Page 59 - The Geography of Women

The Geography of Women 45

go upstairs with him to a room, cuz he said he was lookin
for a girl too.
“Hasten, Jason! Bring the basin!” I said, the way we
always used to say all the new sick stuff like that when
somethin got disgustin. So, anyway, he elbowed me out
the door, a real bum’s rush, but I hit him with my umbrella
an I got a good kick in on his shins, which shit, I tell you,
he deserved.
I mean what’s happened in my life so far? Nothin yet.
Not really. An even with nothin happenin, nothin with
him—or anybody like him—was gonna happen either.
Where I got my nerve, beats me. My Daddy knew
his territory by his assigned route, but I was out searchin
into the unmarked night territory where girl singers go, an
where other women appear under neon, an disappear in
clouds a smoke, as someone whistles, an cars turn slowly
aroun corners an new women appear for their turn, an I
hope my turn never co mes.
I even peeked into some cocktail lounges where they
advertised GIRLS right up with BLUES an ROCK an
GO GO. I asked the bartenders if they had seen her an
they said, no, but they wished they had.
One barkeep in a tavern full of men, when I showed
him my snapshot a Jessarose, said to me, “Oh, my, my! I
once saw a singer in East St. Louis, or was it Kansas City?
What was her name? It was stagey, you know? But a good
one. Verna Costello? Virginia Castle?”
I said to him: “Was it Vivienne somethin’?”
“Coulda been,” he said. “I can see ‘Vivienne Somethin’
up in lights.”
“You know where she is?”
“Probably,” he said, “Chicago, by now. If she’s moving
up in the world. Maybe New Orleans. These days, who

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