Including Neva.
Neva doesn’t count. We all go to her, even you. We all have to go; you know that.
10
Another week went down the toilet. Samantha with her towering beehive and gravelly voice sat getting drunk for show night. Xenia, enthusiastically lucid on amphetamines, was holding forth to Selene: It’s not to say that women are not orgasm focused. But lesbian sex has the possibility of being more emotional. There’s an intuition that women have, a witchiness, and I tend to date artists and musicians and filmmakers, not to mention Neva, because they have their own psychic landscape, although Hunter, well, let’s not get into that, but with women there’s definitely a dance that goes on with a heart-pussy connection . . .
Selene opened a new box of false eyelashes. We had two hours to kill.
How’s your health, Samantha? said eager Al.
Okay—so far.
That’s all we can say. (What a genius he was!)
Others indeed found more than that to say:
No, Shantelle, they drew some fluid from her belly and it tested positive for ovarian cancer.
I believe it. My Mama got it even after they cut both her ovaries right out. First she felt tender on her right side . . .
In the dark corner where the retir
ed policeman, as granite-hard and blank as the facade of the Federal Office Building, sometimes posted himself in order to spy on Judy, Sandra now began helping to arrange Shantelle’s hair. The latter’s new look, special for tonight, was intended to duplicate or maybe surpass the style-mask of the ultrafamous Paris Hilton.
I wish I knew what the stars really did on Christmas, said Sandra.
Shantelle yawned.—Probably they fight. Just like us.
A white man and a black man were snuggling at the bar, giggling, and Francine overheard the black man saying: No wig, no makeup, no tits, no—and the white man cut in: Just my . . .—That’s right, honey. That’s all I need, and you know where I need it.
The transwoman, whose earrings were the size of coasters, leaned over them for a quick meet-and-greet, which on show nights she bestowed on all comers, in order to support Francine, accomplish good in the world, and maybe do business—not to mention that she was curious to see what the black man was showing the white man on his phone’s cracked screen: hunky Joes and Johns, of course, whose male organs each appeared to be thicker than the lesbian’s wrist:—Ooh, said the transwoman. Ooh, they’re cute.
The white man said: Get away from us, you stinking old queen.
The transwoman burst into tears. Since nobody looked her way, she began to sob at a higher volume.
What’s the problem? said Francine.
That fat queen was spying on us. Tell her to leave us alone.
Listen, dude. Judy’s part of the family and you’re not. And she’s a performer. You wanna treat my performers that way, you can leave.
Oh, she is? We didn’t know. Sorry. We thought she was nosing into our business.
Judy, did you hear? They apologized, so stop your boo-hooing and give ’em space. And just so you know, if that man who hurt you comes in, I’ve got my baseball bat and Shantelle’s gonna clock him. Selene, your skirt’s unzipped just a teensy bit. C’mere. Turn around. All right; now you’re good. No, sir; that’s fourteen dollars, not eleven, and I don’t know where the fuck Neva is . . .—while over by the toilets, blondes of all genders smiled palely in the darkness, waiting to perform. The catty pole remained out of order. A bald old man scuttled to refill his plastic bucket of popcorn. His hands shook, and the pouches beneath his eyes were as big as testicles.
Finally it was time. The familiar circle of light burst out on the shabby carpet by the ladies’ room door, while a long dead chanteuse oozed synthetic wonder, crooning: The luckiest people in the . . . WORLLLLLLLLLLD.
The transwoman, satisfied to have been humiliated and then consoled, stepped into the light (which turned her blonde wig green) and began to dream herself into the proper mood. Reaching under the bar, Francine turned a knob. Blue lights whirled out of the disco ball like a swarm of flies. Judy smiled, put her hand on her hip, ran her tongue over her teeth and found a rough spot. She blushed. Ducking through the curtain, she pulled on the ladies’ room door, which was unlocked, praise the Lord, and smiled into the mirror. What was stuck to her tooth? She couldn’t see it. Well, if she couldn’t, neither would they. Although she hardly needed to pee, she availed herself, then washed hands, maintained lipstick, winked at her reflection and unlocked the door, utterly prepared to gladden the luckiest people in the . . . WORLLLLLLLLLLD. Our Europeans were waiting.
While one man informed a second: The merger feels very risky; all we get is sweat equity, and in the corner, Al kept opening and unclosing his fist beside his untouched drink as above his head the disco ball’s stardust crawled on the black wall like smoke, Judy performed her act, and the Germans gave her so many one-dollar bills she nearly felt good about herself (although cruel Shantelle cried out: Is that a baby bump there, girl?—Shut up, said Francine.)—The second man replied to the first: We’re dumping every dollar back into the company. Super lean. That wasn’t our plan this year. Our plan was to grow. We’ve lost a lot of opportunities to be selling to our customers. But generally speaking the mergers are a little more difficult to put together.—Then came a new girl, one we had never seen before, decked out as a greenhaired Hawaiian princess, each of whose buttocks would have made a luau for half a dozen hungry lovers of sweet and sour pork; she was doing the hula dance without any hula, and Judy craved to steal the secret of her eyeshadow; her deliciously hairless armpits glittered with powder, and to the happy-happy music she whirled her hair round and round so that it took turns caressing the chests of the patrons in the bar and the knees of the more reclusive types who inhabited those two-seater niches against the wall. Even Francine was allured by this whirl and swirl of hair, of green hair flashing, and imagined lying down with the princess in a bed of palm leaves.
After the greenhaired girl, one of the blondes who appeared sexy from a distance came into the light, and her blotchy face powder, pouchy eyes and wrinkles were complemented by a crooked mouth that made her look as if she had suffered a stroke. God, thought the transwoman, I may be ugly but I’m not like that, which gave her great satisfaction. After that, she remembered to feel sad that the retired policeman was not here.
Then came the lesbian.
With Shantelle
Things are the other way round in the city of love. Blood-filled eyes become happy. It is you who trap yourself in the net, then laugh as you have yourself slaughtered.
BULLHE SHAH, bef. 1759
Interest is seldom pursued but at some hazard. He that hopes to gain much, has commonly something to lose . . . But envy may act without expence, or danger . . . its effects therefore are . . . always to be dreaded.
DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1751
1
We were enjoying a faraway pink-lit girl.—She’s so dramatic, said Shantelle, who before meeting Neva had sometimes wondered why she was so indifferent to everyone.—Makes such a big deal out of takin’ off her damn panties.
Not as cute as you, said I, drinking in the girl’s pinkness in the purple light.
It was the first time I had ever gone out with Shantelle. She said: My philosophy is, if someone’s gonna hate me for nothing, I’ll make him hate me for something. Now what about you?
I want to love you, I said.
Somebody wanna love me, I can live with that. You know who I love?
Neva.
That’s right, and I watched her yearning, licking her lips, nerving herself up like the adolescent girl who stands at the makeup counter holding the bronze compact so long that she knows she is becoming a person of interest to the store’s undercover detectives; if she is going to shoplift she needs to move, and in precisely that spirit she now said: So let’s do a little business, honey. Gimme all your turns with her, and I’ll give you everything.
If I say no, will you punch me?
She laughed. At the next table, the man in the baseball cap was stroking his girlfriend’s hair while the onstage girl in the white tunic which now glowed blue whirled round and round from the pole, legs high in the air, then leaped down, gripping her breasts, laughing triumphantly, offering herself.—Next up came Xenia, who waved at us.
I have to give it up to that old bitch, Shantelle said. Look at her—half her teeth gone, and mascara like one of them washed out roads, but she keeps right on hustlin’. Hey, baby! Hey! Come on, Richard; give her five dollars.
I stood up and tucked a dollar bill into Xenia’s G-string. The law said no touching, but at the Pink Apple everything went easy.
So how about it? said Xenia.
I need to kill myself first, I said. Give me time.
So that’s a no, right? You’re fuckin’ tellin’ me no.
Actually I pitied her. To the retired policeman (who felt fond of her) she was as weak, predictable and ultimately unimportant as the sobbing girl who laughs only upon getting arrested, but to me she was someone Judylike, who never stopped screaming or sobbing with need, causing me to think about her more than I wished.
My n
ext turn’s tomorrow at three, I told her. I already traded last month with Sandra, but—
But what?
I’ll give you that one.
And what do I got to do?
Unable to think of anything that would be worth my sacrifice I said: Oh, just say you love me.
I love you, Richard. Ha, ha, you’re too fuckin’ much! Lemme run and tell Xenia . . .
2
On the following afternoon, Shantelle was spending my turn with Neva, and she promptly began to know that the sorrows of loving follow ever at one’s shoulders, nattering and chittering all the way up the darkness for which we were made.
No, said Shantelle. You’re gonna hear me out. You’re mine, and that’s all there is to it. Mine, and no one else’s. Because I love you so much I’ll fuckin’ stab you if you—
The lesbian, well accustomed to this species of compliment, raised the other woman’s hand to her lips.
Stroking Neva’s belly, Shantelle gloried in cherishing her—this perfect lover who was always ready. And she forgot what she had been thinking the night before—about kidnapping her, or . . . Right now she felt extremely high. She said: The thing is, you and me . . . We gotta . . . Do you know why, honey?—at which the lesbian, wearily half-smiling, lowered her face, and then, anxious to please, looked Shantelle full on, so that the other woman unconsciously widened her nostrils, in order all the better to drink in the perfume of her gaze.
The lesbian had honeymoon bladder. She went to the bathroom and peed; maybe she was getting an infection. Shantelle tried to wait patiently on the sofa, but, unable to keep away any longer, she rushed in, gripped Neva’s head for salvation and thrust her tongue into her mouth, rocking hard and quickly against her; and the charm of her (or whatever it was) rushed into Shantelle’s brain like the night’s first hit of crack cocaine.
The Lucky Star Page 30