CHAPTER
ONE
“So
you all think I’m a whore!”
Thirty-three
students of all ages, shapes and sizes had shown up for my mother’s
beginner class on how to strip. “And you all wanna be whores,
too!” An ex-stripper who goes by the name Coco Winters, my mom
was well of aware of the irony. She’d always been considered a
slut, and now it was fashionable to be a slut. Women flocked to her
classes so they could learn from a professional.
It
was my job to start the Madonna CD when she did her demo and sell the
products when class was over. Feathery fans, hot pink boas, plastic
pearl necklaces, vibrators, autographed copies of her self-published
book How to Strip for your Lover.
I
really did not want to be there.
But
her assistant Sunny was on vacation in Greece, and when Coco asked me
to fill in for July, I couldn’t say no. Then Sunny kept extending
her vacation, and now it was almost September. As I stood in back watching,
I couldn’t help but feel foolish. The good little daughter —
helping her mom sell vibrators.
I
was feeling especially sensitive about it because that day, I’d
moved back in with her. Yes, moved back in with my mom. Hired a Man
with Van named Stan and driven from 115th Street to 48th Street with
all my stuff. Boom. There I was. Twenty-five-years old. Back in my childhood
bedroom.
“So,”
Stan had asked me, “you’re shacking up with your mom?”
We were speeding down Broadway catching one yellow light after another.
“I hope you get along.”
“We
do okay.” Coco and I had our problems, but nothing I couldn’t
handle. At least I wouldn’t have to pay rent.
“I’d
live on the streets before moving in with my mom,” Stan had said.
“But she’s uptight.”
“My
mom is the opposite of uptight.” Familiar stores slipped past.
“Which does present its own problems.”
At
the huge intersection across from Lincoln Center, we stopped for a red
light. That’s when my bureau, which was stacked on top of my other
stuff, slid forward and bumped me in the back of my head. Not hard,
but it was disconcerting. I turned around and pushed it back. The light
changed. Stan sped up only to brake quickly for another red light, so
I leaned forward to make sure it didn’t hit me again. “You
sure this stuff is packed in okay?”
“It’s
fine. Everything is under control.”
I
had no reason to believe him, seeing as he didn’t appear to be
under control. Unshaven, greasy hair, red rimmed eyes. It didn’t
take a degree in Physics to figure if he slammed on his brakes, the
bureau would shoot forward and smash into perhaps both our skulls. I
could’ve gotten out of the van, wounded his pride, and let him
get decapitated by himself. But maybe he’d decide to ride off
with all my belongings, and I’d never be able to track him down.
Not that it would’ve been the worst thing. My most valuable possession
was my set of knives. I was particularly fond of my 8-inch Global chef’s
knife. It was Japanese-made -- cheaper but more user-friendly than the
heavy, high carbon, hard to sharpen Henckels and Wusthofs. It had become
like a natural extension of my right hand. Most exciting of all, it
had a spiffy stainless steel handle.
I
get excited by stainless steel the way most women get excited about
diamonds. Its solid silver shine makes me feel so secure. I love the
way every time you wipe it down it looks all new again.
I
checked to make sure my knives were okay. Yes. There they were, right
behind me, wrapped inside a thick piece of blue canvas that rolled up
like a pirouette cookie. I could just grab them and get out, couldn’t
I?
But
no, I wanted to be polite. So I sat there and silently pleaded with
the powers that be to allow me to make my 67-block journey without a
spinal cord injury.
“So
may I ask why you’re moving?” Stan asked. “I like
to hear people’s stories. Usually it means they’re going
through a major change for the better—or worse. Sounds like you’re
on the downhill side,” he chuckled, “am I right?”
I’d
gotten his name off a flier stapled to a telephone pole, but still felt
the need to defend myself…
