Handing out flyers in front of the shop, I was wearing the short skirt and telling people to climb the stairs, when I noticed the lawyer from the third floor, parking his annoyingly oversized van.
Whoops, he left his headlights on.
From Pathetic Life #12
Saturday, May 27, 1995
Did I mention it to him as he walked past? Of course not. I don’t like that guy, and he doesn’t like me, so I gave him a big cheerful “Good morning” as he walked past me on the sidewalk. He said nothing, and climbed up the stairs to be a lawyer all day…
♦ ♦ ♦
Later on, some stranger in a bad 1970s polyester suit came up to me on the sidewalk, gave me a long lookover and said, “You’re pathetic.”
“Hey, buddy,” I sorta snarled, “It’s my job.”
He smiled a little, and said, “No, I mean you’re Pathetic Doug, right?”
I frowned, no hesitation, and said, “My name is Lou.” He studied me skeptically, probably knew who I was but I was ready to deny everything, so he dropped his smile, mumbled an apology, and walked away.
Like I want to converse on the sidewalk with the kind of dweebs who’d buy my zine? No, man, if you want to talk to me, call my number and let me think about it. Give me a choice, damn it. I don’t welcome unexpected zine chat while I’m working.
♦ ♦ ♦
Lawyer-guy came down the stairs a few hours after that, but by then he had no headlights or battery left. He sat in his van and turned the key and nothing happened, and I just grinned and watched him fume until the triple-A truck arrived. Made sure he saw me grinning, too.
♦ ♦ ♦
Then I slipped out of the dress and into my ordinary clothes, and rode home on the bus. A semi-familiar face from the Castro was across the aisle, an older gent, gay and gray. Who he was or how I knew him was unknown, but he smiled at me, and said, “Delightful shop upstairs,” mimicking my dumb grin on his face.
“No, man,” I said, “it’s delightful when they’re paying me, not on the bus afterwards.” He didn’t say anything else, but he’d already said more than I wanted to hear. I dinged the bell and got off the bus two stops earlier than I’d planned.
Too many people want to be buddies or something, but one of the big advantages of living in the city is disappearing into the crowd. I’m anonymous, OK? Paying three bucks for the zine doesn’t mean we’re friends, and maybe I wear a skirt and hand out flyers all day, but once the skirt comes off my performance is over.
From the lawyer to the zine reader to the guy on the bus, I’m starting to feel like too much of a known commodity in the Castro. Jay’s offer to sell fish in Berkeley sounds like fun, and if it is, I’ll be wearing the skirt on Market Street less often.
On Wednesday I’m supposed to kiss the Berkeley bureaucracy’s ass, so I can get a vendor’s license and be a fishmonger on Telegraph Avenue. Why people need to show ID and pay a fee just to sell their wares on a public street, I do not know, but I’m looking forward to the change of scenery. And wearing pants again.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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