Ivy League Stripper

by Heidi Mattson

  “How is the position with Rabbi B———? Are you all moved in?” he asked.

  I stared blankly into his face, paralyzed for a moment. I was frightened and my defenses bristled violently. Then, reality returned to me.

  I am standing on the street with a nice person.

  Calm on the outside, I said, “I think we should talk. Could we go to your office?” I didn’t exhibit any behavior out of the ordinary; in fact, I was strangely serene.

  He doesn’t know me well enough to see I’m upset.

  We walked the two blocks quickly. He talked about the rabbi’s historical importance and the university’s pleasure over housing his papers. “We have three graduate students studying his archives this semester

  I walked along with him, smiling neutrally, nodding at the appropriate moments.

  Here we go. More trouble I want no part of. No one can right this wrong.

  Once there, I told him the full story. At first he was speechless; then he turned bright red. He appeared betrayed, ashamed, and furious. “I’m sorry, Heidi,” he managed, “but the university must be informed.”

  I sighed, unsurprised. I knew it was the proper thing to do.

  Fuming, he slapped his hands palm down on his desk, crushing paperwork and sending a pen to the floor. He looked at me suddenly. “I can’t send her!”

  Who?

  I stared back at him with a questioning look. Part of me wanted to be frightened because he was getting so upset. I fought the urge, preferring instead to appreciate his anger. It reminded me that I wasn’t the bad person in this situation. The chaplain, Rabbi Kirk, sincerely cared about me and hadn’t bothered trying to placate me.

  “I’ve sent a student to his house! He said he needed a second assistant.”

  “Female, Nordic?” I asked, confirming his panic.

  This had to be reported! Not for me, for the others.

  I endured the obligatory administrative procedure in regard to the esteemed rabbi. An apology was demanded by the university and me, both separately and in a group letter. The rabbi sent no response to me. The necklace was returned, my return receipt came back. Rabbi Kirk had asked me to stop by regularly, which I didn’t mind doing. He was a nice man. It made no difference, however, when he told me the university had placed Rabbi B———on probation. “In addition,” Rabbi Kirk told me, “it has been suggested that he not employ an assistant.” We both knew the absurdity of these actions. The man was a high-level diplomat — what did probation at Brown mean to him?

  The university’s nervousness was palpable. The incident was so horrible and documented through the letters written by the chaplain, myself, and campus administrators that, as Isabella had foretold, it didn’t look good. For weeks following I received offers of counseling and therapy. “How are you feeling?” anonymous Brown administrators would ask on the phone. I felt offended.

  They are only protecting themselves.

  Besides the chaplain and Isabella, I told no one. Of course, my mother asked, but I managed to brush it off with the comment, “I just didn’t feel comfortable.”

  Her cynicism kicked in and she said, “He’s a dirty old man, isn’t he?”

  I declined to answer; I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. She would feel my pain, and she would worry.

  I can take care of myself.

  I wondered who else he had sexually molested, who if anyone had accepted his deal. The chaplain told me bitterly that Rabbi B——— had come to him looking to interview “young Scandinavian females” (they were “neat and clean,” the rabbi explained). Before he attacked me, that had appeared reasonable. And he had a long list of impressive good deeds, negotiations in the Middle East, guidance of American presidents from Nixon to Reagan and Bush, a highly successful world mover and shaker, a religious leader. Well, I wasn’t going to let him move or shake me.

  At long last, I’m fulfilling my dream. I’m attending Brown with enough financial aid to be an active, involved student. I’m finally done with waitressing and cleaning houses.

  I had no reason to concern myself any longer about the rabbi’s duplicity. I was, however, still deeply offended by his supposed appreciation of my intellect when all that really interested him was my appearance: a young, decent-looking blond, blue-eyed female.

  Despite the ugly beginning, I plunged into my junior year with a positive attitude. But it didn’t last long. Only a few weeks later, tussles with administrators over financial aid paperwork began. I had been awarded about ten thousand dollars in scholarship and another twelve thousand in grants and loans. Almost five thousand dollars of those grants and loans were new to my aid package. By being on my own for so many years I had qualified for the extra aid. Now those funds didn’t seem to be appearing. A missing signature or incomplete forms commonly caused delays, but I had a bad feeling about it.

  I stopped in to the financial aid office every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, determinedly cheerful and polite. I maintained my optimistic front despite continually being fed vague excuses, or, “The man you need to speak with is out of the office. Just be patient, Miss Mattson. I’ll tell him you were here.”

  Was Brown angry at me for the rabbi incident? Or maybe the lawsuit?

  Tony Jr. also wondered. He assured me there was no way they could legally discriminate against me, but he reminded me of their power. A succession of bureaucratic problems might be their way of getting rid of a troublesome, impecunious undergraduate.

  But I didn’t even report the rabbi — the chaplain did (on my behalf) !

  There was definitely a problem. A good portion of my aid was being held back, pending specific “documentation.” Brown merely needed to confirm my independent status, but the forms I’d filled out were deemed unsatisfactory. My extra aid was pulled, before I had even seen it.

  I had left behind a successful business and more than pleasant lifestyle on the opposite coast of the country for this?

  I had to suspect that the trouble with the rabbi, or even the lawsuit, had something to do with this. I’d never be able to prove it (Brown was too sophisticated for that), and it wasn’t my style to dwell on it. Once again my education was at risk because of money. Life was unfair, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I was raised to believe in right and wrong. This was wrong. But I also knew that I could do the right thing.

  It was a bright October afternoon when my financial aid advisor suggested coyly but decisively, “Miss Mattson, you should consider leaving the university. This afternoon.”

  5

  Choosing My Degradation

  You are so afraid of losing your moral sense that you are not willing to take it through anything more dangerous than a mud puddle.

  — Gertrude Stein

  I was in shock, even wondered when I was going to cry, if I was going to cry. I walked through campus thinking, How could this happen? I had sacrificed and planned for so long, even dismantled a successful business. My focus had been so clear.

  I soberly observed the green as if from far away. My heart had dropped, but my sense of perspective remained. I appreciated that the day was beautiful: crisp autumn air, bright sun, just enough of a breeze to set the fallen leaves dancing. I shook my head, as if to loosen my defenses. I thought I should scream, but only a little chuckle escaped. Then I smiled, amused at myself, and actually laughed out loud. I was thinking of my mom. She always said, “What would you do, Heidi, if things became simple and easy for you? You probably wouldn’t know what to do!” She was right.

  This trouble, however, was imminent and complicated. The financial aid clerk had been so icy and final about it: if I wanted to stay in school, I needed a good amount of cash — soon. My anger and outrage concerning the rabbi’s sexual attack simmered quietly. Was Brown paying extra close attention to me because of the assault? Hadn’t I behaved properly and decently? Why was this happening?

  The fact remained that Brown was asking me to put up or get out. My reverence for the Ivy League — or was it my obs
tinacy? — was stronger than my frustration. Perhaps more powerful than that was the weight of my investment in this dream. I would show them, those Ivy League administrators. This country girl would make it to graduation. That pricey piece of paper would have my name on it. I wasn’t sure why I wanted it now, but I had come too far, I couldn’t give up now.

  It was simple. I was staying. The question was, how? The slow and steady approach? It was midsemester; I needed something fast.

  First I thought of cocktailing at ShBooms, the obnoxious nostalgia nightclub I had worked in when I was a sophomore. I had hustled my heart out and was the fastest waitress on the floor. My tips had been substantial — those older yuppies had money they didn’t mind sharing with a friendly Swedish girl. I could remember making eighty-two bucks in one night.

  I called my old boss and gave him my best pitch. He let me down gently. “Heidi, you were one of the best — but we’re laying off girls right now. Winter is coming, the war in the Gulf is coming, and you’ve got to be aware of the banking crisis. I can’t hire you, I can’t even suggest a place. Everyone is cutting back.” I understood. The state of Rhode Island was all but paralyzed by the economy, and the banking system was on the verge of collapse. Autumn of 1990 was tough all over.

  That had been my best shot. I called other bars for cocktail jobs, but the story was the same. I didn’t know of any other way to bring in fast bucks. I looked into housecleaning, but the market couldn’t support the rates I needed to charge.

  I’m a smart, attractive girl, I thought, and God knows I work hard. There must be something I can do.

  I paced my one-room apartment irritably. I thought back to the sun-and-surf life of Santa Cruz. It was too easy, and I couldn’t be satisfied with settling for that, but I still missed it.

  A horrible, incredible idea crept into my head. I recalled the vague offer, over a year ago, of a “titty bar” job. I had immediately discounted it then; why was I thinking of it now? I was too plain and flat-chested. Besides, I argued with myself, it’s probably all sleaze — prostitution and drugs. My sense of dignity fought to keep the subject out, but rationality would not be denied.

  The idea had popped into my head and I was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to repress it. It slightly intrigued me, but mostly it scared me. What would I be getting myself into? Porno rings? Whatever they were. Or maybe rooms full of drugged, disgusting, desperate women. Where was I getting these impressions?

  My fears were based on nothing more substantial than an active imagination and bits of an Eddie Murphy movie. In the background of a scene in Beverly Hills Cop, strippers wafted in and out of the shot. The room was smoky and dark. The women, silently gyrating, appeared blank, as if they knew they were there for only the obligatory frontal nudity. In the foreground were the heroes, dynamic men planning their action-filled attacks on the bad guys. Women were the backdrop, one-dimensional, visually pleasing images. That was not so unusual, it seemed to me, almost like real life in some ways.

  But strippers in real life took it too far. They were cheap, easy women. Whores, really. Men loved them, sure, but didn’t respect them. Strippers were desperate people who had no choices. Drug addiction and a total disregard for morals led to the stripper’s life of prostitution and abuse. She would do anything for money. She wore too much makeup and looked provocatively sexual. She had big breasts, a loud mouth, and fake nails. Her high heels were pink or red and she had no class. She could never be a Cosmo girl.

  How could I possibly consider that life? Could I really grab the money and run, without giving up something in return? Could I be a stripper and a Brown student? Was I prepared to bring lies into my life and keep them, forever? What would that do to me? Would I be perceived as damaged goods, lovable to only a lesser man, deserving of less? No one would ever understand. Could I even understand? How badly would I be hurting myself? How far could I go? Was I morally flawed even to consider dancing topless?

  On a baser level I wondered if I was even sexy enough. I didn’t know how to dance, either. Did strippers actually dance? I had no idea. And the other women — surely they would be mean. I remembered a movie where a lady of the evening/stripper-type beat up other women. I was far from streetwise. How would I keep from looking foolish around druggies and strippers?

  I knew nothing about stripping, except that I was scared of it. If I had been a simple reactionist, unwilling to consider alternatives, it wouldn’t have been a question. But I was, and am, pragmatic and analytical. Reacting to my fears would not settle this case. I had to explore the option.

  The first negative feeling was all I needed to feel — then I would be satisfied. As soon as I sensed degradation and shoddiness, I could put the entire business behind me. After all, I was a nice girl from Maine, an Ivy Leaguer, in fact. Certainly not stripper material. I simply needed to prove to myself that I couldn’t do it, that stripping was beyond me, not a part of Heidi Mattson.

  I recalled hearing of one of “those places.” It was called the Foxy Lady and it advertised on the radio, which had always tended to bother me. I felt slightly insulted, hearing about women who would blatantly do whatever it was they did in “those places.” Now that I thought about it, though, I realized ignorance was no basis for judgment. With an open mind and sweaty palms, I dug out the Yellow Pages from under a pile of schoolbooks.

  As I was new again to the city, and my former classmates had all graduated, my thoughts and fears were private. My actions would also be private. No one would have to know, if it ever got that far, which I was sure it wouldn’t. Looking up the number took all my energies and resolve.

  It’s OK, Heidi. Take it step by step.

  Poring anxiously through the yellow pages — “Entertainment” “Clubs, Men” “Exotic” “Topless” — I could find no Foxy Lady listed anywhere. I realized I was going to have to call information. Just thinking the name Foxy Lady made me edgy; speaking it was another matter.

  Why was I being so uptight? I had never been afraid of asking a question before, even a supposedly dumb question. One never learns anything without asking a question, I reminded myself. Now I was making sense. No point in overthinking the situation. I was in charge. I would take it one step at a time, and the moment I felt uncomfortable or out of control would be the moment the option would cease. Disappear.

  I crouched on the floor, clinging to the phone, my heart pounding with fear and excitement. A man’s voice, expressionless, barked, “Foxy Lady!”

  The author, age two.

  Heidi Mattson, the Ivy League Maid, in California, 1989. Ken Kearney

  In front of the Van Wickle gates at Brown University during sophomore year.

  Alan W. Bean

  As a cheerleader, not for the Brown football team but for the customers of the Foxy Lady.

  Christmas Eve 1990 with the family in Maine, my first Christmas home after I began working at the Foxy Lady. (Clockwis from left: Kristine, Dad, me, Rebecca, Mom, Cindy)

  The long-awaited day: assembling for graduation on the main green of Brown University, May 1992. My friend Reid, on the right.

  Graduation day, with the Brown campus in the background.

  At the entrance to the Foxy Lady, on my way to work.

  Alan W. Bean

  In the Foxy Lady locker room, “dressing” for the shift.

  Alan W. Bean

  Training for the “Big Fight” in the Knockout Sport Saloon at the Foxy Lady, 1991.

  Alan W. Bean

  On the shower stage a the Foxy Lady.

  Alan W. Bean

  Donning my uniform for the Kinky Cop show.

  Performing as the Kinky Cop. Notice the money on the floor, tossed there by customers.

  Greeting the generous customers.

  Entertaining on the shower stage.

  Alan W. Bean

  Study break at the Foxy Lady with Barbara.

  Alan W. Bean

  With my friend Erich in front of the Petit Trianon, Versailles, France, April 1993.<
br />
  Oh, Calcutta! On my balcony in Providence, overlooking the Brown campus. The picture was taken as a Valentine’s Day present for my boyfriend, Tony Jr.

  Alan W. Bean

  On the beach in Santa Cruz, California, summer 1989. This picture was taken shortly after my lumpectomy. Just told I had a clean bill of health, I reacted accordingly.

  Businesslike, I began, “Hello. I’m interested in a job, is there a manager that I can speak with …”

  Well, Heidi, you did it! You actually called a strip joint.