Rat Pack Party Girl: From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate

by McCormick, Jane

  After a few minutes of watching her, my temper grew and I walked directly up to her and said, “How you been?” with a great big smile. “You kind of left Indiana in a hurry didn’t you?”

  “Oh my God Janie, how are you?” Looking like a scared rat she added, “I’m sorry I left you like that!”

  “Oh that’s okay. I had a great time trying to piece my life back together. Why don’t you come out to the car with me? I want to show you something.”

  I turned around and started walking toward the front door. I was dressed in my black skirt and pink ruffled blouse and she in her blue jeans and T-shirt with her cigarettes rolled up in the right sleeve. She followed me towards the front door and I pointed to Jean to stay inside the bar and wait for me.

  Once outside I led her to the side of building and I asked, “Why did you take me to Indiana and leave me there, you fuckin’ bitch?”

  “I had to go back because somebody in my family was sick!” she replied.

  “No, you’re the one who’s sick you fucking bitch. You’re the one who’s out turning tricks and I’m the one who’s working as a hat check girl in a night club trying to go straight, and you left me there with the apartment rent due in three days. I saw you being picked up outside the apartment window getting into your old butch lover’s car from California. Did you know that I almost ended my life because of you, and because of all the other shit that I was put through?”

  “I’m so sorry Jane. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said trying to calm me down.

  Some of the girls who were out in front of the bar came around the corner to see what we were yelling about. That’s when I grabbed her by the T-shirt and threw her down on the ground. I kicked her face, then jumped on top of her and punched her in the mouth. I could see blood coming from her mouth as I continued to slug her in the head with everything in me.

  “Don’t you ever look or talk to me again you fucking bitch!” Then I stood up, straightened my messed hair and clothes and strutted back into the bar with my ripped nylons.

  Jean looked at me, her casual facial expression changed to mad as hell when I told her what I’d just done. Now looking tough she said, “Why didn’t you let me do that. I would have beaten her to a pulp for you!”

  “No Jean, this is between me and Shelby!” I took a sip of my drink and said, “I’ve wanted to do that since she left me in Indiana. That’s why I had to come back to California!”

  Shelby never returned to the bar and no one ever asked me what the fight was all about, but many drinks were sent my way because everyone knew she was a chippy-bitch.

  That next week Jean found a job working at a mom and pop grocery store just down the block from our apartment. Between the two of us, we were barely able to pay the rent.

  Then one night at the bar we joined a half dozen twenty-some-old gals at one of the tables. After the bar closed, Kim and Kathy invited us to come to their house in Gardena. Kim was a beautiful blue-eyed blond with an uncanny dry sense of humor, and Kathy was a tall, slender brunette with piercing brown eyes that made Kim’s feelings melt. The two of them owned a three-bedroom home where we often crashed after an all-night party. The four of us gelled together when we partied and they knew we were barely making ends meet.

  Six months later I received notice that Chapman Care Center was going to lay me off, so Kim and Kathy invited us to move in with them. Jean quit her job and we moved our bed and chair into one of their spare rooms.

  When we got to Gardena we started going to this large gay bar with Kim and Kathy, and I asked the owner if I could get a waitress job there. They hired me and for the first four months I became quite comfortable being around gay people all the time. The men never hit on me and I didn’t feel that I had to put on a front like I did with straight men who were always trying to get me in bed.

  One night after the bar had closed, Barbara the bartender said, “You know there’s an opening for a bartender job, why don’t you apply for it?”

  “I don’t know how to bartend,” I said.

  “Jane, you’d be a natural with your personality,” she said as she continued to wipe the bar, “and I can see that everyone in here loves you because you remember what everyone drinks. I know you’ll learn quickly!”

  “Thanks Barb,” I said with excitement, “I’d love to give it a try!”

  When I got home at 2 A.M., I said, “Jean everything is going to be okay. I got a bartender job and I’ll make a lot more money in tips!”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, dressed in her pajamas, “now you’ll have all the girls hitting on you!”

  “Jean, I only have eyes for you baby!” We went to bed and cuddled the rest of the night.

  One Thursday night, weeks later, Denise and Jan, both in their mid-thirties who’d been together for ten years, came in for a drink. They sat down at one of the tables near the dance floor and three other gals I didn’t know joined them. After an hour or two had gone by I noticed that one of the butch girls was flirting with Jan’s girlfriend when she left to go the bathroom. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first when I saw the chick putting her arm around Denise and pulling her close to her and Denise never resisting. When Jan returned to the table the two of them split apart and acted like nothing was happening between them.

  As the night went on and the bar filled with people, I noticed how the flirting had gotten heavier each time Jan left the room to go to the bathroom. Now all of a sudden, I realized that this butch was hitting on Denise big time, and when Jan returned, I watched Denise go out the side door and seconds later the other followed. That was the first time that I saw a lesbian cheating on her lover and I thought it wasn’t much different than what goes on in straight life.

  One Friday, I’d made plans with Bob to get my daughters for Christmas Eve, so I went to the bar and picked up my paycheck and went shopping. They were eight and ten years old and I loved to buy them cute clothes, dolls and all the sweet things that little girls want. I couldn’t wait to see them on Monday, so I wrapped all their gifts before going to work.

  That night at work the bar was festive with the Christmas spirit and I was busy behind the bar pouring drinks. A couple hours into my work shift I took a minute to catch my breath and I looked up out to the crowd and saw Jean with some girl near the side door. I turned around to make some drinks and when I looked back I saw Jean walking out the side door. I made a couple more drinks then looked again. They were gone!

  All of a sudden a scary feeling came over me, and I asked the owner if I could be excused to go to the bathroom. I walked to the side door and walked outside, and saw Jean kissing that girl on the side of the building.

  Oh shit, was I pissed!

  I stomped over to the two of them and the girl immediately stepped away from Jean’s grasp and I hauled off and slapped her face. Jean fell up against the wall from the force of my blow to her left cheek and she lost her balance and fell to the ground.

  “What do you think you’re doing with that bitch?” I yelled.

  Then I turned and I looked at the girl she’d been kissing, and the scrawny little bitch turned and ran away like a chicken shit.

  As Jean struggled to get up off the ground, I pressed on asking her what the hell she was doing, when suddenly a man shouted, “Stand still and put your hands behind your back!”

  The two-hundred-plus pound cop grabbed my right arm, turned me around and handcuffed me.

  I thought, “Oh shit, the guard for the club saw me hit her!”

  I pleaded with the officer. “She is my girlfriend! She was cheating on me! I work here!”

  Like a grouch he said, “I saw you hit her. That’s an assault and it’s against the law to hit someone.”

  He motioned for the squad car to pull up and he put me into the backseat. Then he walked back and asked Jean, “Did she hit you?”

  “Oh yes,” she slurred her words. Then she looked over at me in the car and said, “But not too hard!”

  Jean always rambled on and ta
lked out of her head when she drank too much. I knew how bad she could get and I knew I didn’t have a chance to get out of this.

  I watched as she stumbled around and thought, “What a dumb bitch she was!” All she had to say was “let her go” and “it was my fault” and “I deserved to be slapped.” But she was so drunk she couldn’t comprehend what was going to happen to me.

  So the obstinate cop took me to Gardena Jail and booked me for assault.

  When we got to the county jail they put me into the already overcrowded “drunk tank” where I spent a sober night talking to everyone in a dimly lit cell. It was disgusting and degrading that we had to share an open toilet in the same room with a broad diversity of women.

  Early Saturday morning the guards handcuffed us once more and they transported the ten of us in a caged bus to Sybil Brand Institution for Women, a minimum-to-high-security prison for women in Monterey Park. Our hands were handcuffed in front of us, and an armed male guard sat in the back of the bus. No talking was allowed as they drove us down the freeway. That was the longest ride of my life. I was scared and pissed, always a bad mix of emotions. I couldn’t believe I had ended up in this situation, when I had done nothing to deserve it. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. I had never felt more alone.

  Twenty-five minutes later we finally arrived at the iron gates of the prison that was on the side of a mountain, with its front entrance next to public housing.

  My mind rushed with anxiety when I saw the tall, encapsulating, barb wired walls of the Sybil Brand Institution. The driver stopped next to the front of the building where armed security escorts stood waiting. The door opened and the guard ordered us to stand up and slowly exit the bus.

  As each of us stepped off the bus we were grabbed by two bulky female guards who escorted us into a holding area where we were ordered to keep our eyes forward and stand behind the yellow line in single file against the wall.

  The shuffling of our footsteps filled the room as we silently approached the processing window. A uniformed clerk checked the list and called out our names before fingerprinting us and taking our mug shots. There an awaiting clothed prisoner handed us some generic underwear, a pair of slip-on shoes and blue prison attire with a designated numbered on the back of our shirts.

  With butterflies in my stomach, they escorted each of us to another room where we had to undress in front of an officer who said she was a nurse. Then the officer had me stand under a shower to wash myself, and with the guards’ approval, she handed me a towel and guided me to an adjoining room where another officer held a spray gun and ordered me to bend over and spread my butt cheeks. The white powder filled the room as she sprayed our exposed privates with disinfectant. Embarrassed and shaken, they had me return to the first room to put on my assigned prison clothes.

  At that point, I was no longer acknowledged as Jane Harvey, but recognized merely as another number.

  When everyone was processed, the guards had us walk down a long corridor where we heard the first big “cling” when the heavy metal door opened and closed all the jail cells in the corridor. The guards were quick to warn us that if we weren’t careful that our hands or arms could be crushed as the automatic cell door closed. Once inside, there was one long rectangular room with ten two-bunk cells.

  I was assigned to a cell alone that was three doors down from the entry door. Shocked and shaken I sat down on the middle of the bed and moved my pillow opposite the toilet seat. I could hear the guard opening the other cell doors and telling the other girls to get inside. When each girl was inside her cell the guards left and the entire room became quiet. Then I knew I was really incarcerated.

  Saturday morning passed by quickly and I could smell food being cooked. I was starving but the thought of having to eat jail food made me sick.

  Then with the loudest bang, all the cell doors opened and we were ordered to stand on a yellow line and we were led to the dining room.

  The guard yelled, “Line up behind the yellow line in single file and wait there until I tell you to move.”

  Each girl stepped out of her cell, waited and was escorted into a big room with permanently stationed tables and chairs and a single television at the back of the room next to a couple of telephones.

  We remained lined up and our group went through the breakfast line. A single tray held the food they gave us with a couple of pieces of bread. After I got my food I scanned the room for a place to sit and saw a twenty-some brunette who looked decent.

  Jessie smiled when I sat down next to her and I introduced myself. She told me she’d been here for a while. I hoped that she could show me the ropes for the place. I asked her why she was here, and she explained that she got caught stealing some beer from a liquor store and she had to take a six-month jail term because she couldn’t afford the $2,500 fine.

  She told me not to look at the other prisoners in order to avoid being beaten up. She told me about the “daddy tank” which was where the bull dykes were kept. They really looked like guys; some of them even shaved and kept their hair short. They were separated from us fem girls, and the only time I saw them is when we ate, and even then they had to sit on the other side of the room, otherwise they got too aggressive with the more feminine girls. Even some of the women guards looked like they wanted to get me all to themselves. It was scary to think that those who were supposed to be there to protect me might be the ones causing problems.

  After hearing her problems I didn’t dare tell her why I was in jail. So I made up a story that Jean was my boyfriend and that he was cheating on me with another woman when I slapped him. Lord knows what would have happened to me if the dykes here knew I was gay! We played some crazy eights and then I decided to call my mother.

  As I stood in line I thought, “What in the hell am I doing with these gay girls?” Here I was in jail for slapping a gay cheating bitch and nobody cared. My plans to see my daughters for Christmas were destroyed. I was stuck and I couldn’t stop crying.

  When I finally got the phone, I dialed my mom. I let the phone ring at least twenty times and when she didn’t answer, I called my Grandma MoMo, who lived in Los Angeles. The phone rang twice and I was never so glad to hear her sweet voice and she promised to get my brother and get me out right away.

  We played cards until dinner and then it was back to our cells and lights out for the night. I slept more relieved knowing that Grandma and Dick would come and get me.

  Sunday morning Grandma and Dick drove for two hours to Monterey Park to bail me out, but the Warden couldn’t release me because it was the weekend. They wouldn’t let them even visit me because the judge needed to approve the visiting rights and the offices were closed until Wednesday.

  I cried and cried in my cell that afternoon, and luckily Jessie came over to help me.

  Wednesday arrived and I’d gotten the word that I was going to be released that afternoon. After five days in jail I had enough time to try and forgive Jean, so I called her and asked her to come and get me.

  Before I left I said goodbye to Jessie, then the guard walked me back out to the processing area where they gave me back my clothes. I changed and they released me out the front door where they brought me in.

  Jean pulled up and by then I was glad to see her. She was crying and she apologized to me for her cheating ways. She drove us back to Kim and Kathy’s house in Gardena and they cooked us up a nice meal. I hadn’t had anything good to eat in four days and they couldn’t believe how badly I was treated. I told them how I’d never been arrested before and how horrible it was to be locked up behind bars.

  After it was all over with, I forgot and forgave her like I did with Johnny. I loved them each so much that I thought I had to help them get better so they would love me. In the long run, it was me who was hurt. I was always the one who had to pay for it physically, emotionally and materialistically.

  Chapter 24

  Go-Go Dancing and Pikesville

  After a few days I started to look fo
r work and applied for a job as a go-go dancer and waitress at the Rainbow Club in Gardena. Gardena was considered to be the other “Poker Capital” of the world.

  Like the Whisky a Go-Go disco bar, I hoped it would be a fun place to work. I knew Frank Sinatra, Jerry Lewis and the Crosby boys liked to watch me dance in my gold-toned sexy bra and lacy bikini panties. I didn’t feel uncomfortable with half of nothing on and it was better than turning tricks. I figured the pay would be better than the nurse’s aide wage of $1.98 per hour and equal to the bartending job I previously had. After the initial interview, the manager hired me on the spot and that Saturday afternoon I groomed myself for my new job. I was nervous—even though I felt like I’d had a lifetime of experience showing myself off to other people, I was still only in my late twenties, young and eager.

  Like preparing for a night out in Vegas, I lit candles around the bathtub and bathed myself in honey oil. After drying off I slipped on the soft white silky robe that Frank Sinatra had given me and sat down on the living room couch to paint my nails. Then I styled my hair, put on long eyelashes and made up my face like a showgirl. Looking beautiful, I dressed in the sexy black bra and lacy panties I’d purchased from Fredrick’s of Hollywood, complete with a garter belt, black nylons, miniskirt and a silky red blouse.

  Back in Vegas I was able to get ready in less than half an hour. Of course back then, I could afford to have my hair done daily, my clothes dry cleaned and my nails painted. I worked hard for my money and now I was going to do the best I could for the job I’d been hired for.

  Before leaving the apartment I practiced “The Swim,” briefly holding my nose in between swimming motions with my arms, switching to “The Twist,” twisting my body, arms and feet as if I were on a swivel board, changing to the “Mashed Potato,” with my feet grinding against the floor, my arms shaking out in front, and ending with the “The Jerk,” that flung my upper body and head back like I as in a car accident.