Stripper Talk
8-12-98 2:00 PM W
I have to call my sister and Roselle. I'm at The Wild Goose because I'm an idiot, and I was in the neighborhood. I went to LAX and arranged to leave for the East a week from today. I need to figure out what to do about a camera. I ate lunch at Encounters, that funky-looking structure at LAX. Talk about kitsch. That retro-futuristic, 60's look. The Jetsons meets Matt Helm. One of the strippers at the bar here is talking about what a criminal she was as a teenager. She set a girl's hair on fire, but it didn't really burn, it just singed.
"I was an outcast," she says. "When the black kids' bus came, I would throw rocks to try to start a riot so we wouldn't have to go to school. Isn't that horrible?"
"I did the same thing," I said. "I was pretending to set Marilyn Wright's hair on fire in science lab. I just held a match close, but all that hair spray...fwoom! I started smacking her in the back of the head to try to put it out."
Everybody laughed.
Now she tells about bringing a gun to school...
Shirelle went another round with me this morning. It's too lame to go into.
Now the stripper is talking with a businessman, I presume, judging from the suit and tie, about drugs, PCP specifically. "I'm not really a religious person," she says, "but I started talking about God and the devil all the time, and like I wouldn't know if I was driving or not a lot of the time." They're on to shrooms now. She had to have her stomach pumped, she says. What else? Opium. Quaaludes. A stripper is dancing now to "Stairway to Heaven". Here's a little cutie sat down. I tell her about crushing Vicodin and snorting them and driving around Mexico. Now Angie's driving on the sidewalk. I still have to type when I get home. I read the paper. I got the NY Times, too, to get ready for next week. Now she's talking about a stripper who was murdered. Drunk Denise, was the girl. There was Drunk Denise and Quaalude Karen. Drunk Denise was the one who was murdered. She doesn't want to talk about it. What else? "How many girls have I worked with who have died?" she starts wondering out loud. "Trina, Krystal..."
I have to call my sister and Roselle. I'm at The Wild Goose because I'm an idiot, and I was in the neighborhood. I went to LAX and arranged to leave for the East a week from today. I need to figure out what to do about a camera. I ate lunch at Encounters, that funky-looking structure at LAX. Talk about kitsch. That retro-futuristic, 60's look. The Jetsons meets Matt Helm. One of the strippers at the bar here is talking about what a criminal she was as a teenager. She set a girl's hair on fire, but it didn't really burn, it just singed.
"I was an outcast," she says. "When the black kids' bus came, I would throw rocks to try to start a riot so we wouldn't have to go to school. Isn't that horrible?"
"I did the same thing," I said. "I was pretending to set Marilyn Wright's hair on fire in science lab. I just held a match close, but all that hair spray...fwoom! I started smacking her in the back of the head to try to put it out."
Everybody laughed.
Now she tells about bringing a gun to school...
Shirelle went another round with me this morning. It's too lame to go into.
Now the stripper is talking with a businessman, I presume, judging from the suit and tie, about drugs, PCP specifically. "I'm not really a religious person," she says, "but I started talking about God and the devil all the time, and like I wouldn't know if I was driving or not a lot of the time." They're on to shrooms now. She had to have her stomach pumped, she says. What else? Opium. Quaaludes. A stripper is dancing now to "Stairway to Heaven". Here's a little cutie sat down. I tell her about crushing Vicodin and snorting them and driving around Mexico. Now Angie's driving on the sidewalk. I still have to type when I get home. I read the paper. I got the NY Times, too, to get ready for next week. Now she's talking about a stripper who was murdered. Drunk Denise, was the girl. There was Drunk Denise and Quaalude Karen. Drunk Denise was the one who was murdered. She doesn't want to talk about it. What else? "How many girls have I worked with who have died?" she starts wondering out loud. "Trina, Krystal..."
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
posted by johnz at 4:57 PM
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