You have to know the street to sing blues.
Cathy Lemons
The Electrocution
The man pulled up in a black SUV at the busy corner of Van Ness Avenue and Geary Street—part of the Tenderloin stroll. He tilted his head slightly down and looked at the girl dressed in tight blue jeans, heels, a black leather jacket. She lowered her body slightly and peered into the car—her long hair falling. She could not see the man’s eyes—it was dark.
The girl was pretty. Twenties. Not so hard like so many. Heavy makeup on her face. Bluish circles under her blue eyes. She stood there peering in—trying to see. There was a moment’s hesitation—a pulling back of her elegant body—a pause—like a puff of air—out of nowhere—during a flat day—a desert day.
Red Shoes
“Don’t think—just listen.”
Those were the words that ran through my head as I turned the corner inside the small bright shoe store … just a little ahead of my trick. His name was appropriately called “John,” and he was obviously not going to let me out of his sight. I was there to pick out a pair of dancing shoes—his gift. He noticed that I wore only one pair night after night, and so he made this magnanimous offer—eyes gleaming.
“I wear a size 8, where are the sizes … here they are … oh these are nice!” (the routine).
“Why don’t you pick up several pairs,” asks John dear.
“Oh no, that would be too much. I just need one pair—I want something elegant—a little flashy even—like these.”
I picked up a pair of red high heeled shoes and ran my hands along their smooth surface. I could smell the new leather—high arch, long heel line, elegant tip—sleek. Like me.