Just Dump Me in the Desert

At the tender age of nineteen, I met a thirty-two-year-old man who wanted to be my boss. Oops, I mean, who wanted to be my boyfriend. Yes, that was it. He had decided I should stop dancing in strip clubs so he could marry me. Unfortunately, he didn’t share that decision with me until we were on the road for what was supposed to be a vacation.

I suppose Frank felt that being older and wiser, I should just shut up and do what he told me to do. Never being one to go along quietly, I quickly shut that down and remained living in sin because I didn’t plan on hanging out long enough with that guy to make it to our first anniversary.

He dragged me across the country, where we eventually lighted in Mesa, Arizona, broke and running from the legal demons of his past. I had lost almost thirty pounds in the two months we had been on the road. I was scared, homesick, and beaten down by the constant setbacks we had faced.

Our motel in Mesa was, most likely, shabby by anyone else’s standards. But it looked like a mansion to us. There was even a shower in the bathroom. Woot, woot. Oh, heaven- a real shower. Our previous motel had only a half bath in the room.

The new motel was just outside of the big box store strip on the highway and on the bus route that would deliver us to clubs on the far end of the strip. Frank got a job bartending at a bowling alley, and I found a little club that was hiring dancer servers down the road a bit from his job. When I got done with my shift, I could walk the short mile and a half to the bowling alley, and we’d take the bus home together. He didn’t want me to waste our money on such a short bus ride from my club to his job. Things seemed to be looking up and both of us were happier than we’d been in a month. There was even an air conditioner in our room.

I was having a hard time putting on the weight I’d lost in Phoenix and all my costumes and street clothes had to be taken in. Maybe with regular meals, my metabolism would right itself. I made tips from waitressing at my new job, which I used to buy meals there on my breaks, in an attempt to regain the pounds I’d lost in Phoenix. The Kitty Club was a good place to do this at. The Club was a former Southwestern-style restaurant that now featured humongous sandwiches and fried foods, ice-cold beer, and exotic dancers, who doubled as servers.

Our server outfits consisted of a black Danskin leotard with a kitty tail and a headband with kitty ears. The tails were literally a pain in the ass, as all the customers thought they were the first ones to pull the tails and say “meooow”. The ass-end of the leotards had to constantly be taken in due to excessive amounts of stretching.

The talent consisted of single moms and college students ranging from the ages of eighteen to thirty-five. When I first walked into the club it was a little dicey whether they would hire me. I was looking pretty haggard by the time we landed in Mesa, having lost so much weight. But once I got onstage, I knew they would hire me. I may have lost some weight, but I hadn’t lost my dance moves. They seemed a little surprised that I had just wandered in on a whim, and hired me right away. Whew. They had no idea how desperately I needed that job, nor how much of a favor they had done for me.

The club was decked out in half Southwestern decor and half kitty cat paintings in black and red. Sort of like they got partway through the remodeling job and said, “The heck with it. Who cares about the paint job anyway?” But the stage was awesome. Beautiful wood parquet flooring that was well taken care of. I was in heaven.

It was at the Kitty Club where my bedazzled stocking strip act opened. I was so excited to finally get to wear the black sequined gown I’d gotten in Dallas and do the chair and stocking strip act. I glided onstage in my glittery black gown, spinning and gyrating to Carole King’s song, I Feel the Earth Move. Things were going swimmingly, until about the middle of the song, when the earth stopped moving for me. What the heck? I couldn’t move my legs. It was like they were glued together at the knees.

Aha… The rhinestones I’d bedazzled my fishnets with had little metal backings, which had tangled in the fibers of the stockings- all the way from my knees to my ankles. Wow. I went from feeling sexy to feeling mortified in less than two minutes. I had to wriggle my way across the stage to grab the chair, which had gone from being part of my sensuous stocking strip act to becoming my emergency rescue implement.

Leaning on the chair I tried to keep moving as if nothing was wrong. Lots of arm action and head tosses until the song was over. The audience was a bit confused, I’m sure. How on the moving earth was I going to get this gown off and peel these stockings off to the song, Joy to the World, while drinking wine with Jeremiah the bullfrog? Getting rid of the gown was easy- at least the rhinestones hadn’t gummed up the zipper. But, trying to maneuver my butt onto the chair with my legs glued together proved a little more difficult, especially while trying to look sultry… Ah, the wins and losses of a stripper’s life.

By the time I had managed to plop onto the chair and scrape the rhinestone-studded stockings off my legs, Jeremiah’s wine was almost gone, and the singer had made “sweet, sweet love” to someone about four times, all the while managing to end all the bombs and the wars. So much for that steamy stocking strip act. The rest of the dance set was pretty uneventful, considering my finale was misplaced. This story, however, does make for a delightful pot-luck dinner conversation at the Baptist Church, fifty years later.

Frank seemed fairly happy with his new job and had even made friends with one of the singers who performed at the club at the AMC Lakewood Lanes. We’d listen to him sing when I came to wait for Frank to finish up at night and when Johnny G. sang at other nearby venues sometimes, we’d even go and listen to him together. We were becoming an almost normal couple and I had forgotten my plans to escape in the hopes that maybe it would all work out somehow. Ever the optimist.

Then, about two weeks before my birthday Frank was not at work when I got there to catch the bus with him. The owner was surprised to see me, as Frank had told him he had to leave early because I’d fallen at work and gotten hurt. That didn’t make any sense. No such thing had happened. Where did he go? Why would he leave, knowing I was coming to meet him?

I waited for him as long as I could. But when it was time to catch the last bus I had to leave. By myself. He never came back to the motel that night, nor the next two, for that matter. Almost another week came and went with still no sign of him. Gee, maybe I should have called the police and filed a missing person report. That would serve him right- except that also would probably serve me a stint in the nearest county jail until they sorted things out.

Nope. He was on his own. Every night, after my shift at the Kitty Club I walked to the bowling alley, hoping to see him there, or at least hear from one of his friends what was going on. The second week Frank was missing, Johnny G. was performing at the bowling alley.

As soon as Johnny saw me, he waved me over to the piano and, in between songs, told me what had been going on with Frank and his sudden disappearance. “I hate to be the one to tell you this.”

That was beginning to be a recurring theme in my relationship with Frank. Someone was always hating to tell me something. “Frank took off with one of the barmaids he’s been seeing. Neither one of them has been to work for a couple of weeks. The owner is an asshole. He knew what was going on and he should have told you upfront. I’m sorry.”

Just when I thought things might work out and we could make a go of it as a couple, the real Frank shows up and does his thing. I’m certain he had his reasons; the bar was cheating him out of pay, so he left. I was being a pain in the ass, so he found someone better. It would never simply be that Frank was a self-centered, cheating jerk. Not only was I disappointed and feeling betrayed, yet again, but Frank had emptied out our “money jar”, that I had insisted on keeping our tips in for just in case. I guess Frank thought that sleeping with the barmaid was a valid just in case.

At that point, I was tired of working toward goals we’d never reach. Burned out from trusting and getting disappointed every time and just plain exasperated that whenever things seemed to be going well, Frank found a way to screw it up. I was just done. Done with Arizona, its heat, bugs, and endless bad times. Done with Frank.

I was totally bereft. Not being able to sleep, I started walking at night along one of the dusty, deserted, country roads, surrounded by desert, trying to sort my head out. The desert was good company for me during that time because it was as dry and desolate as I was feeling. While ruminating about my next move in this muddled state of mind, I noticed a willow tree branch lying in the desert near the road- miles away from the nearest tree. That was odd. I, being extremely nearsighted and having lost my glasses somewhere between Dallas and Phoenix, had to get closer to see exactly what this was. A willow tree in Arizona? That was impossible.

Yes, it truly was impossible, as the willow branch began to move as I got closer. Have I mentioned yet my intense fear of all things slimy and snaky? Oh, my God! It was a snake. Not just any snake. It was a rattlesnake. I could tell by the way my knees were rattling together. I didn’t have the good sense to not move, as all game wardens and wise herpetologists will tell you. I hopped away faster than a roadrunner, or The Roadrunner of cartoon fame.

You know that cartoon swirl of motion just before the bird zips out of the frame? Well, that is a real phenomenon. I am living proof. Living, because I was faster than a snake. Thank God.

That heart-stopping fright was all I needed to seal the decision to return to Rochester, my stomping grounds. Arizona was not my friend. Nor was Frank.

First, I had to get some rest. The adrenaline dump had passed from my impromptu meeting with Mr. Rattles, and I was ready to drop when I got back to the motel. I had two visitors that day. Frank dropped in on me sometime during my nap and woke me up to remind me that it was my twentieth birthday. Being consumed by crushing thoughts caused by the light of my life, I had completely forgotten.

Oh, joy. A birthday. Yippee.

He presented me with a gold watch like I was being retired and this was my parting gift. At the time I didn’t give it much thought, but the watch didn’t come in a box or package of any sort. That should have struck me as odd. Also, there was a shotgun leaning up against the door of the room. When I inquired about it, Frank told me he was going duck hunting in Nogales, Mexico with friends.

Right. If he was going to kill me, get it over with. I didn’t care anymore. Just shoot me already. Apparently, that wasn’t his plan. He scooped up more of his belongings and deserted me again.

I had hidden about $40. in my makeup case. But that wouldn’t take me back to Rochester. Even a few more nights working at the club weren’t going to make much of a difference. I decided to call Frank’s brother and ask for a wire transfer or maybe even see if he could buy me a Greyhound ticket on his end and have them credit me with it in Mesa. I would have to wait until evening to call Ted because he and Pam worked until five most nights. Until then I had a lot of prep work to do for the trip: find out how much fares would be, times of departure and arrival, etc. Every dime that went into the phone booth was one less dime I’d have for the vending machines during the trip. Every call counted.

This is when I developed the proclivity of walking with my head down, scanning the pavement for loose change. It’s gotten me almost run over in Walmart parking lots and my husband just distances himself from me when we go to a fast-food restaurant as I’ll be sleuthing around the drive-thru lanes for change. There’s gold in them thar lanes. Someday I will become a motor vehicle accident statistic over an errant penny.

I packed up the few items left to my name in my trusty makeup case and a bohemian-style bag, which I had stitched out of a flannel shirt Frank had left behind. It wasn’t pretty. But I got a lot into it and because it was the 70’s it looked sort of hip. While I was doing a double-check to make sure the motel room was somewhat in order there was a knock at the door. It was Johnny G., who said he was worried about me and wanted to make sure I was OK, after everything that had happened.

He told me the entire story about Frank and his new flame. Apparently, Frank and Lucinda hit it off right away after he split up with Donna, the other barmaid. The other barmaid? Lucinda and he spent break times in her car, steaming up the windows. Frank used to complain that he couldn’t spend time with her after work because his “old lady” always showed up at closing time. Wait. I “always showed up”? That was what he told me to do and all of a sudden that made me the enemy. His thinking was so convoluted it was impossible to keep up with him.

On the days he was supposed to be filling in for the afternoon bar guy he actually was meeting Lucinda in the parking lot and spending the day at her place. It was far too easy to hide his actions and lies from me. We didn’t have a phone of our own. I didn’t have a way to get around. I knew no one else, but the people whom we both worked with, and his friends covered for him and my friends didn’t even know him.

Then, according to Johnny G., one day Frank and Lucinda vanished without a word to anyone, leaving the Bowling Alley and me in the lurch. Johnny said he wanted to tell me what was going on, but he was afraid of Frank. Frank was six feet four inches tall and Johnny was about five feet tall, if that. I totally got it.

I told Johnny I was getting ready to call into work and let them know I had to go home to New York. Then I was calling Frank’s brother for help with a bus ticket and to see if I could stay with him and his wife until I got back on my feet.

Johnny’s face got pale as he said, “You may want to rethink your plans. That’s not a good idea to call his brother.”

I insisted. “No, Ted is nothing like Frank. He’s a good guy. He’s honest, hard-working, he may be a little weird- but he’s not a bad person. He doesn’t approve of the things Frank does and they argue about it, that’s all. Whatever you’ve heard about him from Frank is jealousy leaking out. Frank is on the run from an armed robbery charge and while we’ve been together he’s stolen a motorcycle. He just says what he needs to say to get what he wants.

“Why would he tell me that his brother broke into some old lady’s house one night, tied her up and robbed her, then he strangled her to shut her up? One night we were drinking together at the bowling alley, and it just spilled out of him. Then he was all, ‘Look, man, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just ignore me, I’m drunk.’”

That got my attention. “No way. That’s impossible.”

“According to Frank, his big brother has been in trouble for assaults and burglaries since he was a kid, but for this one he might just get the death penalty and Frank is the only one who knows, except for Ted’s wife.”

Without Johnny coming by to check on me I would have made a tragic error. I remembered that news story about the rich woman who was killed during a Burglary in West Henrietta, New York. It was a suburb of Rochester where people didn’t expect things like that to happen. Random men were being stopped and questioned right and left at roadblocks for weeks after, but there had been no credible suspects. Even my cousins, who lived in that town, got stopped and questioned.

Then, like always that news story died down with the next horrific crime on the front page. Johnny had to leave soon because he had a gig at a Holiday Inn nearby. He asked me if I wanted to go with him, so I wouldn’t be there if Frank came back and saw that I was ready to leave. I was thankful for the opportunity to leave that motel behind. Johnny spent most of the night playing songs for me at his gig.

‘You’ve got a Friend’, ‘Here Comes the Sun, ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’, and ‘Dock of the Bay’.

I spent a good share of that evening crying into my Grasshopper cocktail. Johnny was such a gentle soul, it worried me that I was going to have to let him down if he wanted me to stay with him. But when his new boyfriend came to the lounge to hang out with us, that ended the problem nicely.

Dear sweet Johnny G. He and his lover, Bradley, gave me the money for a bus ticket and drove me to Phoenix to catch the bus back to Rochester. I promised that I would never forget him and, fifty years later I still have not.

It wasn’t the most woebegone trip I’d faced in my life; however, it was right up there in the top ten. When I wasn’t sobbing, the thoughts of everything that had gone wrong kept circling in my mind. What was I going to do when I got home? Where was I going to go? I couldn’t go back to my parents’ house. Was my old roommate, Marjorie even still in the same apartment? She had a tendency to move on a whim. Should I go right to the police with what I knew about Ted? Would they even believe me? Or would I get arrested for Frank’s crimes? It was far safer to spend the time either sleeping or mopping up tears during the ride.

The cash was quickly being depleted, so I stopped eating somewhere in Missouri, and had to fill up on drinking fountain water at whatever station we stopped at. Shit. I was just putting back a little weight when my life took this turn. Now I was going to start losing again. When I got as far as Ohio I made a collect call to my agent in Rochester, Don, to see if he knew of somewhere I could stay while getting situated again.

“Where the hell are you? Is Frank with you? The police are still looking for you two. Did you know that?”

“Well, hello, and how are you? So glad you called…”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. You are in big trouble. If you can get here in time for an evening shift on Friday I’ll see if I can get you into La Florina to get some money in your pocket. You got a pen?”

I fumbled around in my boho bag and dug up a pencil and a scrap of paper. He gave me Gypsy’s phone number. “Call Gypsy. She’s looking for tenants for their house. I’ll meet you at the bus station when you come in. Just call me. We’ll go to the State Police station together to clear you. They don’t think you knew about Frank’s charges in Virginia. Too many of the girls said you told them about leaving that night, so I don’t think you’re really in any trouble. But, just to be sure, we’ll do it right.”

“Wait? Charges? He had charges? He told me his army buddies robbed a liquor store and tried to blame it on him. They charged him?”

“Yeah, he got out on his own recognizance because he was just Honorably discharged from the Army. But he took off.”

“Oh, shit. Well, that figures. He lied to me about everything else. Why not this too?”

“Yeah, like I said, the cops think your only crime is trusting this guy.”

I was so thankful. I was getting a second chance. However, this didn’t change what I knew about Frank’s brother, Ted. A lawyer would have probably told me that information was hearsay and not admissible in a court of law. What if the information I had was something the police could use in their investigation?

Too many what if’s floating out there. After staring out the window and worrying for another six hours straight, the bus finally landed in Rochester at about two in the afternoon on a Thursday. I called Gypsy and asked her if her room was still for rent. I told her I had spoken with Don and he was going to pick me up and go to the police station with me to clear up the theft from the club. She said all the dancers had been scared they’d never see me again and my former roommate, Marjorie was a complete wreck. No one thought I was guilty of anything more than bad judgment in men. Gypsy had to leave soon for work, but Judi would let me in and get me settled. After all I’d been through it was hard to imagine that I was back in my comfort zone and the worst was over.

Don picked me up at the bus station and took me to the State Trooper Barracks in mid-town. He was dismayed at the condition I was in, having lost so much weight and carrying around three months of confusion, disappointment, and heartache on my hunched shoulders and dejected face. I’m sure he was concerned that the clubs wouldn’t be as thrilled with me as they had been when I first began dancing twenty or so pounds ago. Also, he was disturbed that I had gone through so much already at my age. I was no longer the naive, rosy-cheeked, college co-ed he was used to booking. But, I was home at last and could start my life over again. Which was the story of my life for the next dozen years- always starting over.