The year I moved to San Francisco from Boston, I wanted to disappear–fly into the ethereal–which was funny because this city is called “the Land of the Living.” There is not one graveyard in its foggy jurisdiction. If you wanted or needed to die–you could take the BART to Marin County or Oakland or get reincarnated as a moth when visiting UC Berkeley with the help of the Student Unions’ Transcendental Meditation Club.
I was accepted into the San Francisco State’s Master of Arts program. And although I devoured books, I hated literature class. Although I loved writing stories about angry violent feminist who were incarcerated for burning lingerie stores, I despised analyzing the Shakespearean Prologues and Thomas Hardy’s novel Far from the Maddening Crowd which my New England College forced me to dissect two times for two different courses because it was good for me. I passed with Cs.
So, San Francisco State allowed me into graduate writing program on one condition–I needed higher Literature grades and therefore more undergraduate credits including the dreadful Moby Dick. Thank God, in the Castro section of town, Moby Dick was also a bar where I could drink myself to death.
I lived in the Mission. I shared an unheated loft with four other people and managed to financially survive as a coffee attendant at the FBI building downtown across from the IRS office. Every morning at five-thirty, I walked through a metal detector and entered a tiny room without windows. There was only one counter and an espresso machine and bags of coffee stored on the unwashed floor. Our goal was to caffeinate government workers to incur adequate mental function.
The only break from Melville and the torturous essays on Ahab’s megalomania as well as the timely chore of satisfying tax men and women with tubs of unrestricted caffeine was as a volunteer at a women’s experimental theater on Valencia Street. At this venue, I ripped tickets and showed people to their seats as women in tattoos and piercings sang the blues or belly danced for the evening’s performance. I often dreamed of jumping on stage and wondered what it would be like to be the second coming of Patty Smith–singing about a broken heart in a man’s world.
But despite my classes, work and daily walks through Golden Gate Park, I was lonely. The university had 40,000 strangers, my roommates worked full-time and the women at the theater were cliquish, preferring female trapeze artists to plain Bostonian me.
So, after buying a tempeh salad at the Natural Foods Store, I approached a large community board hoping to find a friend or at least divergence from syllabi, because, I believed, these cork bulletin boards contained magical powers–a portal to a better place in life which held postings for roommates, maids, drum circles, Heavy Metal knitting for singles, organic childcare, improvisation groups with an emphasis on Kabuki theater and organ donations.
Finally, underneath layers and layers of black and white posters, ads, tags and listings there was a band flyer photocopied haphazardly–spotted with lint hairs caught under the fierce light of a Xerox machine.
Back-up Singer Wanted: Are you naturally social, chatty and like to dance? Do you sing in the shower or at least at your cousin’s bar mitzvah after having one too many drinks? Do you like to listen to the Ramones, Blondie, New York Dolls and the Sex Pistols? Are you sick of the system? Call Gigi Goat if you wanna be sedated and sing in the legendary Punk Rock band The White Trash Debutantes.
I answered yes to ad’s questionnaire except for the bar mitzvah one since most of my Jewish friends growing up were atheists. I wasn’t sure what type of horrible system Gigi Goat was referring to but if thrashing involved fighting for women’s equality or at least allowing professors to assign books by women (fuck whales) then I was ready to jump on stage and rant about sexist iambic pentameter. Maybe I’d write a song about my love for Amy Tan or Toni Morrison. “We need to get Toni in the Literary Canon! Up Yours!” Then I imagined slam dancing in-between choruses and dreamed of changing the conscious minds of the literary world one thrown beer can at a time.
When I finally called Mrs. or Ms. Goat, I was pleasantly surprised by her enthusiasm since there were people, I had imagined, more qualified in the entertainment industry than me. Admittedly, I was never in an actual musical group. I was, however, in a high school jazz band where I played the theme from the TV show “Dynasty” on my clarinet.
“All I need to know is if you like Punk?” Gigi breathed deeply into the phone. “You know your Punk?”
“Do I know my Punk? I listened to The Clash when I was seven!” I proudly declared. “My favorite movie is Decline of Western Civilization! My country is Black Flag! I went to a Bikini Kill concert and jumped in a mosh pit and got punched in the face.”
Cosmic studios practice space was on Folsom Street across from the health food store–a ten-minute walk from my loft. I was glad to escape the severe warmth of my colossal room, which was half the size of a basketball court. One would think huge urban spaces would be desirable as most apartments in the area were immeasurably tiny but due to lack of insulation and weak protection from the penetrating California sun, my bedroom was truly inhabitable. I was basically residing in a shelled-out warehouse that was once a sex club from the 70s.
As I entered Cosmic’s lobby, I found myself encased in zigzagged pinewood paneling (ceiling to walls) reminiscent of past basement installations where I played canasta with my best friend as a child. The dirt brown rug was stained and unwelcoming prompting my own doubtful-uncertain feelings towards Gigi Goat or, for that matter, The White Trash Debutantes. I pondered on the term “white trash”–an offensive name for poor Caucasians. I could reassure myself that the band’s name was tongue-and-cheek and still the label was unsettling which, unfortunately, made it more tempting for me to explore this title–to embrace its viciousness and to become its caricature–to show how simplistic and asinine it was thereby proving a Punk Rock point.
Finally, a woman in a lavender leotard pushed through the glass doors that eventually lead into the studio practice space. She wore black leather motorcycle boots and fishnet stockings. An opaque white scarf was tied around her neck. A ruby tiara held up her dark brown Nancy Sinatra hair–lacquered and intimidatingly voluminous.
“I would be careful if I were you,” she barked as she pulled out a little mirror and applied cherry red lipstick to her dry lips. “That couch has lice.”
In the studio room, the sound proof walls were covered in soft gray foamy material like the mattress my grandmother slept on to relieve her sciatica. There was a skinny man with short blonde hair on drums; the guitar player’s long black hair fell to the floor as he held his blue Fender–up against a sequenced red jumpsuit. Gigi said his name was Larry and he was “fucking amazing.” There wasn’t a bass player. The last one quit due to artistic differences.
“He felt uncomfortable calling the Queen of England a fascist? Apparently, he’s from Dorset,” explained the drummer.
“You’ll love the girls,” Gigi smiled.
When the girls did arrive, they pushed through the door with two bottles of tequila over their heads. One wore a tight black dress and carried a toy pistol on a holster around her waist. The other girl was a redhead and lengthy–a model from an L.L. Bean catalog that unknowingly wandered into a Social Distortion concert. She introduced herself as Cindy the flight attendant. That was her real job. Cindy was engaged to a millionaire who lived in North Beach, and I would be replacing her as a backup singer since she wouldn’t return after her elaborate wedding on Catalina Island. The other one just drank from her bottle wiping her face with the back of her hand. She said her name was Kat and that she could kick really high.
“It’s just a bunch of BULL SHIT!” She shouted as I shook her hand during introductions.
The first song the band practiced was “Little Eddie”–an ode to a man who could deliver in bed despite being a short-statured person. I soon learned that I had to become comfortable with expressing aspects of the male anatomy in all its incarnations such as chanting out phallic phrases over brutal guitar distortion and snare rolls. Ultimately, love a man for his penis size, should be as easy to scream on stage as, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. But somehow it was not.
Gigi sang lead, of course. Her “singing” bridged genres or at least time and space. It was a cross between unrhymed Rap and a disgruntled passenger on a plane complaining about inadequate legroom. It worked in the I don’t care what you think it’s all a government conspiracy sort of way. Fortunately, the band had Larry the fucking amazing guitar player whose trills drowned out Gigi’s vocal imperfections or at least the loud squawks from the leggy Cindy and Kat.
The next number they practiced was “Susan Lucci.” Ms. Lucci’s inability to win an Emmy in the Daytime Television Category was an abomination to Ms. Goat. Gigi proudly wrote the lyrics and the 3 cords (G, E and D).
“And people said we weren’t political.” Gigi smiled then lit a cigarette, which she referred to as her herbal tea cleanse.
During the short intermission, I approached Gigi (who was now spraying her hair with a large can of what looked like bug repellent) and mentioned how the band might pay tribute to other strong American women.
“I mean, Susan Lucci’s great but…what about…Emma Goldman…Harriet Tubman…Truth Sojourner…Gertrude Stein.”
“What record labels are they on?” Gigi inhaled.
Before I went home, Cindy pulled me over to the Marshall Stacks.
“Listen. You aren’t glamorous–not like me and Kat,” she said looking over to where her singing partner had passed out in the corner, “but you are all right. Gigi thinks everyone needs to dress provocatively even at a funeral–especially at a funeral. I mean, she wears leotards. Okay boas. But that’s it. Even in the rain season and trust me it gets cold in San Fran during the California monsoons. She always wants to look like an outrageous kitten and she needs to realize that not everyone is sexy. But you can sing and I wish that would be enough. But you’re in…just wear something slutty to the next band practice. Okay.”
“Okay.” I owned mostly overalls. “I’ll try.”
*
Life went on as usual which dampened my excitement as an honoree member of The White Trash Debutant. Gigi held practice every Monday and Thursday for the past month but I still woke up at five in the morning and took the BART to the FBI building to serve overpriced coffee. I still volunteered on Friday nights to rip tickets on Valencia Street for the new show “the Last Feminists on Earth”–a juggling extravaganza. I still attended my American Literature class. We were now on Hawthorne. It was odd how I had moved to the west coast expecting to read something transformative by the Beat Writers or by Maxine Hong Kingston. And yet, here I was decoding the significance of New England clam chowder and Witch Burning. Either way, I had a routine to my life.
And finally, my first night of a gig came. I headed to the club and went over my chants: Penis, Lucci, USA, Superstar, Fucked Up Car, and She’s the Boss. I didn’t really know how to dance so instead I planned on doing a series of elaborate jumping jacks on stage. I was ready. And real. I was sick of the fake. As a Literature student I pretended to care about poetic Puritans gathering acorns in the forest. As a coffee attendant I pretended to care about my tired customers “half cafs” or “slim lattes.” As a woman’s improvisational theatre volunteer, I pretended the performers had talent. Yet, at The Bottom of the Hill bar and grille, I would be myself–pure Punk Rock. Raging originality. That’s what I thought. That’s what I believed.
When I arrived at the club, Gigi was already at the bar doing tequila shots and sucking on limes. She shook her shellacked dark brown hair. A delicate golden tiara was bobby pinned into her head. She called me over enthusiastically with one loud, “biiiiiittttchhh!”
By her side was a plastic Safeway shopping bag, which struck me as odd since she seemed more of a leopard print suitcase type. She pulled out a light blue bejeweled tutu. Anna Pavlova would be proud.
“Go put this on in the bathroom and don’t fuck it up. I got this at Ed Asner’s yard sale. Vintage shit.” She knocked back another drink. “Oh, did I tell you. You get paid for shows. Sometimes in beers and sometimes in cash but tonight you’re gonna see some green, honey.”
I forgot to bring pantyhose or fishnets stocking but luckily I shaved myself down to the clitoris–in case my legs would be examined under floodlights or a surgeon’s table. As I walked out of the bathroom stall with my tutu on, which fit remarkably well, there was Gigi smoking a cigarette partaking in her tea cleanse next to the garbage can.
“Where’s your fucking make-up?” she asked and blew smoke in my face–then pushed me against the sink with her chest. A switch. No more affectionate biiitttchhhh. Just down to business ramming me against pink ceramic.
“I don’t own any make-up.” I swallowed (a shameful confession for a stage performer). “I didn’t think I needed any. Patti Smith doesn’t wear any.”
“Patti Smith. You think you’ve got HER cheekbones. This is ‘Debutant’ territory. We are provocateurs. Burlesque throwbacks filled with temptation and lust.” She turned towards her plastic bag and finally pulled out: pancake make-up, red lipstick, frosted pink eye shadow, eyeliner and blue mascara. “Emergency Stash.” She rubbed foundation all over my face. I was her Pygmalion. “Guys need to dream about having sex with you.”
“What if I don’t like guys?” I challenged. “Or maybe I like both?”
“Then whoever ya like, moron. There might be a biker chic waiting for you or Harry S. Truman but no one will be there if you look like a piano teacher from the St. Angus of Rome parish.”
Up on the stage, Kat was practicing her kicks. She wore a see-through mesh top, which revealed two tassels covering each nipple. She lifted her long fishnet clad leg and then, from under her loose hamstring, pulled the gun’s trigger. A small red flag popped out. “Bang!”
The crowd was thin. But according to Gigi, it was a Tuesday and not everyone partied every day of the week like she did.
“Let’s be thankful we could even play in a legendary club. This is an honor.” Ginger jumped on stage and grabbed the mike. “We still don’t have a bass player.”
The crowd sighed in sympathy. A man raised his hand and said he could play but Ginger told him he needed to audition first because what did it think the band was a fucking local church choir.
When I got on stage, the spotlight burned the top of my head. I looked like an eleven-year-old in the tutu. I felt like an eleven-year-old in a tutu. The make-up irritated my skin. A man in a cowboy hat and yellow t-shirt studied me–his estranged wife from Reno now found in a Punk club.
Joe the drummer took his place behind his set. Larry, the guitarist, lifted his instrument from the stand and held his guitar up high on his chest. He had on black lingerie–his flat chest slightly exposed above the lace. After Joe counted to five the band started the song, “Susan Lucci.” Gigi belted out the sorrowful story as I tried chanting into the microphone. But something overcame me. Intense humiliation–a propped up corpse whose one talent was staring at a bowl of peanuts that rested on the bar.
When “Susan Lucci” was finished, Gigi marched my way clicking her heels against hard wood.
“You need to dance, girly.” She pushed two fingers into my side then snapped the back of my bra with her sharp claws. “Move your fucking ass. And try to sing a little.”
“Listen to your momma.” The man in the cowboy hat advised – a self-appointed family counselor with a bottle of gin.
But, when Larry began the next number on a low chord, I couldn’t budge. I only mumbled silence. A standing coma.
Ms. Goat called for a quick intermission. She dragged me to the pink tiled bathroom to have a little conference. Kat looked at me as if witnessing her own death.
“Sit down on the toilet.” Gigi demanded. “Let’s talk, butterfly. Listen. I want you to really shake it up out there because if you don’t… I am gonna kick your ass and I am twice as big as you and I am not afraid of jail.” Gigi pointed her nails into my glittered abdomen.
She left me alone hyperventilating by an empty toilet roll. All I wanted was to embrace myself as a piece of ironical trash. I bought the body revealing clothing that Cindy the flight attendant suggested. I acquired the miniskirts and half shirts and the platform shoes with money that should have gone to rent. I wore these outfits all the time, now. Could I be a woman who used sexiness as a statement of her own liberation? But in my heart, I dreamed of my desk where I analyzed Phillis Wheatley poems, or curled up with a book about Marie Curie, or walked the Mission as the moon drifted up into the night sky–a dear, wild daughter of the wolves.
So, lacking any type of medical insurance, I went back on the stage, and performed my fifty jumpy jacks and leaped in the air to chants of penis. I gave the cowboy a show he wouldn’t forget. He threw his hat in the air as Kat shot her toy gun under her strong leg. “Boom!” Someone in the back of room shouted “Smurf girl” and “Muppet girl.” I wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. The drummer broke his sticks and the guitar player stripped down to his shorts–casually throwing his black nightie into the small crowd. And Gigi rolled around on the stage until her crown became lopsided. Her boa wound up so tightly around her neck that she began an uncontrollable coughing fit. It just added to the madness that entertained the brain-dead fans that came for the show. Part of me hoped she choked to death in her leotard.
As I gathered my things to leave (still in the Ed Asner yard sale’s vintage tutu) a smiling Gigi approached me.
“I wasn’t gonna really kick your ass, you know. It was a joke. Take your money,” she insisted. I held out my hand and, in my palm, Gigi Goat placed an old damp 5-dollar bill, ripped then scotched taped through President Abraham Lincoln’s depressed expression.
“You earned it,” she gleamed then lit a cigarette making circles around her Nancy Sinatra hair. “Every penny of it!”
At 2 in the morning, cars honked at me as I headed home. A blue convertible slowed down. The driver, a man with long dark hair, asked me if I needed a ride. It was the guitarist, now in his silk lingerie. He tossed his cigarette onto the tar. I got in. We sped up the hill on a treeless road. When I stepped out of his car, I watched him fly into darkness as I moved along the sidewalk heading to my loft, still in vintage tutu. In the neon shadows, when I lifted my arms towards the stars, it appeared as if I had grown wings. The pavement lit brightly under my combat boots. And then there was that astonishing whiteness of the moon–a whale laughing and singing, dancing and dreaming above me–swimming in the blackness of a vast ocean of California sky.
Mary Elise Myers recently moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico from New England and teachers High School English and History in this desert city. She has lived in many places including, Boston, Cork, Ireland, Beer Sheva, Israel and Catalonia, Spain. She is a feminist and advocates for students who identify as LBGTQ+ as well as honoring neurodivergence in her learning community. She has a daughter, partner, and enormous Maine Coon cat. The author has been recently published in Tofu Ink and Logic 86. She marvels at the wonders and magic of “the Land of Enchantment” and has learned how to eat green and red chili three times a day.