excerpts from a book I never wrote
The first time I touched a man,
what startled me more than the pleasure
was knowing what to do.
I turned to him with a motion so firm,
it must have been forming inside me
before I was born.
____________________*
I got a call from my big sister today. She is twelve years older than I and I simply worshipped her as a kid. Her waist length hair is the same red as an irish setter and always smelled of strawberries and the remnants of last nights beach fire.
She was my heroine and the person I most looked up to in my life. When we moved to Canada from Germany none of the post secondary education she had was applicable in this country. My mother had come to the continent alone with three children and seventy five dollars in her pocket. My sister and brother had to help support our little family and so my sister at seventeen ventured forward and became a burlesque dancer.
When she moved I spent weekends with her in the little house she rented with three other dancers on Manitoba street. I adored the big old house. A sprawling run down heritage home with a tangled garden and plenty of windows to let the sunshine in. I loved the brick fire place and the wall sconces. The hardwood floors were covered in small rugs my sister brought back from a trip to India she took with my brother.
The livingroom had a wall of bookshelves built directly into the wall. The shelves had little doors covered in bevelled glass. These were filled with blue glass bottles, dried roses, photo albums of her travels and dusty books on the astrology and the occult.
A three foot ceramic monkey stared out from it’s throne on the mantle piece. The monkeys painted face so expressive I felt sure it would spring to life at any moment and wreak great havoc. It was a positively evil looking thing. Years later when it shattered into fragments during one of my sisters many moves, I felt enormously relieved. I was convinved a strange and ancient curse was contained in its hollow body. The monkey’s eyes glittered at me malevolently while I sat on the overstuffed chair and read Freak brother comics. I held staring contests with it , glaring back, inevitably the first to turn away but undefeated because I knew it’s tricks, the thing was most surely possessed.
Back in those days the girls danced in cages, they were the original go go dancers. The clubs were not called strip joints they were gentleman’s supper clubs. They had elaborate costumes, gowns covered in rhinestones, sequins and small coins that jingled, they had enormous fluffy feathered boas, to a child they were infinitely glamorous.
My sister’s agent Carl, was gay. He was the man in town who made the variety shows for Drag Queens at Circus Circus a popular event to attend. I had never met a gay man before, and I instantly fell in love with him. Each of his exagerated gestures enchanted me. I ate up his enthusiastic exclamations as he cooed over “his girls”. I took to emulating his expressions, becoming such an expert at impersonating him that he and the girls would pay me a dollar just to watch me “play Carl”.
We sat at the mahogany dining table, drinking coffee, surrounded by fabric and feathers , pinning hems and inventing theme shows. They gave me all the leftover scraps of cloth for my barbies, all of which of course were show girls.
In the evenings my sister would go off to work and I would be left all alone in the house. I locked the doors tight and the first thing I did was turn the ceramic monkey so its face was to the wall, feeling ominpotent as I did so. Heh
I painted my toe nails red, I wandered through the rooms touching the black and white promo pictures hanging on the walls, memorizing the poses to practice later in the hall mirror. I opened the bookshelf and took out the books of spells and padded over to sit Indian style on the persian rug. I took a few puffs off of a roach left out and settled in to begin the incantation that would transform the ordinary carpet into a flying one. I must have sat for a good forty five minutes, of course I remained earth bound, the carpet never moved an inch but it was still grand to try. I took long leisurely bubble baths shaving hair I didn’t have off of my bruised knobby knees, using a little of every single type of available body and face goo in the bathroom, and there was plenty, wasn’t there, it was a house of fancy women after all. Years later, when I entered the industry myself Carl was still working part time as an agent at Deluxe international entertainment . He was almost sixty by then and the industry had changed dramatically, losing much of its previous glamor. He often came to see a show of mine and we would sit conspiring afterward, he over his endless Glenfiddich’s and me over whatever live juice of the moment I was drinking. He took me under his wing and he and I together were going to resurrect the glory days. He booked me in at a little club on Seymour Street called the penthouse. It is one of the oldest buildings in the city and the club is run by the local mob. I was thrilled at the opportunity to work on that stage. It is a favorite club of the girls, save for the fact that its predominently attended by ladies of the evening and their prospective customers.*wry smile* The stage is huge, probably 40 feet accross, completely encased by the most marvelous heavy red velvet curtains that open slowly, swinging and swishing against the dusty hardwood floors. The stage has an original chaise lounge from the 1950’s. Frank Sinatra sang on that stage, and countless other stars entertained Vancouver in it’s hey day. The narrow staircase from the dressing room to the stage was plastered in old posters leftover from the days “real stars” had frequented the place. I stepped down those stairs taking careful steps in my Cinderella glass heels and held out my hands, touching each one of those pictures carefully, hoping some of the magic of those stars would transport itself into my body. a little of their magic imbued those performances. I had a little thrill as I lay on the chaise waiting for the curtains to unfold, the lights were so bright I couldn’t see out... and after all, it’s just as well. I could dream I was Mae West or Judy Garland. I could pretend I was on Broadway or on a stage somewhere in Vegas.
Carl passed away today but the memories I have of him are alive and kicking. For him every dancer who ever cared about the performance was a show girl. He made his girls feel that they were stars even if we only shined for the length of a show. He created class and integrity in an industry that was fast becoming class less. He was a diva of divine proportions and I will miss him dreadfully.
what startled me more than the pleasure
was knowing what to do.
I turned to him with a motion so firm,
it must have been forming inside me
before I was born.
____________________*
I got a call from my big sister today. She is twelve years older than I and I simply worshipped her as a kid. Her waist length hair is the same red as an irish setter and always smelled of strawberries and the remnants of last nights beach fire.
She was my heroine and the person I most looked up to in my life. When we moved to Canada from Germany none of the post secondary education she had was applicable in this country. My mother had come to the continent alone with three children and seventy five dollars in her pocket. My sister and brother had to help support our little family and so my sister at seventeen ventured forward and became a burlesque dancer.
When she moved I spent weekends with her in the little house she rented with three other dancers on Manitoba street. I adored the big old house. A sprawling run down heritage home with a tangled garden and plenty of windows to let the sunshine in. I loved the brick fire place and the wall sconces. The hardwood floors were covered in small rugs my sister brought back from a trip to India she took with my brother.
The livingroom had a wall of bookshelves built directly into the wall. The shelves had little doors covered in bevelled glass. These were filled with blue glass bottles, dried roses, photo albums of her travels and dusty books on the astrology and the occult.
A three foot ceramic monkey stared out from it’s throne on the mantle piece. The monkeys painted face so expressive I felt sure it would spring to life at any moment and wreak great havoc. It was a positively evil looking thing. Years later when it shattered into fragments during one of my sisters many moves, I felt enormously relieved. I was convinved a strange and ancient curse was contained in its hollow body. The monkey’s eyes glittered at me malevolently while I sat on the overstuffed chair and read Freak brother comics. I held staring contests with it , glaring back, inevitably the first to turn away but undefeated because I knew it’s tricks, the thing was most surely possessed.
Back in those days the girls danced in cages, they were the original go go dancers. The clubs were not called strip joints they were gentleman’s supper clubs. They had elaborate costumes, gowns covered in rhinestones, sequins and small coins that jingled, they had enormous fluffy feathered boas, to a child they were infinitely glamorous.
My sister’s agent Carl, was gay. He was the man in town who made the variety shows for Drag Queens at Circus Circus a popular event to attend. I had never met a gay man before, and I instantly fell in love with him. Each of his exagerated gestures enchanted me. I ate up his enthusiastic exclamations as he cooed over “his girls”. I took to emulating his expressions, becoming such an expert at impersonating him that he and the girls would pay me a dollar just to watch me “play Carl”.
We sat at the mahogany dining table, drinking coffee, surrounded by fabric and feathers , pinning hems and inventing theme shows. They gave me all the leftover scraps of cloth for my barbies, all of which of course were show girls.
In the evenings my sister would go off to work and I would be left all alone in the house. I locked the doors tight and the first thing I did was turn the ceramic monkey so its face was to the wall, feeling ominpotent as I did so. Heh
I painted my toe nails red, I wandered through the rooms touching the black and white promo pictures hanging on the walls, memorizing the poses to practice later in the hall mirror. I opened the bookshelf and took out the books of spells and padded over to sit Indian style on the persian rug. I took a few puffs off of a roach left out and settled in to begin the incantation that would transform the ordinary carpet into a flying one. I must have sat for a good forty five minutes, of course I remained earth bound, the carpet never moved an inch but it was still grand to try. I took long leisurely bubble baths shaving hair I didn’t have off of my bruised knobby knees, using a little of every single type of available body and face goo in the bathroom, and there was plenty, wasn’t there, it was a house of fancy women after all. Years later, when I entered the industry myself Carl was still working part time as an agent at Deluxe international entertainment . He was almost sixty by then and the industry had changed dramatically, losing much of its previous glamor. He often came to see a show of mine and we would sit conspiring afterward, he over his endless Glenfiddich’s and me over whatever live juice of the moment I was drinking. He took me under his wing and he and I together were going to resurrect the glory days. He booked me in at a little club on Seymour Street called the penthouse. It is one of the oldest buildings in the city and the club is run by the local mob. I was thrilled at the opportunity to work on that stage. It is a favorite club of the girls, save for the fact that its predominently attended by ladies of the evening and their prospective customers.*wry smile* The stage is huge, probably 40 feet accross, completely encased by the most marvelous heavy red velvet curtains that open slowly, swinging and swishing against the dusty hardwood floors. The stage has an original chaise lounge from the 1950’s. Frank Sinatra sang on that stage, and countless other stars entertained Vancouver in it’s hey day. The narrow staircase from the dressing room to the stage was plastered in old posters leftover from the days “real stars” had frequented the place. I stepped down those stairs taking careful steps in my Cinderella glass heels and held out my hands, touching each one of those pictures carefully, hoping some of the magic of those stars would transport itself into my body. a little of their magic imbued those performances. I had a little thrill as I lay on the chaise waiting for the curtains to unfold, the lights were so bright I couldn’t see out... and after all, it’s just as well. I could dream I was Mae West or Judy Garland. I could pretend I was on Broadway or on a stage somewhere in Vegas.
Carl passed away today but the memories I have of him are alive and kicking. For him every dancer who ever cared about the performance was a show girl. He made his girls feel that they were stars even if we only shined for the length of a show. He created class and integrity in an industry that was fast becoming class less. He was a diva of divine proportions and I will miss him dreadfully.