“How’re we doing in here? Wow! Look at you, Cherry!”
I turned and looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. My skin and the white of the fabric were close to the same, and my lips were like the old Revlon Cherries in the Snow color my mother used to wear, but with rich deep shiny red layers of burgundy and rust and purple that glistened and made my mouth look bigger and perfect. My eyes were dramatic and black-lashed, iridescent peacock colors of green and blue on the lids, making my green eyes glow. But my eyebrows were the wildest part—stunning white, brushed up, blending so as to be almost invisible from a distance. I thought of Da Vinci and his Mona Lisa model who didn’t have any eyebrows. I always wondered if the style back in those days was to pick them all out, or if Mona was just a girl who happened to be eyebrowless. Actually, hardly any of Da Vinci’s women had eyebrows. Maybe Da Vinci just didn’t like to paint them.
They led me out to the lights and put me on a stool.
“Okay, Cherry, look right into the lens of the camera. That’s where you make eye contact with the viewer. When someone looks at this picture, they will be looking you right in the eye, right into your soul, and you into theirs. You will be connected, soul to soul, with the thousands of people who see this photograph…. That’s it! Don’t move!”
He did a Polaroid, which he wouldn’t let me see, then adjusted the lights, did another Polaroid, adjusted again, then another one, until he liked what he saw, then he dragged over another big camera on a tripod and shot and shot and shot, taking the back off the camera each time he finished a roll, quickly putting on another back that was already loaded with film. That was handy. I had never seen a camera like that before. It must have cost a fortune. I think ol’ Ron was doing a little better with his food pictures than he let on.
I was nearly paralyzed anyhow from sitting in the makeup chair so long, and now to have to sit some more without moving was torture. I was dying to get up and run around the room. I gazed into the camera’s eye and tried to connect with the souls that would be seeing it, and look sexy or happy or sophisticated or whatever he told me to look like, which was hard because I felt like a mummy, all draped in the scarf like that.
Sal stood off to the side, wineglass in hand, giving me encouragement with oohs and aahs, and came over periodically to dust a little powder on my face or add a stroke of gloss to my lips.
“Okay. We got it,” Ron said after ages and I don’t know how many rolls of film. I was so relieved to be through. I was ready to go home and get a cheeseburger. Then he said, “Let’s try another one. This time, Sal, do the makeup less dramatic. Pale lips, not red. More girl-next-door.”
Back I went to the dressing room, and as Simon and Garfunkel sang “Bridge over Troubled Water,” Sal took off my makeup with cold cream and started all over again.
This time, I had pearly-pink-colored lips and a pink shadow on my lids. He let me keep the lashes; my eyebrows again were au naturel. He fluffed my hair out and put on a pink-and-white-striped baseball cap, and tied a pink bandanna around my neck. All of this took another hour and a half with more wine and dancing, then he brought me back to the stool in front of the camera. Ron handed me an ice cream cone. About time. I was starving.
“No! Don’t eat that! You’ll ruin your lips! It’s for the shot.”
“Can I eat it when the shot is over?”
“Yes, when the shot is over.”
I looked into the camera’s eye and held the ice cream cone, strawberry, it was, while it melted and ran down my arm. When I tried to move, Ron said, “Don’t move! It’s perfect! Let it drip! Yes!”
It dripped until there was no ice cream left, then he took the soggy cone and tossed it into the trash while I went to the bathroom to wash, then back to the dressing room for another makeup. At this point, I was ready for a cup of coffee, but only got a couple of swigs before Sal started in again.
The next shot was me in the green cap with the plastic visor, holding a green apple. I wanted a bite of that so much my mouth watered, but it would have messed up my new coral lips. Ron took a bite out of it and put it in my hand as I sat still as a statue on the chair. By this time I had exhausted all my sexy and happy looks but he kept on shooting. More rolls of film. More orders from Ron:
“Move the little finger a hair to the right. Open the lips just a little. Too much. Look over to the right. To the left. Move the head down a bit. Up a bit. Not so much. Perfect! Don’t move!”
I hated the way he talked about me to me like I was a guy moving some dummy in a department store or something. The finger. The lips. Couldn’t he at least say your finger or lips? I was beginning to get a cramp in my arm, holding the apple in one position.
“Oh, shi…er, rat doodies! The apple is turning brown. Sal! Come and eat off the brown part!”
Sal dutifully took it from my hand, ate off the brown part, and washed it down with a slug of wine.
After another hour of makeup with gold-colored lips and lids, we did some of me in the gauzy dress with my hair picked out and ratted into a huge white Afro. Finally, it was over and I could move. I was totally exhausted. Who would have thought getting your picture taken was so much work? I had no idea if Ron liked what I had done or not. I went back to the dressing room, and sat in the chair. Sal packed up, kissed me good-bye, and left, saying he would call me to plan some fun dance evening, but I couldn’t move. For some reason I wanted to cry. I didn’t know what modeling would be like. It was hard.
Then Ron came in with a glass of white wine and handed it to me. I had never drunk a glass of wine in my life, but I didn’t want him to know that, after our conversation in the coffee shop about the church. I felt far away from home and the church that preached if you had one single glass of wine or a beer it was down the chute to the flames for you, and at the wedding in Cana, Jesus changed the water into grape juice. At this point, I had a real hard time believing that God would send me to burn in hell for having a beverage, so I took a big gulp. It was like drinking a swig of tart grapes, and I couldn’t help but make a sour face, which I don’t think Ron saw. Then I took a smaller sip and after a few more sips it wasn’t so bad, and in fact I began to relax.
“You were terrific, Cherry. I didn’t tell you, but I’m going to try for a cover. Wouldn’t that be wild if you got a cover from your first test?”
It would be a miracle. I was excited, but I was sure there were a lot more girls trying for that cover. Frankly, I had never heard of Rouge magazine. It couldn’t be much of a magazine, not like the big ones. But maybe because it was new they would take a chance on somebody new. I tried not to hope too much.
“It was great, Ron.” Now that it was over, it had been great. “I hope we got some good ones. Do you think we did?” At least I would have some real pictures for my book.
“Oh, yeah. We got some good ones. Lots of good ones.” He put down his glass and picked up a guitar. He started strumming “Yesterday” by the Beatles, and all of a sudden I felt light and happy. Maybe it was the wine. I was still wearing the gauze dress, which brushed my ankles. I got up, stretched, and started dancing in my bare feet around two white chairs that were in front of the window. For a little while I was so lost in stretching and moving my tired arms and legs that I hardly noticed the music had stopped. Ron had picked up a smaller camera and was taking pictures of me as I danced, silhouetted against the soft afternoon light coming through the window. After a while, I realized what he was doing, but it felt so good that I didn’t stop. We weren’t a bossy photographer and a mannequin taking stiff posed pictures any longer. We were artists making art.
Art, I understood.
9
* * *
THE GOOD-TIME GIRL
Snuffy drove through the night, and just before sunrise, rolled into a truck stop on Interstate 70 near the Indiana border. Lale woke up, disoriented, in the pitch-black of the truck and realized the vibration of the wheels had stopped, but he had no idea when or how long he had been sleeping. He flipped on
his lighter and looked at his watch. Five o’clock. He needed to pee like crazy; the beers he had drunk in the dark after the truck had started out had engorged his poor bladder until it felt as big as a watermelon. His head pounded with the alcohol, and he had a crick in his back from lying on the hard trailer floor all night. He got to his feet, stretched, and felt around until he found the lock on the inside of the back door. He opened it and stuck his head out. They were at some truck stop, with a dozen or so other trailer trucks parked around them. No sign of Snuffy. That was good luck. No telling what Snuffy would do if he caught him and realized he had run out on Cassie. Not that Snuffy was an angel himself. Lale knew he had been fooling around with Bernadette for years, even though he had a wife and four kids. Probably had had other women along the way, too. Still, it wouldn’t do to have him run back and tell Cassie where he was going. Not that he knew himself. He didn’t even know where he was right now. All the highways and truck stops looked pretty much the same until you read the signs. It was cold, that was for sure, even colder than it had been when he left, so he didn’t figure he was anywhere near California. And it was still dark, but the sky was beginning to lighten up in the east. He pulled his leather jacket together and zipped it up, turning up the collar. He would find the men’s room, and then decide whether to try to get back into Snuffy’s truck, or lie low and find another ride. His head felt foggy, and his eyes were starchy. He should have had something more to eat last night instead of the second six-pack.
Lale stood in front of the urinal in the men’s room, and it seemed like the stream went on for five minutes. He thought to himself there was nothing in the world as satisfying as a good pee when you needed it. The door opened and someone else came in. Lale glanced over as a pair of gorgeous legs that ended in red-lizard high-heeled shoes came and stood right next to him. He jerked his head up, and a tall willowy woman was staring at him, or at least staring at the private part of him that was exposed.
“What the heck are you doing in here! This is the men’s room!”
“Don’t get nervous, sugar. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The woman had a soft voice, a little hoarse. Her hair was blond, hanging down over perfect breasts, which stood out like toy balloons under a bright-red-print minidress. Her brown eyes were ringed with thick false eyelashes. She reached out a delicate finger, raking a long red nail lightly over his cheek.
“You’re the cutest thing I’ve seen all day. Granted, it’s early in the morning, but I’m still working on last night. Would you like to have some fun?”
“Hold on. No. Wait a minute. What is this? Are you…a…a…whore?”
“That’s not a nice word, is it? I prefer to call myself a good-time girl. I do like good times, don’t you?” She moved closer and batted her furry eyelashes.
“It’s five in the morning, for Pete’s sake! What’s the matter with you?”
“Five, schmive. When opportunity presents itself—and you, sweet cheeks, are a delightful opportunity—Miss Sally answers the call.”
“Well, thanks, Miss Sally, or whatever your name is, but no thanks. I’m not interested.”
“Are you sure? You won’t get this chance again. Strangers passing on the road of life and all. Who knows where I’ll be tomorrow, or where you’ll be. Why not give yourself a fun little memory that will last a lifetime?”
Lale zipped his pants up and started edging toward the door as Miss Sally came close, put both her hands on his arms, and leaned in to kiss him.
“Lale Hardcastle? Is that you?”
A stunned voice made Lale’s head whip around. It was Snuffy.
“What in the heck are you doing here? And what are you doing with that?”
“Get lost, buddy. This is none of your business.” Miss Sally’s voice had changed, hardened and deepened, and Lale stared at her. Now that he took a closer look, he saw a big Adam’s apple, and stubble was under the heavy makeup.
“Oh, my God. You’re a man!”
“Nobody’s perfect, chérie.” She shrugged.
Lale shoved Miss Sally aside, shouldered past Snuffy, and headed out into the clean morning air.
“Lale! You get yourself back here!” Snuffy had followed him outside. Lale stopped in his tracks.
“I wasn’t with her. Him. She…he just came in while I was taking a leak and tried to start something. I didn’t know she was a man.”
“Forget about her. I want to know what you’re doing here and how you got here.”
“I guess I hitched a ride in the back of your truck.”
“I guess you did. Want to tell me why?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I know. I think it’s because you are a spineless little pissant who hasn’t got the guts to stand up and tell his girlfriend he doesn’t want to marry her. How could you do this? What do you think Cassie feels like right now?”
“What do you think your wife feels like when you pork Bernadette?”
Lale was on the ground before he saw the punch coming. It was a solid right and it snapped his teeth together hard and threw his vision out of focus.
“You want to run away, you run away, you little turd, but you’re not doing it with me.” Snuffy stalked over to the truck and climbed in. Before Lale could collect himself, Snuffy threw it into gear and roared off.
“Are you all right, sugar?”
Miss Sally emerged from the bathroom and stood over him. The sun was beginning to rise and Lale squinted as it lit up the blond hair, making a halo around her head.
“I don’t think my jaw is broke, but that’s the good news,” he said, rubbing his jaw and opening and closing his mouth.
“Funny. It’s usually me who gets it. I’ve been beaten up tons of times, and I can tell by looking at you, your jaw isn’t broken. You’ll be sore for a couple of days, but no lasting damage. You’ll live.”
Lale got up on his knees, then took the hand she held out to him and pulled himself up. Miss Sally leaned against a ’65 baby-blue Mustang, watching him.
“Wow. That old man can punch,” Lale said, rubbing his jaw.
“You don’t look so good. Some coffee might perk you right up. Are you hungry? Why don’t I buy you some breakfast?”
“No offense, uh, Miss Sally, but I’d just as soon not go into the truck stop with you.”
“I hear you, sugar. No offense taken. I’ll tell you what—you wait for me right here. This is my car. You can sit and rest in it for a little minute and catch your breath. I’ll be right back.”
Lale stood, stupidly staring at the car. He tried to get his brain working to decide whether to run or fight or stay. He felt like a rabbit cornered by a yard dog. Make that cornered by a poodle.
“Oh, really. Puh-lease. I’m not going to bite you, although that’s not the worst idea in the world. Just sit. You don’t seem to have a lot of options, do you?”
She took a bag from the backseat of the car and went into the men’s room. Lale opened the car door and nervously sat on the passenger side, wishing he had never laid eyes on Snuffy Simmons or his big truck.
Ten minutes later, a dark-haired man came out, freshly scrubbed, wearing jeans and a jacket. There was no sign of Miss Sally. He threw the bag into the car.
“What…?” Lale blinked, confused.
The man stuck out his hand. “Salvador de Vega. But you can call me Sal. Everyone does. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat. But I’ll buy my own. I got money.”
“Independent. I like that in a man.”
They started across the parking lot to the diner. Lale tried to look at him out of the corner of his eye without being too obvious about it. Sal had a different walk in the men’s clothes, somehow graceful and a little swishy, but not as much. But then it couldn’t be easy to maneuver in those high heels without a swishy walk. If he hadn’t seen him dressed up like a woman before, he wouldn’t necessarily know he was…like that. Except there was something a little weird about his face. His eyebrows were t
oo neat or something, like they had been plucked. Lale had never been this close to a homo before. Not one that he knew for sure. There had been a guy in school, Geordie Simms, who was a little bit sissy. He was in the band, wore socks that matched his shirts, and once had tried to take home ec to learn how to sew. Everyone teased him and gave him a hard time, but he had a mousy little girlfriend who used to sing duets with him in church, so he probably wasn’t really one. Being this close to a card-carrying homosexual made Lale a little uneasy. He tried to act natural, but his jaw kept tightening up.
Oh, well, he said to himself. What the heck. Snuffy was gone. Nobody knew him at this truck stop, and it wasn’t like he was going to do anything with the…guy. Girl. Whatever. They were in public, and if it came down to it, Lale figured he could take him in a fight. What could it hurt? He was hungry, and it was only breakfast. Then he would find another ride and be on his way.
10
* * *
JOE JR.’S
On the corner of Twelfth Street and Sixth Avenue was a coffee shop called Joe Jr.’s. It had great greasy hamburgers and fries and homemade soup, and best of all, it was cheap. Most of the tenants in Mrs. Digby’s apartment house ate their meals there, as did a lot of actors who lived above the Thirteenth Street Repertory Company, just around the block. I have no idea who Joe Jr. was, but Tony was the owner and he would run a tab for you if he liked you. I think most people paid it sooner or later. I soon became a regular. It was too much trouble to cook on the hot plate, and frankly, I never was much of a cook anyhow. Mama never taught me—she thought it was easier to do it all herself, and so did I.
Since I had met Aurelius that first day, we hadn’t managed to run into each other again. He undoubtedly slept late and I was out early. I would have known he was a musician as well as an actor, though, even if Mrs. Digby hadn’t told me, because late at night I could hear him, through the walls, playing a lonesome sweet saxophone. I got to where I listened for it, and had a hard time going to sleep until he played.
Cheap Diamonds Page 8
