They can’t save her.
But I can.
breasts
LOLA SPENCER HAD THE SORT OF BREASTS THAT DEFINE A WOMAN. They were gorgeous perfect things, pink-nippled, sized like cantaloupes, firm and white. They were big and she was small. The rest of her existed to accentuate her breasts; her hips were narrow, her waist a tiny circle, her little pale legs ended in child’s feet. Her head was small and heart shaped, her features pale and slightly receding. Indeed, it was as if every other part of her got out of the way to make way for her breasts. Yes, Lola’s breasts were the sort of breasts that made a girl feel special, feel as if she were not destined for an ordinary life. When she was sixteen, she dropped out of high school and took a bus from Detroit to New York City.
It was 1986, and it was the end of June. New York was a shithole; the filthy stench of summer had begun to descend. When Lola got off the bus at Port Authority, she grabbed her duffel bag and the fake white patent leather clutch purse that she’d held primly in her lap the whole ride, and with these two worldly possessions, she snaked her way through the dark tunnels until she managed to take an escalator up to the street. The sun slapped her face with a hot hand, and the air was rich with the fumes of urine and car exhaust. She blinked and froze. Large people, loud people, people towering over the tiny Lola, were walking and running and standing and screaming and going in every direction. Blindly, she marched forward. She had the address for a YWCA, but she also had other ideas. Vague ideas, but ideas nonetheless.
She had five hundred dollars in her white clutch purse. She’d made the money rather quickly, working the drive-through at a McDonald’s in Detroit, where her enormous chest strained against the polyester shirt of her uniform. Occasionally, she popped a button, and the white lace of her cheap bra would sneak out. There had been an older gentleman who came every morning for an Egg McMuffin. He drove a beige Cadillac, and when his window rolled down with the touch of a button, the smell of leather and cologne wafted up to Lola. It was the best smell Lola had ever smelled. It smelled of money, but of something else, too. He thanked her solemnly and gave her a dollar tip. And in those two words, “thank you,” and in his dark eyes and dark skin and hair, she sniffed something very exotic, very foreign. The dollar tip turned to five and soon enough, she couldn’t wait to hear his voice in the telecom, asking gruffly for an Egg McMuffin. She’d unbutton her uniform just a little, and she’d wet her thin little lips. The months went on and at Christmas, he said his thank you, his voice thick with appreciation, and gave her two one hundred dollar bills. She never saw him again, but by the end of June, yes, she had five hundred dollars in her purse and was on her way.
As luck would have it, Lola’s little feet took her downtown. Encased in tight, strappy sandals with four-inch heels, her infantile toenails were painted a cherry red. She marched and marched. A man stopped and watched her walk by. A few blocks later, another man yelled something in Spanish at her. Lola, a brave soldier, went onward. A few blocks later, an overweight man sitting on a beach chair in his doorway said, “Nice tits.” Yes, she was special. She’d been special in Detroit, at her high school. The looks, the lewd comments, the occasional grabbing. But what good was that, being special at John Adams High School in Detroit? She was in New York City. She’d come to the right place.
Her feet began to die on her. The endless stretch of asphalt darkened and cooled off ever so slightly. She marched forward, more slowly now, but there was blood on her feet and her arm ached from carrying her duffel. How long had she been walking? At one point, she turned left, and she found herself surrounded by the sort of people by whom she always imagined she should be surrounded. Skinny guys with spikey hair and bad pockmarks, weighed down by the metal in their belts. Girls with breasts like hers, tightly encased in tank tops, their dyed red hair the color of a sunset. The make-up! The cigarettes! She was in the East Village, but she didn’t know that yet. What she did know was she was going to cry if she had to keep walking and cry she did not want to do. No, not Lola. She was tough. She wasn’t going to cry just because her feet were bleeding.
On the corner of First Street and Second Avenue was a cinder block building with a sign that said Mars Bar. It was a crappy little bar with nary a beer sign in the grimy windows. Lola liked it immediately; she liked small things, being small herself — well, for the most part. She went in and sat on a barstool, dropping her duffel bag to the dirty ground, her white clutch in her hands.
“What can I getcha?” said a muscular, black-haired girl.
“I’ll have a peppermint schnapps, please.” This had often been the drink of choice in the backseat of a Camaro, cruising the strip in Detroit.
The girl raised her eyebrow. Lola noticed it was very thick, thick as a cigar.
“How ’bout a bourbon?” Then she leaned forward and whispered, “I’m helping you out here. You can’t drink peppermint schnapps.”
Lola sat up a little straighter. “A bourbon then.”
It was a welcome burn and Lola quickly had two more. Her feet were feeling better already. Men came into the bar. Women, too. Occasionally, Lola waved at someone who looked interesting, but nothing seemed to happen as she thought it would. Four bourbons later, the bartender took her upstairs to where she lived and laid her out on her futon couch. Lola had never seen a futon. She immediately threw up, but the bartender handled it well.
The next morning, Rebecca, the bartender, made some tea and toast.
“Where you from?”
“Detroit. Thanks for the tea.”
“You can stay here until you find a place.”
Lola sat up. “You know, I’m not hungover.”
“Great.” Rebecca got down on the floor and started doing sit-ups. “But if you keep waving hello to strangers like you did last night, you’ll be dead before you’re ever hungover.”
“Strangers are all I have here. You’re a stranger.”
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Lola.”
“Detroit ain’t in Kansas.”
“You know what I mean.”
Lola thought for a minute. “No, I don’t.”
Rebecca was silent, finishing her sit-ups. When she did get up she went to Lola on the futon and held her face gently in her hands. “You don’t know what I mean, do you?”
“That’s right. I don’t know what you mean.”
Rebecca kissed her gently and Lola felt a fluttering. She’d had a boyfriend briefly in high school, but nothing much happened with him, so she got rid of him. This felt different. Rebecca picked up Lola’s swollen, blood-stained feet and began to lick them. This went on for a surprisingly long time, until Lola began to get very, very sleepy. Then, carefully, so as not to disturb Lola, Rebecca removed Lola’s shirt and pulled down her bra, leaving it hanging there awkwardly, around the bottom of her breasts. “Damn,” Rebecca said, and then she was lost in them. Lola, stretched out on the futon, flung her arms over her head, and let the fluttering feeling go on.
Lola worked Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights, and Rebecca worked the rest. It had been easy to get the other bartender fired; he was rude, stole from the register, and drank a bottle of vodka a night. All Rebecca had to do was tell the owner the truth.
The first thing Lola did was buy a pair of sneakers, but still she didn’t match the East Village hipsters in their high tops. She just looked like a five year old with huge breasts, so she found a pair of boots with a nice sized heel on them and that did the trick.