Tuesday, March 06, 2007
The Name Game
I’m torn, honestly. Random brainscraps from my memopad? or an honest-to-goodness vignette? The vignette is sort of too much like that story I just posted but it’s fairly short - we’re due for one of those - and I like how it came out, so let’s go with that one. The memopad will keep.
I was walking fast down an major SoMa thoroughfare. SoMa’s an old part of town that’s been significantly revitalized over the past fistful of years, where old factories now house fashionable lofts, and a blacksmith shop holds its own against an eruption of new highrise towers. I was already late to meet a friend after work, so my stride was vigorous and swift. I knew my route well and barely bothered to notice the crusty old taverns and flashy offices and myriad cafes I passed as I made up time and let my legs swing freely, relishing the exercise after so many hours of desk-bound inactivity. I’m telling you, I was a walking machine.
However, that doesn’t mean I blinded myself to the possible occasional noteworthy incident I might encounter along the way. It’s not like I look for such things - were I to seek them out, surely they’d evade me. And of course, when I’m plowing ahead full steam, eyes forward and knees pumping, sometimes something just crops up.
I was coming up on a club for gentlemen - well let’s be honest, a titty bar. I’ve never availed myself of its offerings so my impression of it is limited to its external trappings, but based thereon it was a tawdry, tacky little hole, making a show of opulence that was less than persuasive. Its stucco walls were dingy and gone grey from once-white; its marquee was a florescent lightbox with cursive crimson lettering on a colorless background that recalled the least inspirational aspects of mid-century typography. A corpulent doorman stood in front like an overinflated lawnjockey in a ludicrous greatcoat and top hat get-up, defending two heavy unfriendly doors behind a superfluous and tacky velvet rope strung between brass standards. I’d seen all this dozens of times already. It wasn’t worth the noticing, until the cab pulled up.
It was a nice new cab, a mini-SUV in an elegant shade of blue. The doorman hustled over to open the door even as the vehicle’s wheels came to a stop. From it emerged a young woman - tall, slender, in sophisticated but modest dress. The doorman assisted her discreetly to the portal he protected with a subservient “good evening, miss.” As he gallantly opend the tittyclub door for her I was near enough to hear him ask her name, and to witness her response:
She cocked her head, began to open her mouth to speak, and then froze, unsure. She gaped momentarily, high cheekbones blushing, eyes wide but blank - and then, fluttering her hand near her face, breaking into a a brief giggle, she responded: “...Lisa. Lisa! I’m Lisa.”
With that, he ushered her inside and her self-deprecating laugh disapeared from the street behind heavy windowless doors.
She was a dancer, I figured, showing up for a gig, ready to assume a persona not her own for the evening but forgetting for the moment that new persona’s name. It was the briefest of exchanges - three seconds, five at most. Regardless, I thought as I forged forward, never breaking stride, it had been three or five very telling seconds. “Lisa” had probably exposed herself more to me there on the sidewalk than she would expose herself to anyone else in the club that night. With that I continued along my way but noticed nothing else worth mentioning. I was probably looking too hard.
Wow, that really wasn’t all that short after all, was it? Well here’s a random memobook quote for making it all the way to the end - this one, from Z’s party this past weekend (photos upcoming): “There was a narrow window of opportunity on that one, and I wound up taking a lot of sill to the face.”
