All Lies

Reading Harrison on strippers I'm reminded of a time Mom was sewing costumes for the girls. I'd come for a visit and it was clear she was losing her sight, could no longer drive, I was taking her from club to club, where she was dropping off Holiday outfits in red leather. We'd laughed until we cried about how profitable making costumes for strippers was. Mom and I share a sense of humor, she jokes to get me out of a funk, and I joke to make her forget her failing body. Beyond a certain point, we all know we're dying, make the best of an awkward situation. We were making the rounds on the west side of Jacksonville, where the Navel Air Station is the dominate force. There was a stripper she wanted me to meet, Wanda, married, with a kid, drop dead beautiful, leaning toward a drug problem, thought I might intervene. I'd just done some major opera, with some major star, and I find myself backstage at a strip club. Yes, yes, I can do this. The bartender knows I am my mother's son and gets me a beer, Wanda brushes herself against me and we all examine the current situation. I've been asked to see if this outfit works correctly. She strips for me. Mom is watching, to see that the costume breaks away correctly and I'm transfixed on a more than perfect set of breasts. I'm nothing if not honest. I forgot where I was. Nothing prepares you for the fact that your mother makes costumes for strippers. Not just that she's making good money but you're backstage looking at these perfect bodies, frankly more than I can bear. Yes, no, maybe so. I'm just a product of what came before. The downbeat always falls in the same place. Does that mean something? I don't know. Maybe. What we thought we meant. If I view you as a field and myself as a pointer, I could get there, someplace in the middle of nowhere. I mean that, where I think we need to go. The natural world.