“C’mon, Frankie, I can’t compete against your charm. Let’s play it clean.”
“Back off, Vic. I’m not kidding, really—she’s the one.”
“Y’know, Frankie, it just ain’t fair. Why didn’t God make me look like Tyrone Power instead of you?”
“Got nothin’ to do with God, Vic. You just stayed in the ring a few fights too long. It’s amazing you can even breathe outta that thing you call a nose, not to mention what those punches did to your brain. You don’t have a chance with this one, my man.”
Vic threw his hands in the air. “Okay, you win.”
In a twilight sleep, just two feet away, I was only half-aware of my destiny being decided. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a journey that would last a lifetime. Throughout the years I’d remain haunted by the memory of this moment in time.
We had no idea how expensive it was to live in New York until we started looking around at different places. Shocked at the money it cost for so little space, we settled for a shabby little place called the Claridon Hotel on East 31st Street between Madison and 5th. The damage was six hundred a month. None of us were thrilled with the place, but we excitedly shopped around, buying throw pillows and pictures and things that gave it a homier, cozy feeling.
The place had one bedroom with dirty walls and a queen-size bed, and a living room with a pullout couch. The living room window faced the street with a neon sign that kept me awake most nights. In between the two rooms was a sort of kitchenette. In reality, it was a small counter with a few little cupboards and a pint-sized fridge. Not that we would have cooked, but it had no stove and microwave ovens hadn’t yet been invented.
Next on our list: find an agent. That wasn’t as easy as we’d thought either. None of us were giants in stature. We lacked two inches to make the cut with Wilhelmina and Ford, the top agencies. We weren’t the high-fashion Vogue types. We possessed what was called a “commercial” look, the all-American, girl-next-door kind of physiognomy.
After two weeks of unsuccessful attempts at securing an agent, Chippy offered us a job tending bar at the Sundowner. With the rent due in two weeks, we accepted. Frankie was delighted. We’d all been out on the town together almost every night since the first night we’d met. They’d taken us to the Play Lounge, Vic’s bar in Queens, and out to dinner numerous times. Bino’s Tavern was one of the favorite restaurants, with its homemade Italian food cooked with love by the mother of a neighborhood pal of theirs.
Though we hadn’t spent any time alone together, Frankie was making it clear that he was more than a little interested in me. I fought it at first, being engaged, but he had an addictive sort of charm that I found irresistible.
Not long after we started working at the Sundowner we managed to find agents. If one of us had an early audition, another would fill in so we could be rested enough to look good and hopefully land the job.
The best times were when we all worked together at the Sundowner. Playing off one another, we brought life into the joint. Kidding with the customers increased business, but it wasn’t always fun and games. A lot of shady deals were going down. Serious stuff. And these guys weren’t always wearing smiles. We learned fast when to stop joking around and fade into the background.
The Sundowner operated as if it were a private club. No money ever passed over the bar. We had cards with code names on them to keep track of who owed what. Frankie’s favorite spot to stand was at the end of the bar next to the entrance, not just so he could greet everyone, but so he’d get a jump on trouble coming through the door—and I don’t mean from cops. He put on a good show, but he was always on edge.
At times when it would’ve served him better to be paying attention to business, he’d be staring at me. The heat of his gaze had the required effect. Whenever I looked his way, he’d return my glance with a wink or a steamy smile that made me melt.
Although he had an extremely seductive, easygoing manner, he sometimes displayed a temper. Being very protective of me in the club, he’d be in the face of any guy who got out of line in an instant. Against my will and my better judgment, I was falling deeply in love with Frankie.
By day, we girls pounded the pavement going from one “go-see” to another, vying for modeling jobs. We dragged our heavy portfolios in and out of cabs, up and down countless flights of stairs, and into dirty elevators. By night, we poured drinks for the “wiseguys,” who left us huge tips. Georgie Girl, Suzy Q, and Linda Bird were the nicknames they gave us. We only worked three hours a night—from three thirty till six thirty in the morning—but always walked out with three to four hundred dollars in tips. That we didn’t know what we were doing didn’t seem to matter. The guys just liked looking at us. Besides, we were like the Three Stooges, a comedy act of our own. Mostly they were Scotch-and-water drinkers, but if a request ever came for anything really complicated, Frankie or Flip stepped in and helped us.
After closing the bar we’d head for breakfast either somewhere in the neighborhood or in Chinatown. It became a ritual. Our little group: Frankie and me, Billy and Susie Q, Chippy and Linda Bird, and Flip and Vic. Sometimes Tommy Red would join us if he could last that long. Tommy was the only mayonnaise face in the group, a tall, thin Irish guy with curly red hair, jail-pale skin, and a quick wit. He’d grown up with this crew and understood the unspoken language of the streets.
All having the same adventurous spirits, we became inseparable. Sometimes after breakfast, if we didn’t have modeling obligations, we’d pile in the car and go to Palisades Park, or drive to Queens, rent horses, and ride them on the city streets. We hit Aqueduct racetrack at least once a week, where I acquired my addiction for betting on the horses. Frankie laid down fifty dollars on a horse of my choice. I liked the name. He hated the odds—sixty to one—but he went for it. The horse ran wire-to-wire, paying me about $3,000. You couldn’t keep me away from the track after that, and Frankie was convinced I was his good-luck charm.
Once we stopped by a Laundromat we happened to pass, and the guys entertained us by getting into the huge dryers and pretending to do TV commercials. All of the guys were in their late twenties or early thirties, and we were in our teens. Hard to tell at times who acted more their age. Staying up all night and trying to find time to sleep so we could look good for casting calls became a real balancing act.
When we weren’t laughing, we were singing. When we weren’t singing, we were laughing. We had a favorite song we sang all the time. Growing up together in the harsh city streets, the guys related heavily to the lyrics, and now so did we.
Down on the East Side of 33rd and 3rd . . .
That’s my home, sweet, home . . .
Some people call it the home of black eyes . . .
That’s because guys don’t wear collars and ties . . .
God help collectors when they come to call . . .
Three flights of stairs is a hell of a fall . . .
They’d give you their shirts, only they ain’t got none . . .
Down on 33rd and 3rd . . .
I was settling quite nicely into my new life. My agent sent me on a go-see for the cover of Brides magazine. He said I was the preferred model from my composite.
I had taken the night off from the club so I could look fresh for the following day. I arrived on time only to find the elevators on the blink. After hurrying up twelve flights of stairs, I was not only late, but frazzled. Gotta lighten up on that smoking.
To my surprise, I was the only model there. The photographer was pleasant, ignoring my tardiness, but his cold, flat eyes were unsettling. He was a powerful-looking man: over six feet tall, with a shock of unruly gray hair, craggy features, and a deeply lined face. I felt more comfortable when he turned on the stereo. The vast empty space had an eerie feel to it when it was filled with silence.
He showed me to the dressing room, where a magnificent wedding gown hung. He looked amused as I pulled the curtain closed, blocking his view. Models are notorious for stripping down wherev
er—on an open set, even on a crowded street. No stranger to that behavior, I was still very modest. He busied himself lighting the background while I dressed.
Because it was a test, no money was allotted for hair and makeup, but I preferred it that way. Having had years of practice, I did a pretty good job of it myself. I walked out of the dressing room looking like the picture of purity and stood on the yellow seamless background paper waiting for direction.
“You look lovely in that gown,” he said, flashing yellow teeth in approval. He snapped a Polaroid and handed me the artwork to view while he waited for the picture to develop. “Here’s the layout for the cover, but give it to me the way you feel it.”
After inspecting the Polaroid, he loaded his Hassel blad and began shooting. I moved in front of him with the mood of the upbeat music, gliding on the paper with pure virginal grace. I felt like an angel in that exquisite gown and gave the camera all the angelic looks I could muster. After I walked up twelve flights of stairs with a ten-pound portfolio, looking heavenly took some imagination.
“Great!” he said. He loaded another roll of film and changed the music on the stereo. “I knew you were the one for this job as soon as your picture crossed my desk. It shoots Tuesday. I’ve already cleared your schedule with your agent. Let’s shoot a few more rolls to satisfy the client, but as far as I’m concerned, you’ve got the job, honey.”
Quietly excited, I acted as though this were an everyday event, but I wanted to jump up and down. I hadn’t been in New York for long and I had landed a juicy cover. Not good enough, huh? I’ll show those gossips back home who I am.
He played with the lighting for a few more minutes and we began to shoot again, but the music wasn’t conducive to the mood I was trying to convey. The pace had changed to a slower, more seductive feel.
“Give me something a little more sultry. Pucker your lips and tease me with your eyes,” he prompted.
I gave him what he asked for, but it didn’t seem to fit. He put his camera down and walked behind me, fluffing my sleeve and smoothing out the wrinkles. He stood back and eyed his work. Shaking his head, he stepped behind me and unzipped the dress, pulling the sleeve off my shoulder. I didn’t think this was unusual; stylists always made these kinds of adjustments, but the expressions he requested didn’t portray the image of Brides magazine, I was sure.
My discomfort grew. I felt a tenseness in my stomach, a knifelike feeling of doom. Something was wrong with this picture. I made an excuse that I had another go-see on the other side of town and we’d have to wrap this up soon. He finished the roll and I hurried into the dressing room, pretending to be running late.
“Can I help you undress?” he asked. He pulled open the drape and entered the dressing room, catching me half disrobed.
“No, no, thank you. I can manage,” I answered, pulling the gown up and holding it tightly to my body.
He creased his forehead, genuinely puzzled. “How about a glass of wine? It’ll help you relax.”
“I don’t have time; I’ll be late.”
“I think you can miss your next audition for the cover of Brides magazine. We’re paying you enough, aren’t we?” he said with a nasty attitude.
“What are you saying?” I fired back.
He threw me a penetrating stare. “Come on, you may look as innocent as apple pie in front of the camera, but you know what’s going on here.”
I must have looked shocked, or maybe I was in shock. Realizing I was as innocent as I looked, he became angry and insulting. My heart started beating faster. Feeling trapped, I looked around the room for something I could hurt him with if it came to that.
“Do you really think we pay an outrageous amount of money to you models just for your face? You’ve got a lot to learn, honey. Five thousand dollars is a lot of money for most hungry women. Now, why don’t you just relax, take off your clothes, and have some fun,” he said, his stupid grin firmly in place.
Oh, my God, not again.
Panic set in. My entire body shook as I grabbed for my purse. Reaching inside, I frantically felt around for my nail file. Oh, God, let it be there. Finally feeling the thin metal in my hand, I yanked it out and held it inches from the dress, threatening to shred it. My innocent-looking face suddenly changed into the snarl of a vicious animal readying for the kill. “If you don’t leave this room right now you’re gonna have a lot of explaining to do to your client,” I shouted forcefully.
Don’t be ridiculous, White! Stab the son of a bitch in the eye! That’ll get his attention.
Luckily for me, he backed off. I quickly changed into my street clothes and flew down the twelve flights of stairs in a lot less time than it took to climb up them.
Still trembling, I got to the street and called my agent, blurting out what had happened between deep breaths. At first he was appalled and determined to get to the bottom of it, but later, after speaking to the photographer, he acted as though I had overdramatized. I vividly recalled that kind of attitude. I’d lived through it before, in a courtroom, just a few months earlier. He was even pissed at me for the loss of his commission! Damn him! It infuriated me. I was helpless to do anything about it. What could I do? The photographer hadn’t actually done anything, except deepen the trepidation of my already fragile psyche. Reporting him to the police was futile. No one really gave a damn. I just let it go and became more cautious, but I did find another agent.
In all the years I’d been modeling, I had never encountered the casting couch, but the disillusionment stayed with me for a long time. With every booking I wondered if strings were attached. I didn’t know if this was just an isolated incident or if these were really the rules in New York.
It didn’t take too long to get educated in the Big Apple. As it turned out, it was an isolated incident. Once I shed my naive face I never encountered anything like that again.
I didn’t tell Frankie what had happened. Somehow the event would be misconstrued and end up looking like my fault, just like the last time.
My sexual phobias, born from my rape, became more extreme. But the time came when the laughter gave way to a more serious tone, a time when a relationship requires intimacy in order to grow. I was far from the woman my exterior displayed. Sex terrified me. Losing my virginity to a rapist made the idea of sex a dirty, disgusting act.
I panicked when Frankie tried to get closer to me. My body stiffened and I’d pretend to busy myself with something. Like a scared child, I wanted to run away when we were alone together. I did run once, and then felt stupid for doing so. It happened shortly after I started working at the Sundowner. We were sitting in Bino’s Tavern and, without warning, Frankie pulled me toward him and kissed me. The unexpected force of his hands as he held my shoulders hostage caught me off guard.
Run, run!
My heart rate soared and I literally ran the five blocks back to my apartment, leaving Frankie bewildered and confused. Frankie was the first man to kiss me since I’d been raped. The incident left me questioning my fear. I did like him. In fact, I thought I might even love him. So why was I acting like this? I felt like such a child. In reality, I was.
I showed up at Frankie’s apartment an hour later with a bottle of Old Spice cologne and an apology. (I found out later he hated Old Spice.) In the process of trying to explain my actions, I began to recognize the depth of my fear. To his credit, once he became aware, he was sensitive about my unspoken fears. Slowly, he began to gain my trust and Tom was becoming a distant memory.
The meaning of love eluded me in my early years. I thought I loved Tom, but I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. I hadn’t yet experienced intimacy—that beautiful experience between two people who care for each other. No, I couldn’t be convinced that something so vile was meant to be enjoyed. I wasn’t afraid of men. I loved their company. It was the getting-naked-together part that scared the hell out of me, and I avoided it like the plague.
Frankie and I were about six weeks into a steady relationship. We�
�d all been out on the town and wound up back at Frankie’s apartment. The place was the same kind of setup as we had—a dreary hotel/apartment—but his was even worse than ours. Being there normally depressed me.
Billy was so slouched he had to raise his eyebrows to focus. Then Chippy lit a sweet-smelling cigarette. I watched it being passed around and realized it was marijuana. Pot had become quite popular in the past few years, but I had never been around anyone who smoked it. I was afraid at first, but Frankie was reassuring, so I watched how it was done and took a few hits.
Everything was so much funnier than before. I started laughing at the craziest things. Of course, Chippy was laughing and crying at the same time; he did that normally. But now he was crawling on the floor. Tears rolled from his eyes as he tried to talk, but nothing but laughter came out. None of us could stop. The night was a blur of laughter.
All of a sudden everyone was gone. I didn’t spend much time wondering where they all went. Instead, I shifted my attention to the nightstand, which held five or six burned-out cigarettes balancing on their filters. They looked like little rockets waiting to be launched. I stared at them for a long time, off on a space trip.
Frankie led me to the bare, soot-covered window. We climbed out onto the fire escape, where we sat for what seemed like hours and gazed at the stars. He called them diamonds in the sky, and every one of them had a story.
Whether due to Frankie or the drug, I felt a new world opening before my eyes. He had an extraordinary way of telling a story—even when I wasn’t high. He made me look at everything so differently. Frankie, being nine years older, had a lot more knowledge about the world than I did. Having incredible insights, he looked at things more deeply than most people, or at least I saw it that way. There was a great deal of color to the world he viewed, and he taught me how to see it clearly. I was as wide-open and as eager to learn as he was to teach me. Almost like a child being told a fairy tale, I’d be captivated for hours listening to him. He’d lead me through a detailed story, painting pictures in my mind, heightening my awareness of the world around me.
The Company She Keeps Page 8
