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THE READING ROOM

FRONT STREET VENUS ©

The streets of Philadelphia in February can be colder than a well-diggers elbow, but these streets, at 2 in the morning, when you're waiting for a john to give you a play are a lonely, hopeless kind of cold. It is a constant, certain pain when your are sick from an addiction, waiting for a john, and it's 2 in the morning on these mean streets of the forlorn. There is no such thing as a Happy Hooker here. Your heart is a burned out cinder, for various reasons, from causes unknown--forgotten--or blocked out. Trust me, it's no place for a Diva, but here I am, a Front Street Venus, at her finest, waiting--just waiting. I sway from the force of the icy winds that dance in and out of the trestles that hold up the Frankfort Elevated. They howl and porcupine my face like acupuncture gone mad. How many lives snake their way back and forth in the belly of that great rumbling behemoth as it makes its way--to wherever--above my head? Do they know I'm here hidden among the green steel legs that support them as they screech by on their journeys? Don’t they know that I'm sick for a bag of dope, my belly in a state of explosive nausea, my bones aching from the cold and the want of a 20-dollar bag of Cambria Street's best? So, I wait for the job opportunity to arrive, with Jersey tags, grabbing hands, labored breaths and--it's done.
"Can you drop me off at Front and Cambria?" After an anxious pause he asks if I'm a junkie, and I assure him I'm not (highly insulted, of course).

 
"Just going there to pick up my daughter at the baby-sitter's house.
"O.K. girlie, no problem." Not a scene from Pretty Woman and I'm not Julia Roberts, and Mr. Jersey tags at about 290 pounds in his 1987 Buick Skylark--grabbing hands--wedding ring--and labored breaths is not Richard Gere.

There is quite a melange, of us, working Front Street from dusk till dawn. Every possible combination of sexual preference and fantasy is available for sale, barter, or trade along this street. Girls in all shapes, sizes, colors, religions, and ages work "the stroll" from Girard Avenue to Bridge and Pratt. We stick close to the trestles, as if to protect ourselves from the police, the bottle throwers, and heart broken family members that frequently launch (well intended) search parties, because so-and-so saw you-know-who working you-know-where. Fire engine reds, dishwater blondes, and washed out brunettes decorate the night shadows in a laughable attempt to appear as part of the natural scenery. Neon blue eye shadow, a skid mark of blush across each cheek, a cream cheese smile, and a brazen slash of cranberry red delineates our lips. Addiction delineates our circumstances. Self-crucifixion via the pipe, vial, bag, and syringe is the common bond that glues us together, night after night, along these excoriating streets. Drugs numb the varied reasons for our nightly parade.

I remember my mother's laugh and l feel secure by its hearty, soulful resonance. A beautiful woman in her twenties, abandoned left alone to deal with the responsibility of five children, manages to laugh.
 

There is an array of drag queens that work among the shadows and alleyways of Front Street. Most are obvious with their six-foot plus frames (sans heels). There are other drags that are just about indiscernible from the rest of us, due to a combination of hormone injections, silicone, and flawlessly applied make-up. They have their own special following of johns, and can make quite a bit of money during the course of a night. I've seen many a valued customer pass ten girls in search of that special "Drag O' My Heart."

The police exhibit a low tolerance for the drags, and they get more than their share of beatings from the local thugs, but the majority of the working girls like them. With their heels and feathered plumes, presented in Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey fashion, they bring a surrealistic version of life to the dark, frozen night. I even saw Mr. Jersey tags letting one of the more glamorous drags out of his car a couple of times. Vive la deference.
 

My mother knew how to apply make-up. Panstick, liquid eyeliner, and rouge adorned her facial canvas with the expertise of a Renaissance master. Her hopelessness could never be painted out.

Our customers come from various segments of society. Politicians, lawyers, teachers, car mechanics, and even the unemployed shop regularly along Front Street. Good business is dictated by a following of steady johns. You can cut down the chances of being picked up by a psycho, or even worse, a plain clothes vice cop, by cultivating a relationship with a group of regulars. Many of the girls make the mistake of ripping-off potential return customers, and it has proved fatal more than once. A Puerto Rican girl named Gypsy, a green eyed, cafe au lait colored beauty, made a habit of "lifting" wallets from johns in compromising positions. She had a cross addiction to heroin, crack, and rum. She told me on night, when business was slow, that men did nothing but take from her since the age of seven. The last time I saw her she was getting into a stretch limo, waving and shouting, "Look at me girl!" They say her body floated for three days, face down, before it was fished out of the Delaware River near Penn's Landing. Dental records and a tattoo on her bloated thigh were the only identifications on a body that was never claimed.

Sunrise heralds the exodus of most of the girls off of the stroll and into shooting galleries, crack houses, and abandoned factories that house us for the day. I usually perform an approximation of personal hygiene at a local fast food restaurant's bathroom before I sleep the day away in a broken down VW van. I'll have a lite breakfast from the five food groups: potato chips, Tasty Kakes, coffee, cigarettes, and heroin before I nod into a drug induced semblance of sleep. Occasionally, if you're lucky, the last customer of the night has opted for a motel session and a hot bath and clean sheets become the order for the day. Sleeping till noon in a real bed is like manna from heaven. Before you wake up they are always gone, leaving their crisp twenty-dollar bills on the nightstand. It is like they were never there, and that suits me fine.
 

After a gallant try, my mother gave up and lost the most important battle of her life. The late nineteen fifties were unkind to a woman, a beautiful, young woman trying to keep a fatherless family together. The most vivid mental picture I have of my mother is that of a wailing dark haired phantom jumping over the backyard fence. All I knew, at five years old, was --my mother-was gone.

Going into the "combat zone" to buy drugs can be as dangerous as swimming in the piranha infested Amazon. This area, the corridor that stretches from Front to Fifth Streets, between Lehigh and Allegheny Avenues, is the supermarket for the drug trade in North Philadelphia. Gun shots often ring out between the calls of the Latino vendors selling their wares. The words “bolsa, bolsa” announce that bags of dope are available from any given corner. “Jelba y capsula aqui” alert the informed buyer that grass and vials of crack are in abundance and ready for the taking--for the right price--your soul and dignity. I can't help feeling that I'm within range of a ticking time bomb whenever I approach the corner of Mutter and Cambria to make a buy. I've witnessed girls coming to this hornet’s nest to buy dope only to have their money taken by neighborhood junkies who bait and switch the bags, usually replacing the drug with baby powder or rat poison. Before Gypsy was murdered she told me how to tell the difference between a "gagger" and a seller of real dope. "Girl, the gaggers are too desperate to get your business. All he wants is a fix. A seller could care less if you buy or not, 'cause he making too much dinero. Never buy from the desperate ones!" I can still see her hand on her hip, while her finger waved back and forth, spouting such grand counsel. I thought to myself, the johns buy from the desperate ones all the time...us! I'm always happy to get out of the barrio after making a buy. It's a neighborhood that doesn't particularly like the working girls anyway. We are junkie “putas”, who provide some comic relief to the stress filled lives of the dope dealers throughout North Philadelphia. They spit on us and we come back. They rob us and we come back. We are raped, beaten, and left for dead. We always come back. Addiction allows no room for pride or caution, even in the range of a ticking bomb, a hornet’s nest, or the crying of our souls.

With my freshly purchased bags of heroin, tucked snugly in the band of my thigh highs, I return to the safety my broken down VW van. Like a character from an Anne Rice novel I abhor the sunrise and must return to my self inflicted grave. I remain there, in suspended animation, till the night falls. I prepare my potion of powder and water in a burnt spoon, then draw it up slowly into the syringe. I feel the sting of the serpent's tooth as it finds it mark and remember the pain, my mother's face, and the backyard fence. I see my face at five years old transformed into a living replica of Edvard Munch's The Scream. The many reasons for this nightmare flash across my mind, painted in abstract colors that will never fade, then thankfully, blissfully, I go numb.