CHAPTER ONE

Mom’s Beloved “Bag Lady” Sketch

“Oh baby, I have something special in store for you!” Mom gushed. She hugged her arms close to her chest as if she needed to keep the joy from bursting through her entire body, like it was a current of energy that pulsed through her, not always under the influence of her control.

Tonight, she was thrilled about the Top Ramen she was making for dinner as well as the evening that would follow. It wasn’t exactly Bring Your Daughter to Work night, but that’s what it was about to become. When I stood next to her, it was like standing beside a redwood tree, she was so sinuous and graceful, her head up in the clouds. Now she squatted to my height and wrapped me in a hug.

I was seven and often tagged along with her to Crazy Girls on La Brea, just south of Sunset Boulevard, a few blocks from Hollywood’s tourist zone in the shadows of florid neon and half-acre billboards. Tonight, she wanted to show me her new act and I was excited to go. It sure beat the usual routine of being dropped off with neighbors or people I didn’t know, falling asleep on a stranger’s couch until Mom came to pick me up well after midnight.

“I’m going to put an egg in your ramen, just how you like it!” she said, checking on the noodles on the hot plate and opening the minifridge.

Her enthusiasm was always dialed up to ten and she found childlike eagerness for the smallest goodness. “Oh baby, this is going to be so much fun!” was her most common refrain, and usually she was right. A trip to the movies meant ordering absolutely everything at the concession stand: Red Vines, popcorn, Slurpees, hot dogs, M&M’s. When she had money, a Target foray was a chance to indulge in new T-shirts, jeans, and toys, or maybe sneakers from Payless, whatever my heart desired. She loved to say yes to everything, was like a two-year-old who could mine from even the most mundane activity an extravagant level of glee.

At thirty-one, she was really just an oversized kid. And I was her favorite playmate.

We lived in the storage room of an apartment complex where we’d once had our own unit, a cut-rate offer bestowed on us by the landlady when Mom ran out of money to pay rent. There was barely enough room to walk between the mattress and the wall in the 125-square-foot box, but as she shimmied and pranced around the room, the Christmas lights she’d put up to make the place feel homey reflected in her tousled, done-up hair. I beamed.

She fixed dinner between daubs of makeup, turning to make faces at herself in the mirror. Singing and dancing, she flung the hem of her silk robe into the air, filling our tiny place with her bright mood. I was certain magic dust floated around her.

Making someone else feel good was Mom’s superpower and I could see the pleasure on her face now, her eyes as effervescent as a just-opened bottle of 7 Up as she planned our night. Tonight, she would share with me a part of her work that made her particularly joyful, certain that her delight would be mine as well.

We ate our ramen on the full-size mattress on the floor, then packed up my My Little Pony backpack with coloring books and crayons. She took me by the hand as we walked the few blocks to the club. At school, I’d learned about crosswalk safety and was trying to get her to follow the program.

“A crosswalk? Why would we walk all the way over there? Let’s run. Ready, set, go!”

Hand in hand, we darted across La Brea, our laughter rising into the night.

* * *

“Here comes Mo!”

The minute we walked into Crazy Girls, the cheer that followed her everywhere rose up from those inside.

Everyone loved Maureen, who brought the party wherever she went. She called people “sweetie” and “baby,” asked about each one individually as if they were her closest friend, gave each her full attention. If you didn’t like your nose, say, she’d make a point of telling you how beautiful your nose was, lavishing you and your nose with praise. Her attention was a beam of warm light, making you feel as if you were the most important person in the world. This was her true talent. Clients, bartenders, dancers, janitors, the DJ—everyone was happy to see Mo.

Making our way through the club, its interior darker than the night outside, our eyes adjusted as she greeted and air-kissed the DJ and bartenders. Then we settled in the backstage dressing room where the dancers were getting ready. All young women in their twenties and early thirties like my mom, they doted on me, showering me with kisses and compliments.

“How gorgeous you are!”

“You’ve gotten so big.”

“You’re a beaut, Mink!”

I delighted in the attention, even if I blanched a tiny bit at the smell of beer or vodka on their breath. They were giddy, enthusiastic, and likely drunk.

* * *

I loved the women backstage. They called themselves “girls” and laughed and gossiped. The room reeked of makeup and Victoria’s Secret lotion mixed with spilled whiskey and stale cigarette smoke. Still, they seemed powerful, confident, so sure of themselves. Occasionally, one would stumble back from her act and proffer one of the long-stemmed red roses she’d been given by a client. “For you, Mink,” she’d say.

After they hugged me, I’d find glitter in my hair, stuck on my sweatshirt and face.

By the end of the night, I knew Mom, like the rest of them, would walk away with an impressively thick rolled-up wad of cash, and the next day, I’d get to do something nice with her because of it—maybe a barbecue by the pool in the apartment complex. I knew the world they lived in was seedy, but I figured it must be worth it.

I also knew Mom was different from the others who worked here. The rest seemed content to come in and do their shifts, but Mom gave it her all and was the creative force behind the acts. She choreographed dances for the other women based on her favorite musicals, like West Side Story. (One skit was a riff on the Officer Krupke song and she’d erupt with laughter every time at the final line: “Gee, Officer Krupke, Krup you!”)


Copyright © 2023 by Minka Kelly