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!”)
To my eyes, she was unique, creative, gorgeous. I adored her.
* * *
This night, for the first time, she was going to let me watch her perform what she referred to as her “Bag Lady” sketch.
While the women around me powdered their faces, painted their lips, and primped their hair, I settled into my usual spot near my mother’s mirror with my coloring book, before I noticed one of the dancers pulling Mom aside, talking in a whisper.
“You really think this is a good idea?” She jerked her head in my direction.
I pretended I couldn’t hear.
Mom’s hiss was low and deadly. “Don’t tell me how to raise my daughter! I know what I’m doing.” I smiled to myself. That dancer should have known better.
Mom walked over to me and pulled me close—“My baby! Come here!”—and smothered me in kisses so the woman could see just how much I was loved.
As Mom got ready for her act, the girls kept an eye on me, then one escorted me to where I could get a clear view of the stage and still remain hidden. I’d seen Mom getting ready and knew the trick she was about to play.
* * *
Disco lights in the main room bounced off the mirrored walls, multiplying the colorful beams into an endless, whirling kaleidoscope. It was near ten, well past my bedtime but the height of the evening rush at Crazy Girls. By now the sparse crowd had filled in and pulsing music with a heavy bass line made the floor rumble. I felt a rush, curled into myself at the backstage door, hiding behind the dancer who’d led me there.
I’d been in this room many times but had never been allowed to watch when the show came on, until now. This was going to be my mom’s big moment.
I craned from backstage to see the crowd. Forty or fifty people, mostly men, filled the space, many clumped at little tables with pitchers of beer in front of them. A few sat in the back enjoying lap dances, girls rippling in front of them, the men’s hands hovering an inch over the girls’ backsides, sticking bills into G-strings, laughing. Topless cocktail waitresses and a handful of other dancers filled out the crowd.
On the main stage, a topless woman in a G-string twirled around a shiny pole like an acrobat. I was wondering how she kept from getting dizzy, going around in circles like that, when a bag lady burst into the club’s side door as if she’d stumbled in by mistake. She was layered in sweaters and an overcoat, wrapped in scarves, and carrying what seemed to be her sole belongings in stained sacks. A knit hat was pulled low, covering part of her face, her hair shoved inside.
“Well, hello there! Who’s having the party?”
The men put down their drinks and swiveled their heads. The room fell silent.
The bag lady looked around, drunk or lost. She walked between the tables, picking up a customer’s drink. She tasted it, approved, and set it back down on the table as the customer recoiled. She picked up another’s drink, spat it out, and tossed the glass. The strippers looked at her, then at each other, unsure of what was happening; they were all in on the ruse.
“Ma’am. Can we help you?” the DJ asked over the PA system.
“Me?” she shouted back. “I don’t need any damn help!” She continued hobbling toward the stage. “Oh honey, you’re sexy!” she said to one of the girls giving a lap dance. “Hey, I can dance, too!” she called out as she got closer to the stage. “Let me up there.”
She climbed onto the raised platform as the men hissed. “Isn’t there a bouncer here?” someone cried from the audience.
The woman strutted across the stage, awkward at first, but soon her movements became smooth. Layer by layer, she shed the rags. The men went from scowling to rapt.
The DJ cued up Led Zeppelin’s “Since I’ve Been Loving You.” At that moment, my mother pulled off the huge wrap that encircled her head and shoulders, then shook out her mane of long blond hair. The timbre in the room changed dramatically.
Hoots and claps thundered. “Oh baby!” someone cried.
All eyes were on Mo. They loved it.
The music dialed up a notch and Mom twirled and shimmied with abandon, peeling layer after layer, revealing a stunning, statuesque woman in a golden bra and G-string.
Crumpled bills pooled around her feet. I was excited, not just to see her surprise the room, but because their howls meant she’d get good tips. It meant crayons, coloring books, and groceries.
* * *
I felt a tug at my sleeve. “Come on, honey.” The dancer who’d brought me from the dressing room was at my side, pulling me away. “That’s enough for now. Let’s go.”
I understood it was my mom who’d timed my exit, but it didn’t matter. I already knew what would happen next. The golden bra would fly off, and soon she’d be gyrating her hips in a stranger’s face. I’d stolen glimpses of the lap dancers and seen yet others walking around the club topless. Even then, I recognized Crazy Girls as a place where women took off their clothes for men. In her way, Mom was trying to protect me, and for a long time I let her think she had.
I wasn’t proud of Mom’s work, but at seven, I wasn’t exactly embarrassed by it, either, mostly because there was no one to be embarrassed in front of. Outside of school, I was often the only kid in a crowd of adults.
I now know that a kid’s calibration for what’s normal is determined by whatever she grows up with. If your dad’s a drug dealer and your mom works in the sex industry, that’s just your regular life. For me, this was it—Crazy Girls was life as usual.
* * *
Backstage, I buried myself in my coloring book, the loud music and applause fading into background noise. I was happy. Mom had tricked them all. She hadn’t just done a predictable strip routine but had blended her creativity and acting skills to develop something novel and unexpected, delighting the crowd. Every sign of appreciation from the audience translated into cash in our pockets, the ability to buy cereal and Hamburger Helper. If Mom did really well, at the end of the week she’d treat the two of us to new shoes.
* * *
Still, I didn’t understand how she made fistfuls of money and yet there was never enough for rent. I wanted our old apartment back. Then, we’d had a proper living room and space to stretch out, we weren’t confined to the cramped box we lived in now. But I didn’t tell her that. She went to a lot of trouble to brighten up our small storage space. For her sake, I pretended it was enough.
* * *
After her first show, I got tired and Mom made a little nest of blankets for me in a corner of the dressing room. As sleepiness overtook me, I remembered the cheers Mom’s act had garnered. She used to be a Vegas showgirl; I’d seen the pictures. She was so glamorous then. But that was before me and single parenthood. This club, I knew even then, was a step down from the dazzling life she’d envisioned, but still, the men had applauded and enjoyed her act. They’d tossed money at her feet. That was a kind of success, wasn’t it?
I fell asleep, pressing my nose into the folds of my Cabbage Patch doll, comforted by the smell of vanilla and baby powder. I wanted all the stink of whiskey, stale cigarettes, and perfume to go away. The deeper I breathed in my doll, the more I imagined a different life, one in which we had our old apartment back and I didn’t fall asleep way past my bedtime on a school night in the back of a strip club.
* * *
Sunlight streamed through the sliding glass door and hit me square in the eye. Looking around, I didn’t know where I was. The apartment was as drab and neglected as a crappy hotel room. The coarse stinky couch where I’d slept had left my cheek raw. The shag carpet smelled as if the previous owner had a cat who wasn’t good at using the litter box. Had Mom brought me here last night?
I found my backpack by my feet, digging out the spare toothbrush I carried for nights when I wouldn’t be going home. In the bathroom, I washed my face and finger-combed my hair, then headed to the kitchen to see if I could rustle up something for breakfast or pack a lunch for school. This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself in this situation. I was used to fending for myself.
I went to a fridge with a broken handle and pulled at the corner to find a box of baking soda, a sticky bottle of teriyaki sauce, and a six-pack of beer. Good thing I’d tucked a few packs of string cheese in my backpack yesterday. I ate one and tried to figure out how I was going to get to school.
I loved school and I didn’t want to be late. My teacher said I was good at math and reading. Playing tetherball at recess was my favorite. I’d been tardy almost every day recently, though, and was humiliated by it. The school really prized timeliness.
The door to the apartment’s only bedroom was opened a crack, so first I knocked. When no one answered, I slowly pushed it open.
Mom was passed out on the bed, wrapped only in the stink of cigarettes and booze, her hair a blond mop unraveled across the bed. A guy with long dark hair sat upright next to her, a sheet covering his lap.
I went to her side. “Mommy.” I pulled at her arm, but she didn’t move. The guy just watched, a curious but disengaged bystander.
Mom had a thing for these gaunt, long-haired dudes. She’d said something last night at the club about this one, that he was from some rock band. She’d told me to be cool, that he was a good one. I still gave him the side-eye.
I pushed Mom’s shoulders, getting a bit rough. “Come on. I have to go to school. Please get up.”
Copyright © 2024 by Minka Kelly
