She had the most amazing ass I’ve ever seen in my life.

I was surprised that I noticed this. It is not a habit of mine. I was walking in my usual head down manner, IPOD headphones in ears, eyes alert to any broken lifted pieces of sidewalk that might trip me, and as I thought with amazement that I still like the Violent Femmes as much as I did in high school, I reminded myself to look up occasionally. She was about half a block in front of me. Her pants appeared to have been custom tailored to her body, hugging her hips and allowing the roundness of her backside to take center stage. Her pants were black with a thin yellow pinstripe; the pockets on each cheek had a flap and a button.

I wondered at what point my own ass had flattened, widened and dropped until it become more like a part of my thighs than a separate body part. I imagined it must have been after childbirth but really I can’t remember that time, age 19; I was thinking of other things, caring for Nathan 24/7.

Her long blond hair hung down her back all the way to the top of where her backside stuck out. It was perfectly highlighted in the $120 and up range. I became aware of my own highlighted hair; ends dry and crisp because I am in desperate need of a trim; roots of a dark blond color that have grown out three inches; my scalp felt itchy all of a sudden.

She wore black boots with chunky heels; her gait was strong, determined, and confident. Her shirt was black as well, tight and clingy material. Her hair swung side to side as she moved. She had a black portfolio under her arm that appeared to be made of leather and the tiniest purse I’ve ever seen, gold in color, matching the stripes in her pants. I wondered with my own breed of strange curiosity what her purse held. Was it a key, a tube of lipstick, a credit card, a twenty dollar bill folded into a rectangle, a single condom? If you had a purse smaller than your own hand, what would you choose to put in it?

She was eventually forced to stop at a light to let the cars pass. I caught up with her. We both stood at the corner staring at the sign with an orange palm glowing its do not walk warning. The wind picked up and there was rain in the air. I’ve lived long enough to feel it coming. I snuck a glance at her face. I’m not sure if my face registered my disappointment. She was a victim not only of the foundation turning her face a horrible orange color but of the not knowing my personal makeup mantra to blend blend blend. She had forgotten her neck. It was a pale ivory like mine, holding on top of it the orange mask, the streaks of blush, the overpowering blue eye shadow.

Flashback Sequence in Italics

For a second I was transformed back to the girl I was in eighth grade; 1986, the girl who was on a personal mission to beautify those around her by teaching them how to care for their skin, to placing towels over their heads as I gently eased them down over a steaming pot of boiled water with herbs floating in it. No food in the house was safe as I smashed bananas and whipped honey and lemon juice with a handful of oatmeal into facial masks and spread it on the faces of my sisters, my mom, my aunt, and my two cousins who were living with us at the time. I told them that I had secret recipes that I had read somewhere that would beautify their skin. Truth? I hadn’t read anything; I made everything up as I went along. I went grocery shopping with my mom, who hated it with such a passion she had completely stopped going when my dad died. I wrote lists and clipped the coupons from the paper, watching for sales. She thanked me for taking over, said she couldn’t handle shopping or cooking anymore. I felt useful for once. I slipped boxes of hair color into the cart when she wasn’t looking, not that she seemed to care about anything anymore. I asked her questions but she was far away, grieving for her husband, dealing with her guilt. She stared off at nothing, not hearing me when it was time to pay. Sometimes I had to grasp her and give a gentle little shake. Sometimes I would come up behind her and wrap my mom in my arms and she would come back from that place she went to and she would let the tears come. “I’m sorry I killed your dad”, she would whisper to me and I would try to say no as I pressed myself against her body as hard as I could while trying to gently squeeze her back together, to make her whole again.

I dyed the hair of everyone in the house save my brother. I instructed those with oily T-zones to powder their noses. I turned the kitchen and dining area into my own personal beauty salon. Everyone sat in my special chair except my brother; he complained to my mom that all of the good food in the house was being spread on our faces or placed into one of the pots I kept simmering on the stove. My mom hushed him with a smile. She said, “Tammy might be a cosmetologist!” I searched the yellow pages for beauty schools, glad to have found my calling. My Mom told me tales of working as a manicurist in Sydney ,NSW. The drag queen clients were her favorites and I imagined them coming to my salon when it opened. Little did I know that less than a year later would find me deeply immersed in the gay and lesbian community here. Little did I know that they would be the ones to sit me in a chair as they shared their beauty secrets with me.

One day, sitting alone, enjoying my cigarette, I envisioned the strangers. I thought of the people I saw on the sidewalks everyday. I imagined them coming into the salon and me having to dye their hair, scrape their feet. I felt sick. I realized then that I couldn’t touch strangers. I was only having fun because it was family I was working on. The various bowls of facial concoctions I had in the fridge developed a sickening impenetrable crust. Everyone ignored them until they were eventually thrown away. I was done.
******************************************************************************

The light changed. She took off like a wind up toy that had been made to wait by the hand of a playful child. I walked slower, nowhere to go in a hurry. I dipped into my medium size purse and extracted a cigarette and lighter. The rain came. The wind picked up. My hair flew about, wild and out of control. The pinstripe girl has ducked into a phone booth. I stop, turning away from the wind and trying to cup my hand around the flame. I have a callous on my thumb from turning the wheel. The pinstripe girl is looking through her portfolio filled with photos of herself. She looks to be 18, maybe 19. She is nervous. The pieces come together in my head right there on the sidewalk. I continued on, inhaling, exhaling, finally arriving at my bus stop.

I watched her, the young pin stripe girl. She tried to smooth her hair, her clothes. Her large breast stood up tall and full. She either had a great bra or she hadn’t experienced the effects of gravity yet. The building she stands in front of has mirrored windows where she checks her makeup, opens her mouth (is she checking her teeth for food and/or lipstick?) she practices her smile. I talk to her in my head. “Don’t worry; you won’t need that portfolio of glamour shots in there. They won’t be examining your face long enough to see your lack of makeup application skills. You will enter a room. There will be a man there, behind the desk. He will ask you to undress. Perhaps he will have you turn in a slow circle. It doesn’t matter if you can’t dance. You will get the job.”

She stood up straight and tall against the wind and rain as she reached for the handle of the door with the No Minors sign. I imagined she took one more deep breath before she pulled on it. I inhaled with her and then slowly exhaled as she passed through the entrance. She is gone now.

Attached to the side of the building is the sign that stays there 365 days a year.

DANCING GIRLS WANTED!

NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY!

AUDITIONS DAILY!

This is Portland, Oregon, strip club capital of the USA. Welcome.