You should be supporting, not competing, he says. Except for fatassed Katie. Katie can take the stage. Mind if Katie moves in? She’s having a hard time. Asshole. Ass Hole.
So here I damn well am back home. Annie!! I don’t want her in my place. I HATE her. She insulted you (remember when she said you had silicone boobs?) and she insulted me and him too. God, you must be sitting there saying I told you so. I can just hear you—“That crumb is a no-goodnik from Creepsville.”
I just don’t know. I know I’m overreacting a little. Kevin’s right. I can be a child sometimes. I put my desires and needs ahead of others and let the SELF get in the way of my enlightenment.
I know I want to be here in Frisco. I think this is where I HAVE to be right now. I’m growing and learning. Maybe I have something to learn from fatassed Katie even. I find THAT hard to believe. If I meditated more I’d probably master this whole situation.
I better sign off. They’ll be home soon and I need to pretend I’m asleep because I’m too cranky to be Zen about it right now.
Love, Celia
xoxoxoxo
PS Miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you.
May 2, 1962
Dear Annie,
How’s it going, my darling, my dearest? As I told you on the phone, that fatassed Katie moved in here a couple of weeks ago. It seems like a couple of years. Did I mention that she has a fat ass? And that she’s a self-involved know-it-all jerk? And that she’s thoughtless and rude? Take this morning for instance. There she was, scraping a piece of burnt (because she’s too self-absorbed to notice the smell of smoke) toast over the sink before she put a dump truck of butter on it (which contributes to her FAT ass). Meanwhile I’m trying to get around her to make some coffee. She made no attempt to get out of my way. She said, “Want some toast, Celie?” Celie! Who does she think she IS?? I ix-nayed that little offer. So she says, “Oh, I think I might have eaten your yogurt last night.” I didn’t say anything. If I don’t keep my yap shut with her, I mean if I say one thing, I won’t be able to stop. It’ll be like an A-bomb.
I was pleasant. I poured her a cup of coffee. Then old Fatass says to me, “You know, Celie …” Celie AGAIN! There was a dirty butcher knife sitting on the counter and all I could think was how good it would look lodged in her melon. Anyway, then she said, “It seems counterproductive for us to be living in the same house like this and not speaking to one another.”
Counterproductive? She has no IDEA! So I sat down and stirred my coffee and kept myself very pleasant looking as she took MY rosehip jam out of the cupboard and SLATHERED it onto her toast. Then she sits down at the table and she says, “I know we got off on the wrong foot, back in L.A. I said some things I shouldn’t have but I know now that I was mistaken.” Well, that was good of her. “You have a very pretty face and a sweet voice and when you’re not addressing me, you’re really quite joyful. I understand what Kevin sees in you.”
I hate her I hate her I hate her. Oh my god! She’s knocking at my door.
Well! Madame Fatass just had the nerve to ask if she could borrow my black bra! MY bra?? Is she crazy? I said I was wearing it. Full-time. My other one was wrecked. I have to get out of this house right now or I’ll boot her one. I swear it. I’m going to see if Dinah’s in the van. Talk to you later, lambchop. XOXO
May 10
Oh my god, I just found this in my underwear drawer. I thought I mailed it! Well, guess what. That damn Katie has hardly been home in a week. She stopped in the other night when we were out in the backyard having our campfire (just in time for dinner, of course) to rhapsodize about Conner, the righteous colored guy she met. He plays stand-up bass, she said, in the Fillmore in a place called the Jumpin’ Joy. Now when she’s not down at the club with him, she is at his apartment reading her crappy poetry as he strums accompaniment. (He must realize she needs all the help she can get.) She’s trying very hard to sound hip. She told us Conner was a soul brother in the deep end of jazz. “Man,” she kept saying, “listening to him just fries my wig” and then, between mouthfuls of our hot dogs, she said it was time we all got more hep to the city’s grooving Negro scene instead of living like a bunch of hypocritical flapjacks who wouldn’t know hep if it bit ’em in the ass.
OH BRRRROTHER!!!
And then she said, “‘Hepcat’ and ‘hip’ are derived from a West African tribal language in which hippicat means ‘man of wisdom.’”
Three cheers for Katie the anthropologist.
Kevin said, “Cool,” at first but then he got fidgety. Finally he blurted out, “You should be careful hanging out with this cat, Katie. I mean, I don’t have a problem, you getting tight with a colored dude, but you know, a lot of people do. You could get hurt. Look at those Freedom Riders, man, they’re just fighting for the right to ride a bus up front and the cats are getting a shit kicking.”
Katie said, “What’s your point, Kev?” And he said, “Nothing! Man, no point. I’m just saying someone might get a little hot about it.” She said, “Someone?” in this smart-alecky tone.
Who the HELL does she think she is? She’s convinced the whole world is just itching to jump her bones.
I complain too much. I should mail this letter and quit my damn bitching. It must be boring. I wish you were here. Make that goof-off agent of yours get you a gig in Frisco! Maybe I’ll try and call you again next week. It’s just that, as you probably figured, I’m not too flush lately. And I feel like a jerk calling collect. But I’ll write more soon. We’re supposed to go down to the Jumpin’ Joy and see this Conner clown play. I’ll let you know how THAT goes.
xoxo
Love, Celia
PS I’d kill for room service right now.
PPS I’m still not very enlightened. Ha ha.
May 15, 1962
Dearest Dollface,
So, I think I told you about Conner? Well, guess what. We all went down there tonight. Me, Kevin, Ernie, Dinah and Katie. Conner put us on the guest list and they seated us practically ringside. PS The Jumpin’ Joy is strictly colored people. We were the only white faces in the room.
Katie said it was a high-tone place, so I finally got to wear the one half-decent dress I brought with me. The band was pretty good. And the place was actually nice. I don’t know what I was expecting. I guess because a lot of colored people are poor, I thought a colored place would be rundown or something but it was actually snazzy.
Kevin was driving me crazy. He kept addressing every guy he saw, including ERNIE, as Brother. Ernie kept smiling like he thought he was about to get knifed any second, plus he seemed really worried and jealous about Dinah. Every time she turned her head he’d follow her gaze, and if she was looking at a colored guy (and who else would it be?), his hand went up her thigh, and he’d stick his wormy little tongue in her ear.
To be honest, Kevin and I weren’t speaking. We still aren’t. Mostly because I wrote a poem this past week, and I made the mistake of showing it to him. He laughed and said, “Baby, you’re so WASP.” I ripped that page right out of his hand and I said, “You know, Kevvie, YOU didn’t exactly claw your way out of Harlem. The only people who use the word ‘bourgeois’ ARE bourgeois.” And I pulled on my long johns and yanked the blanket off him and took the pillow and right before I left I said, “YOU are oppressing me.” Then I slept on the couch. Which is where I am again right now.
But anyway, I’ll tell you about what a jerk Kevin is being later. Tonight was so MOTHERY! The band just filled the room with this yummy jammy jazz. It was so good, I forgot I hated Katie for a minute. You should see that Conner play. He’s kind of crazy-looking with these long wiry arms and it looks wild the way he cradles the bass with them and he has LONG bony fingers plucking away the whole time. Apparently people call him Scarecrow. No kidding.
Anyway soon they played softer and an MC came out onstage and announced the first act. Then this teeny little colored chick with a crazy smoky voice sashayed out and launched into a rendition of “Love Me or Leave Me.�
� Oh Annie, she was SO GOOD!! When she sang that line about regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else it made me all lonesome for the stage again. I clapped like mad. If I can’t do it myself, I may as well show lots of appreciation.
The band completely changed tempo. They had these wicked horns and it was sort of, I don’t mean to sound prejudiced or anything, but it was jungley sounding. A troupe of dancers hit the stage. Real hoofers! Their feet were POUNDING and they had these terrific silver dresses with slits, which made their brown legs look beautiful!
Oh man! The sound of their feet, I swear it swept right through me. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I was holding my breath for fear they’d disappear. It felt so good to see a real band and real show people, you have no idea. Their heels slammed and cracked the beat and then suddenly the dancers parted and formed a sort of tunnel. And this WOMAN stepped out way at the top of the tunnel and started walking toward us and I got a tingle from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. There was just one spotlight and it was on HER. She threw her hip and she hit a note that blended so thick with the horns you couldn’t tell what you were hearing until every left foot onstage stomped. Like an exclamation. And everybody froze, the musicians and dancers, and all that was left was that WAIL of hers. Then she stopped. Like someone turned off a siren. And it was dead quiet. Then she hollered, “He said to me,” and suddenly the band came back in and she sang, “Big Leg Woman, keep your dresses down.” Oh Annie, it was something else! Do you know this song? The way she sang it. Oh my god. And her figure! She had on this gold shimmering number with slits and it rode up every stride she took downstage, these big powerful thighs like she was daring us all and she just bawled it—“Cuz I got somethin’ under this dress, daddy, make a bulldog hug a hound.” I wanted to cry she was so good. When she hit the edge of the stage she ripped open the front of her dress and let it drop. Underneath she had on a tiny gold skirt that kept flipping up over this great big muscular behind! and she’d be running her hands over herself and she was glinting and gleaming like crazy. The whole audience stomped and pounded the tables and I felt like I had to hold my head so it didn’t explode! I was running in my chair! The chorus girls were still frozen in those lusty poses they struck earlier, but compared to the singer, I swear they looked like Olive Oyl. Then she started weaving her way through them, singing all the while, and she’d pause and slap a dancer right on her backside! And her voice went full throttle when she sang, “He likes the way I shake my great big fat behind.” Her big fat behind made Katie’s look like a pancake.
Belting some more, she tore her skirt off like it was nothing and tossed it over Conner’s skinny little noggin. And then she headed back toward us in a gold G-string! When she got to the edge of the stage again, her fingers shimmied all over her halter top and she sang, “You can bet your bottom dollar, honey, ain’t a cherry in this house.” (Oh my god!!!) Her top hit the floor and there she was in nothing but pasties and a G-string as the band slammed the last note. The stage went dark and it was so quiet. And then very softly she sang: “He said, You oughtta keep what you got wearin’ down. Girl you make a bulldog hug a hound.” The room went BONKERS! Oh man, I was on my feet with them.
Katie barely clapped. Maybe she was sore because this colored girl made a big ass look FANTASTIC! She gave me the craziest look though—sort of smug or something with this forced pinched smile like the Pope’s dog just shat on her front lawn. Finally I said, “What’s the matter with you?” And Katie said, “Figured you’d like her.” I looked around the room and threw up my hands. So, then killjoy Katie said, “Miss Peaches is headlining. That’s who I’M waiting for.” Miss Peaches is a nickname for Etta James. Big deal. I mean, Etta is a big deal but now I didn’t even want to like her. And, actually, she was almost anticlimactic after that “Big Leg Woman.” Talk about devil-may-care. She was devil-may-fuck-himself!
Anyway, the whole show was great. Katie stayed behind with Conner, and the rest of us walked home. I was going to use the pay phone to call you tonight but Kevin threw a fit about it. “For chrissake,” he said. “It’s three in the morning. You shouldn’t be wandering around alone this time of night.”
I said, “Maybe if we had a phone at home like normal people, I wouldn’t have to.”
“Here we go again,” he said. He always acts as if I’m a spoiled princess or something.
If I were a spoiled princess, what the hell would I be doing with HIM? So I said, “Oh fuck off, Kevin, I’ll do what I like.” He said, “Real nice, Celia,” and stormed off home. Oh and he told me to sleep on the couch because he didn’t want to be woken up. Golly gee—WHO’S the BABY?!
You weren’t home after all. So here I am on the couch. I wouldn’t give that jerk the satisfaction of getting in bed with him. He can go piss up a rope for all I care. And suck on the soggy end!
May 16. Morning. Okay, Afternoon. 1:35 pm to be precise.
Kevin says that singer was a stripper. I said, she was a SINGER! Kevin said in the colored clubs a lot of the girls strip and sing as well. Is that true? I guess that’s why Katie gave me her You-WOULD-like-her face. She has this thing about me having been a showgirl. And you being a stripteaser. As if it makes us low-class women or some bull like that. She’s always quoting Simone de Blowhard at me.
Anyway, I thought I’d add this last bit before I mail this. At least Kevin and I are speaking again. He said he was sorry, he just worries about me being out alone late at night. That was nice. I don’t know why but I keep thinking about my mother lately. Stewart said she was sick. What if she really is? Most of the time I hate her, but what if she’s sick like her sister was? Maybe I don’t hate her. I hate Stewart. He could’ve stuck up for me, he could’ve made things right. But he was too busy trying to save his own skin, the chickenshit bastard. I wonder if they’re even together anymore. And if they’re not, she probably blames me like she did with my real father. She was as mad at me for not telling her everything he did as she was at him for doing it. Why doesn’t she ever believe me? Why can’t she love me no matter what? I hate her for that. I really hate her for it. But I don’t. God, what if she’s sick? I don’t know what to do. Do you ever just miss your mom even though there’s nothing there? Why can’t I just stop it? I’m being depressing again. Sorry. Mostly I miss you, my dearest, sweetest, bestest friend.
Love, Celia
xoxo
May 18, 1962
Dear Annie,
I’ve been thinking about what you said last night. About me singing and dancing like that girl at the Jumpin’ Joy. I think you’re right that it would be a good gimmick but I don’t know how to put this, I hope you won’t be insulted—but I just can’t. For one thing, I want to be taken seriously as a singer. I know they sort of did take that girl seriously to have her open for Etta James. But maybe colored people are different that way. I know I know, Tempest Storm opened for Sammy, but Tempest is still a stripper. It’s not as if somebody goes to see her for her terrific talents. Please don’t take that wrong. YOU have talent, you really do. You’re so good with the audience. I love when you do your Mae West’s sister bit. You’ve got it DOWN. It’s just that I studied voice and classical ballet half my life and I want people to say I’ve got a great voice, not great boobs. Not that they would ever say that anyway. Which is another reason I can’t be a stripper. Look at me!
Oh boy. I don’t think I’m going to mail this. Off to the underwear drawer with this one.
May 19
Annie, Annie, I can’t stop crying. I finally called my mother. It was so horrible. I called collect from Cecilia D’arelli. I don’t know what I was thinking. She doesn’t know who that is. I yelled, “Mother, it’s Audrey,” and the operator scolded me and said, “Ma’am, please. You’re not allowed to speak yet.” And then I heard my mother cough and I knew it was true. She is really sick. The operator asked her if she’d accept the charges and she said yes. And at first I was thrilled. She said yes! I said, “Mother, it’s me. I’m in Califo
rnia.” And she didn’t say anything. I said, “Mom?” and then her voice came and it was like acid. “Disappears for days at a time. Is that where he goes?”
I wondered if she thought it was some stranger named Cecilia who was having a fling with Stewart or something and I said, “Mother, it’s Audrey.” She said, “I know who it is. He told me he found you in New York. What did you do with him?” I didn’t know what she meant and I said, “Stewart? Nothing. He said you were sick.” And then she said something so horrible. I can’t stop crying. She said, “And you thought you’d wait long enough that you could come back here and pick the bones.” I couldn’t speak. She said, “Neither of you is getting a dime out of me. Not one dime. I don’t want you in my …” and then her voice cracked and then really faintly I heard her say, “Oh god,” before the line went dead.
My hands were shaking so bad. I tried to call you but there was no answer. It feels like rocks in my throat. How could she hate me so bad? I’m so stupid. I’m getting the paper wet from crying.
No matter what happens to me in my life I’ll never forget you, Annie, ever.
Love, Celia
xoxo
May 20, 1962
Can you believe this Marilyn stuff? I bought a newspaper this morning and you know how often I do that. But she was right on the front page, this picture of her with Happy Birthday, Mister President as the headline. Have you seen Dean? It said that she skipped town on the picture she was doing with him, and went to New York to sing “Happy Birthday” to Jacky-boy (as you would say). The Chinaman at the corner store where I bought the paper said, “You see her on TV? I saw. No goo’. She look like drunky snake in her eye.” I love the Chinaman. But this is so bad. It’s so embarrassing when you’ve met the person and you know she’s a mishmash. In the paper, she looks stoned out of her tree. I could just die for her. I mean she’s embarrassing anyway, the way she puts on that simpy voice. But THIS! Do you think she’ll get fired? You have to get in touch with Dean and tell me EVERYTHING. And tell him I said hello. No don’t. Oh go ahead. I haven’t seen him since that night we all had dinner with Marilyn and Frank and the old man at Cal-Neva. Every time I think of that night, how messy Marilyn was, saying she was going to call Mrs. Kennedy and tell her everything—I get the heebies! And now here she is stoned out of her gourd in front of the whole world.
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