Breakfast in Stilettos (11 page)

After a pious hug, Mom departed without any further economic analysis of my love life. She had a point, of course. She wouldn’t be the first to note that I was on the verge of romantic bankruptcy. I wasn’t sure that I bought into the business of inheriting bad taste. I didn’t think Frank was
that
bad. And there had been othe
r
good fish. In fact, overall, I had dated a lot of nice men. I just never got to the marrying phase. And, considering my mother’s three failed marriages, a bit of caution seemed prudent.

I hopped into the Jeep and waved once more as Mom pulled out of the parking lot.

On to the shopping phase of my day. Once again I drove up to The Hill—home to the bulk of the city’s purveyors of used leather clothing, both on and off the rack. I didn’t have the budget to buy anything new, especially considering the likelihood of my wearing it again. But if Frank and Sal’s admonitions were correct, I needed something black and blatant before day’s end. At least Capitol Hill’s second-hand stores would ensure I’d still have enough money to eat next week.

It was a strange transition, leaving the tidy, Martha Stewart-like neighborhood of Madison Park to enter the Marilyn Manson-like atmosphere of The Hill. The distance was fewer than fifteen blocks. Once Mom’s brother had visited us from some tiny Midwest town. Upon seeing multiple pink Mohawks and multi-pierced eyebrows, nostrils and earlobes, he had flatly refused to get out of the car. This is a man who carried three rifles with live ammo in his truck.

The Hill
was
a visually arresting place. It was a little after eleven o’clock and the main drag, Broadway, was just coming to life. Clutches of young people dressed in goth fetish-wear loitered in front of the shops and restaurants, begging for change. Each face was afflicted with the sickly, colorless pallor that accompanied a massive hangover. A few slept sprawled on the sidewalk, arms and legs akimbo in unconscious abandon.

I never did anything like sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk. In fact, Freud would have diagnosed me with an overactive super-ego. Mom affectionately called me “reserved,” but I suspect
repressed
was a more appropriate description.

I had been raised in a transposed household, one where the mother ran around in miniskirts and black lace nylons, while the daughter wore baggy pants and a turtleneck. As a result, I rebelled early on. But instead of doing drugs and alcohol, I overdosed on religion. Over the next few years I had my escapades, but it was flirting with god(s). Christian, Buddhist, Taoist, Druid, Eastern, Western, New Age, Pagan—I tried them all—flitting from one to the next like a hummingbird in search of some exalted nectar. I graduated high school as one of the few virgins. Had I been in ancient Greece, perhaps I might have found employment as a Sybil at the oracle in Delphi. Strangely enough, one of my fellow church mates got upset because I wouldn’t go out with him and
denounced
me
as
a minion of Satan. Things were a little less clear for me from that point forward.

I drove around the Hill for about ten minutes before finding a parking spot. This one required that I wedge my car in using the classic double bumper kiss. Luckily neither the forward nor aft vehicles had alarms.

A couple of drag queens with disheveled wigs and overly pink cheeks passed me as I strolled in the brisk morning air toward the first store. They were clearly just getting home, making their unsteady way perched on six-inch platform heels. Now that was what I needed. Shoes that made a statement. I had a closet of practical shoes that, in Alabama, would get me pegged as a Lesbian. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I
had
several lesbian friends who
were
certain that I’
d
eventually realize my true calling. But the truth was, I liked men, though Lord knows it would have been
easier
som
e
times if I didn’t.

I pushed open the door into the Black Light Clothing Exchange and was instantly assailed by the mélange of perfumes, as if each article of clothing had been dipped into a separate and unique vat. Underlying all this was the musky smell of old saddles. I snorted, trying to clear my sinuses, but the odors finally numbed all my nasal follicles and I was left with only a sharp chemical taste on my tongue.

The shop clerk looked up from her book and smiled wanly, setting off a cascade of silver from all her lip rings. She looked to be in her early twenties. Her hair was black and blue, parted in various odd shapes with tiny yellow duck barrettes. I nodded, trying hard not to stare as she gazed back at me through her green plastic fifties-style eyeglass frames.

“Can I help you?” There was a larger question in her voice. I was evidently outside the standard Black Light clientele and it wasn’t Halloween. So why was I there?

“Yes. I need some leather. A jacket and a skirt. And some shoes.” I looked around, trying to determine how things were organized. Not by color or size or style, that was sure. Maybe by vintage.

She scooted the glasses up her nose, sizing me up. “Is this for a party or something?”

I wondered how much you told a clerk at a time like this. “I’m going out to a club tonight, to do some research for work. I need an outfit.”

She set down her book and slid off her stool, apparently seeing that she had an official project ahead of her. “The leather is all on the back wall. Shoes are back here behind the counter. What sizes do you wear?”

I gave her sizes for everything and she started pulling things from the rack and hooking the hangers over the door of the tiny closet that passed as a dressing room. “What club? The Phoenix?”

I was embarrassed, but figured it was good to practice saying it. “No.
The Slutterati Salon
. I’m doing a story.”

She hesitated for a long moment, glancing at my practical shoes, blue jeans and pullover sweater. She seemed to be wondering if maybe, hidden under those clothes, there was an alien incognito. Then she breathed. “Oh, you’re a
writer
.” As if things suddenly made sense to her and this
was
a costume party after all.

She smiled and pulled back the drapes beside the dressing room to reveal another room. “I have just the thing.”

I walked into the
back
room, feeling for a moment that I had entered the
Star Wars
costume shop. One whole side wall was crammed with Darth Vader black shiny. I couldn’t tell the shape or form of any of the outfits, but the materials ranged from plastic to latex to vinyl—all black and emanating the ominous threat of the Death Star. The opposite wall was Wookie/Ewok land: fur-like garments of every kind, including a nice array of leopard and, at the far end, a few Big-Bird type costumes. Before me was Princess Leia’s private collection of slinky slave suits.

Ms. Duck Barrettes pointed to a small dressing room off to the side. “You can try stuff on in there.
The Salon
is pretty open. You could wear any of this.”

The door outside dinged and
her head turned like a divining rod to water
. “I’ll be back in a bit.” She disappeared through the curtain, leaving me alone with Mother Teresa’s worst nightmare.

I set down my coat and purse, noticing the full-length mirror in the back corner. I took a good look at myself. Staring back at me was a decent-looking woman, simple and practical. Straight
coiffure
—sans curls, sans highlights. No make-up, no manicure, unpolished comfy shoes, wherein toes wiggled with room to spare. The clothes were standard Pacific Northwest casual—jeans and an REI sweater. Nothing stood out or made a statement. My looks were as unassertive as my personality. I was, through and through, a sideline observer of the Strange and Unusual, reporting all that I saw in vivid Technicolor but leaving behind little more than a shadowed impression on the world.

I thought of Asshole Bob, who left his
obnoxious
mark on everything. My mother with her gypsy heart. Kenner and his Shakespearean
commentaire
.
Even Sal impressed every guy I knew by way of her macro brain and micro waist. None of them were afraid to speak the truth as they saw it.

And then there was Frank.

I gave a big sigh, remembering the book’s recommended path to assertiveness.

I scanned the room again, gestalting what sort of outfit I should wear.
Ix-nay
on the
leopard-ay
. A furvert I would never be. The slinky slave wall was alluring, but nothing I’d read said that
assertive
had to be synonymous with
naked
. If God had meant for my navel to be exposed, he/she/they would have put it in the middle of my forehead.

So I turned to the Darth Vader wall and began the slow process of assessing each outfit to see if I would a) die of embarrassment wearing it, or b) die of asphyxiation trying to put it on.

After the third outfit, I realized that Darth had a good reason for his breathing problems. Never underestimate the power of the dark side when it comes in the form of a latex rubber overbust corset with steel boning and buckle front fastening.

After an hour of inhaling to close all manner of cinches, straps, Velcro, belts, zippers, and snaps—not to mention a few safety pins and nails—I settled on a short black leather jacket and skirt. The set had a few provocative slits and rivets, but seemed street legal for the most part.

Ms. Duck Barrettes rang up my purchases, looking disappointed that she hadn’t inspired a proper makeover. I had come in a nerd and was going out a nerd in a nicer outfit. But then, as I stood there, waiting for the credit card to clear, I saw
them
.

A pair of crimson suede stilettos.

Rarely does an item call me as the Sirens called to Odysseus, emanating such desirability that all my normal sensibilities are overwhelmed. A lure that advertises itself in such a way that I know, if only I could have it, I’d possess that same aura and the world would crave me as I craved it.

I stared at those shoes for a long moment. They looked new—virgin whores perched on the pedestal near the checkout counter, taunting each passerby with the promise of a once in a lifetime encounter. And for no small fee.

The clerk noted my expression. With carnivore instinct she deftly lifted the shoes off their stand and scooted them in front of me—pointy toes pointing—exposing the long slope of their insoles. “
These
would be so perfect with that outfit.”

I remembered the red lacey top that Sal had picked out for me. I could see the entire ensemble coming together in my mind. And I was convinced that the mere act of purchasing these shoes would earn me a passing grade on the assertiveness test.

I picked up one of the shoes and peeked inside. They were even my size. Angels and demons alike joined in a rousing chorus of
Hallelujah
. I had to have them.

Ms. Ducky rang them up before I could change my mind, taking a few moments to find the original box before loading a shopping bag with the jacket, skirt and shoes.

As
I exited the
store
with my bag, I felt a Scarlett O’Hara moment coming on. “Well Fiddly Dee!”
Now if only I had a Rhett Butler to come sweep me off my feet.
“Scarlett, kiss me! Kiss me ... once ...”

Of course, that kiss had taken place in the midst of Atlanta burning, when they had lost everything and were headed, potentially, to their deaths.

Maybe I needed another role model.