MARCH 2003
THE FRENCH QUARTER
Once I realized Gaby was moving toward the door, I hurried to push through the crowd to reach her. Some guy asked if he could buy me a drink and a bachelorette in a wedding veil told me my dance was awesome. I mumbled thanks and excuses and finally caught up with her just as she was passing through to the outside. “Gaby, wait.” The door almost hit me, but I caught it, and then we were standing on the sidewalk outside the Sugarlick. “Where are you going? Did you like the show?”
She didn’t answer for a minute and kept hitching her purse farther up on her shoulder, something she often did when she was drunk. I was glad to see she was because I was pretty drunk too. I hadn’t been expecting how nervous I would be to have her finally come to one of my burlesque shows. I had been asking her for months to come witness this new thing I was a part of. It was strange for me to be back in New Orleans and near Gaby without really seeing her. But she kept putting me off with vague excuses about school and work; it seemed like she never had time for me. I felt like she owed me an explanation for all of that and even more for trying to sneak out like this. “Were you not going to say anything to me? You were just going to leave?”
She was wearing a blazer, which was unusual. I wasn’t used to seeing her in one and it perversely hurt my feelings. I felt like she was trying to look extra adult, extra professional, as if she were trying to distinguish herself from me, and I was taking it personally. “And why are you dressed like that?”
She looked down at herself, confused, and brushed something invisible off her chest. “I was at work today. What, you don’t like my look?” She sighed. “It’s hard enough finding clothes to wear for those clinic hours, I don’t need you commenting on it like that. And anyway,” she said conclusively, “this is expensive.”
“No, it’s fine, it’s nice. You just look so grown-up, I’m not used to it.” I wanted her to yield a little, but she had a coldness, a distance to her that made me bristle like a hurt cat.
“I don’t think you need to be commenting on anyone’s clothes right now. Look at you.” I hadn’t bothered to change after my performance, I was so eager to run out and find her that I had only thrown on a robe over my costume. In the dim, boudoir atmosphere of the Sugarlick, it had seemed perfectly normal, but now in the cooler glare of the streetlights, I felt exposed and a little ridiculous.
I crossed my arms over my chest to keep the robe closed. “I didn’t want to miss you. Did you like the show? I made the whole costume myself. This bra took me forever to sequin.”
“That’s impressive. When did you take up sewing?”
I shrugged. “I just kind of figured it out.”
“My aunt used to sew all our holiday dresses,” she said, not looking at me again. “I always meant to have her teach me but with one thing and another...”
It was getting awkward now, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was good at performing and I just needed to hear it from Gaby. She was the only person that really mattered to me, and I wanted her approval. “Did you like my number? I was extra nervous tonight and kept getting ahead of the music, but then I kept reminding myself to slow down so then I almost got behind. It’s funny how that works.”
“I didn’t notice. I don’t really think that this is my thing.” She waved a hand vaguely indicating the Sugarlick, the street and my appearance. “You know, it just might not be for me.” She spoke slowly and carefully.
“What do you mean it’s not for you?” I could hear a hint of that voice she would use with our teachers, that careful politeness, and I wasn’t having any of it. We weren’t like that. “What’s not to like? It’s just silly, fun, vintage show girls and rhinestones and sparkly things.”
“I don’t know, those guys in there creep me out. They look like they’re going to yell at me for using the wrong water fountain.”
“What, the rockabillies?” I asked. “No, they’re not like that. It’s just a look, you know, like my hair and makeup and stuff.”
“I guess I’m not into the ’50s.” She dug around her purse until she had found a stick of gum and unwrapped it slowly. I thought she was doing it to avoid looking at me. We still hadn’t addressed what seemed to me to be the most important part. “Okay, so you aren’t into the vintage thing, but what about my dance? Was I good? Did you notice the part where I almost tripped on my skirt? I tried to cover it up, but I was worried people could tell.”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t notice anything like that.”
“Okay, so what did you notice?”
She sighed and looked me dead in the eyes. I remembered what pretty brown eyes she had, deep and dark like brushed velvet. “I just hate to see you up there like that acting the whore.”
For a moment I was absolutely stunned. I mean, yes, in my old kimono and my stage makeup and fishnets, right now on this street corner, I probably quite literally looked like a prostitute. But even that should be okay. I actually knew girls now who chose to be sex workers, who were proud of it; it made the insult feel even more unexpected, more inappropriate. How could she have missed the point so much? “I’m not.”
She just gave me an unconvinced look.
“Gaby, come on, you know me,” I said. “I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t all about being a strong woman. The girls put on the shows and make their own stuff. It’s actually really creative and empowering.” She was still giving me that skeptical look and I started to get mad. Being drunk probably didn’t help. “I don’t see why you have to be so judgy,” I said finally. “You’re my friend. Even if you don’t get it, can’t you just be supportive?”
She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, but it kept sliding back into her vision and I could tell it was really annoying her. “Rosemary, all that opportunity you had, and you passed it up to come back here and shake your titties at strange men. Lord knows I have supported you these many years but it’s just too much. I can’t do it. It just makes me too mad.” She shook her head and pushed her hair back again. “Too motherfucking mad. Goddamn this purse.” She pulled it off her shoulder where it kept slipping and wedged it under her arm. “Jesus.”
I spoke to the dirty sidewalk. “I didn’t fuck up at school to come here and do this, it’s just what happened and performing makes me feel better, that’s all. We can’t all be perfect, wearing fancy blazers and bragging about professional development programs, you know.”
“I never had a choice, I had to be perfect and then some. Jesus, Rosemary. And after all that shit with your mom, this is what you’re going to do with your life?”
I could tell I was losing the argument, but its outlines were starting to feel fuzzy and confusing and really everything else shrank before my overwhelming sense of injury. “It was just one dance and you can’t even say I did a good job. I worked really hard on this.”
“Oh shut up, Rosemary.”
“You shut up,” I said, almost in tears. Two guys passed by with plastic cups of beers and made yowling cat noises at us. “Fuck you,” I yelled at them.
“See, look at this, we’re making a spectacle of ourselves.” Gaby squared her shoulders and stood up straight as if she were less drunk than she was, but it threw off her balance and she wobbled a little.
“Ooh, Wobble,” I said to her, trying to smooth the moment by referring to a song we sometimes sang together, other times when we had gotten stumbling drunk.
“No, you are not talking about Master P at me right now, I swear to God,” she said, but she almost laughed and for a minute I thought maybe it was going to be okay. We would fall back into our usual place of easy companionship and unspoken understanding, but then she stopped and closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m going to need a little time. I need a little break from all this.” She did that circle wave with her hand again and it felt way too personal.
“All of what?” I asked, worried. “Me?”
She gave me a pat on the arm. “Just don’t call me for a little while, okay?”
I was stunned at the request and nodded, not saying anything partly because I didn’t want to start crying, but also because I still felt like she was being very unfair to me. If she was going to be mean and judgmental, maybe it was for the best. Surely, I didn’t need friends like that in my life. Friends who could misunderstand and think the worst of me for no reason. I had new friends. I didn’t need uptight, self-righteous friends like Gaby. I would be fine without her.