The Dose

I’m quite brilliant. I’ve devised this whole system of where I buy things on eBay. Then once I’ve amassed something substantial I feel the need to purge my belongings and I sell it at a fraction of the price or donate it to a historical society. Obviously this is an outstanding use of my precious free time and an excellent way to invest one’s discretionary income.

The Historical Societies of Brookline, Boston, and Charlestown have all received donations from me this year. I guess donating the items removes any guilt I might have about throwing them away. I’m giving them to someone who will genuinely appreciate them and it removes any wiffle-waffling I might have about it.

But not all of the items are things I’ve bought. When I moved into my new apartment I did the customary exploration of every nook and cranny of the space. And in a recess on top of my kitchen cabinet I found a vintage ad for Chesty Morgan. Holy chesticles. Not particularly appealing to me. Yet still it is something to behold. It’s vintage. It’s local. It’s iconic.

I consider framing it and keeping it in my office. But then I think of my nephews coming over and gawking at it or asking me about it. At which point I’d brush some Lady Finger crumbs off the shoulders of my red satin robe, blow into my pipe causing some tiny bubbles to come out and say, “There’s a lot to be learned from old Uncle Andy…. please, sit down….”

I just can’t throw this thing away though. It wouldn’t be right. I do some research and find what I think would be the perfect place to donate it to. Exotic World in Helendate, CA. A museum honoring all things burlesque. They’ll love this thing. A fine piece to add to their collection.

I slip Chesty… hey, she should’ve done some Vicks VapoRub commercials in her time. I slip Chesty in an envelope and address it to Exotic World. I don’t have any stamps so I plan to take it to the post office the next day.

And therein lies the problem. I’m in line at the post office with envelope in hand but I’m scared to go up to the counter and have Mr. Crankypants look at the envelope, then look up at me, smirk, and raise an eyebrow. And then he’ll notice that I haven’t put a return address on it and tell me I have to or it can’t get mailed. Then I’ll put a fake address (so Exotic World doesn’t try to thank me) but being a postal worker in Boston for the past 40 years he’ll know it’s fake and call me on it and then in a “Doris, price check on the anal beads!” moment he’ll say “You can’t send something to EXOTIC WORLD unless you put a valid return address on the envelope!”

“Next customer please.” I go outside to get some fresh air and de-panic. I decide to take a walk. I pass several trash bins but resist the urge. I take stock of where I am and I have an idea. I walk a few blocks over to Centerfolds. I don’t know if they’re open or not but the door is closed and there’s no bouncer. I slip the envelope under the door….. and I run like the wind.

There were only two games left in their season and if I didn’t go to one of those I’d have to wait until September for a chance to see the Boston Derby Dames play again. So up to Wilmington I went to the Shriners Auditorium. Shouldn’t it be the Shriner‘s Auditorium? Shriners‘?

I watched three periods of action packed all-female roller derby. But I still don’t think I could explain the rules to you very well. There are jammers and there are blockers and even though these girls have knee pads and elbow pads and helmets on they don’t have any hip pads and when they fall on the cement track I wince and make one of those quick inhaling hissing noises.

It was the Boston Massacre vs. The (Baltimore) Mobtown Maulers. The Boston Massacre mascot is a guy dressed up in a lobster suit and I caught myself smiling at watching him rhythmically slice his big red claws around as he danced to Jump Around blaring on the loud speakers. Is there anything more Boston than that? A lobster dancing to an Irish-centric rap band?

For some unexplained reason, and still unsolved, is why the Baltimore mascot was a kid dressed up in a hotdog suit. wtf?! A crab would’ve made more sense, right? And what an epic battled that would’ve been. Lobster vs. Crab. Two crustacean enter. One crustacean leave.

What struck me as most interesting was the mix of the crowd. Considerable lesbian contingent; butch couples hand-in-hand. Considerable goth contingent; piercings, colored hair. Yet very family friendly too, and in fact just a generally friendly vibe all around. But what added another great layer to it were the Shriners. This is their house remember, and they’re there taking tickets, acting as security, manning the concession stands. Cute overweight old men in their red windbreakers and tiny red fez hats with the tassels falling off them. A-dorable. I want to take a pottery class and make a Shriner-within-a-Shriner set of nesting dolls like those Russian babushkas. I’m convinced I could make a killing. Then again I also want to hand one of them a pair of cymbals and slap him on the back and yell “Clap Monkey Clap!”

To fuel my passion for this new business venture I eat cheeseburgers. Three of them. These are ordered one at a time and I try to time my visits to the concession stand so that I get a different server each time. I’m concerned they’ll remember me and judge me. Or call me a fatty fatty bobalatty. “Eat Fatty Eat!”

[ see: roller derby pics ]

It was a rainy week night and I was at a local bar getting dinner by myself. Cup of clam chowder and buffalo chicken tenders. I vacantly stared at the tv mounted above the bar pretending to be engaged in the basketball game in progress. I could be questioned about the status of the game at any moment and this was an unsettling thought. I watched intently for a few minutes until I at least knew which team was which color. I felt comfortable knowing I was slightly more prepared now for any basic questioning.

An older woman came into the bar and took a stool two down from me. She was in tears. Blubbering. My head remained up, eyes transfixed on the game with a geniune purpose now. I did not want to be drawn in. Her sobs seemed obvious and loud to me and whether she was meaning to or not, I felt like she was trying to engage me. But I wouldn’t bite. This was a very important game. The blue guys were winning! They try to score when they run to the right. I congratulated myself on becoming quite the b-ball expert.

I felt guilty about not wanting to interact with the woman. How dare I withold sensitivity and sympathy from someone when I know how much I crave it in my own life? I stopped mentally flogging myself when the female bartender came to the rescue. They were obviously familiar with each other and they chatted and the bartender asked her if everything was ok. The woman waved her off, still in tears. “I’m ok. Nothing bad has happened,” she said. “It’s just.. what is happening to this world?” Upon being pressed, “Have something to eat, you’ll feel better dear”, she ordered a pint of beer and a bowl of chili.

By now the buffalo tenders were kicking in and I was blowing my nose into my napkin. Lovely. This always puts me in an awkward spot. I’m ok with blowing my nose in public if I have to but I can’t get myself to hand over the results to anyone. I just can’t make someone else handle this object, it’s just not fair. Even the idea of putting it on a finished dinner plate where maybe it can just be dumped into the trash doesn’t work for me. So the napkin ends up in my pocket for me to dispose of later on my own.

The woman got up to go to the bathroom and I asked for my bill. I gave the bartender my card and asked her to put the woman’s beer and chili on my tab but made it very clear not to tell her about it. I didn’t want to be thanked and I didn’t want this to be a big deal. The bartender immediately loved me for this and told me that she was so surprised to see the woman this way since she’s “normally such a classy lady.”

I settled the tab and made it out the door before the woman returned from the bathroom, just like I had hoped. I had a pleasant image of her asking for the bill in 30 minutes only to find out that the young man, who didn’t talk to her and is no longer there, took care of it. At a time in her life when she was feeling overwhelmed and lost I showed her there is kindess in the world.

I felt the moist napkin in my jacket pocket and headed home to discard of what I didn’t want others to touch. And to hide the fragile parts of me that I didn’t want others to see.