1980 : the butterfly

courtesy jasper goodall

Inside, I’m standing there with my skirt lifted up to my waist. Outside, an iconic stained glass butterfly on the wall stands two stories high, gossamer, delicate and encased in a thick cocoon of grime and graffiti.

Inside the Butterfly a chubby twenty-something wise-guy wanna-be draped in brown polyester and gold chains is propped up on bar stool by the cash register, his feet dangling. Nicky Fireplug gives me a quick once over, like I’m a used car, and kicks my metaphorical tires.

“Ya got good legs?” he asks me. Nothing about experience or previous employment. Just, “Ya, got good legs?”

I hoisted my skirt up to my waist. Because I do. I got good legs.

That’s what got me the job, the good legs.  And the fact that I’m willing to lift my skirt for a total stranger whose feet don’t reach the ground when he sits on a bar stool. I didn’t care about my legs. Or his. I needed a job. One where I could drink and no one would bother me about it. And these were my job skills: a big ass, thick thighs, muscular calves, delicate ankles and a total lack of shame, or pride – whatever. Either way, it wasn’t exactly a skill set I put on a resume. This was no worse than some and better than answering phones at the whorehouse. The Butterfly gave me access to a fully stocked bar. The whorehouse, did not.

Sometimes, it is just that simple.

Guys & Dolls had felt like your Italian Nonna’s house with the overly bright living room where everything’s encased in plastic, red flocking or gold paint and the uncles are hiding downstairs making homemade wine and homemade bombs. The Butterfly was more like that aging aunt the family whispered about. The one whose clothes were a little dingy, outdated and wrong for whatever occasion she managed to show up for, who reeked of after-dinner sherry, even at breakfast, the one who used to be beautiful. The bar curved around in a question mark, punctuating the unspoken query–just what are you doing here?  Worn booths made S curves around two or three small raised stages with poles, and another low stage stood just past the bar.

The Butterfly was dark and brooding, all nappy red velour and red lights–a warm menstruating cooch, if your cooch came equipped with brass poles and mirrors.

The hustle was the same. Twenty bucks gets you ten minutes of cheap champagne and company at the bar. If twenty will get you ten at the bar, forty would get you twenty in a booth, eighty got you thirty upstairs… and the beat goes on.

Personally, I don’t even like good champagne, thanks for asking, but you can buy me a $20 glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. In a few months I will have polished off all the Harvey’s, as well as the Frangelica, the Sambuca, Anisette, and any other sweet thing I can find. Nicky Fireplug won’t order any more.  He knows it’s only me and pimps that drink that stuff. He knows it’s really all me because they’ve figured out what the other two joints could not–how to discourage pimps, which is easier than you’d think when you fill the place with mobsters. The boss orders thin gold bottles of fugazy Harvey’s and You better be happy with that you little slut, because that’s all you’re getting. You’ll drink that and charge the same as for the good stuff.

I’ve found a home. I begin to assemble a family. At 24 I’m already that aunt the family whispers about. Both families….

Posted November 30, 2009 at 11:04 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1980, Butterfly, drinking, Times Square. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.