The Minneapolis Menagerie
Women's rubgy club "The Minneapolis Menagerie" poses before catching a bus outside the Bodega.
Kind of Gray
Accordionist Bob Mislivec lends an Old World coloration to Missoula's People's Market.
He will perform at the Carousel Sunday Market in Caras Park on the following dates: June 12, July 3, August 7, September 4 and October 2.
Page Eight
"Sam isn't what you think he is," she said.
"Watch it, kiddo. If you're trying to douse a fire in your belly, I'd switch to water."
"Girls can handle drink, too, Edi." But her cheeks crimsoned. "He likes the look of my legs in stockings."
"Are you kidding? I'm sure Sam's laid more than eyes--"
"--Nylons, I mean. And they're costing him more than he knows. Sam's what they call a 'neurotic.' He pays me to do humiliating things in the window." Judy turned her eyes to the shutters and twisted her glass in a ring made of her hand.
"What things exactly do you mean?"
"The window faces the alley, where the men who don't have jobs collect. The first time I did it, it was terrible. Sam said vicious things, and the men laughed at me--a dumb girl pressing her flesh to the glass like chicken under Glad wrap. But I learned how they like it. Slow, Edi. 'Cause what they want most is time. They see I'm young; I think they'd like to be. And they don't want to work again, if it's for the suits who pass and sneer and flick spent butts their way. They want to spend the afternoon with my body, and I don't think it's wrong. They watch my hands on my skin and I move like this: cupping my shapes. It's like you're pulling silk over your arms, your throat, along your thighs... only you're wearing nothing but these touches."
"In the street window?"
"Uh huh," she said, in a trance.
She sculpted herself before me. I was swaying. I was unsteady. "I'm hungry, Jude."
"Ah! Any warmer clothes in this place? Let's go out."
"It's auntie's place. She used to keep a hundred sets of the same outfit," I said. She tore me from the couch.
Judy opened the closet and gasped. "Look at these suits! Let's hit the town!"
"Watch it, kiddo. If you're trying to douse a fire in your belly, I'd switch to water."
"Girls can handle drink, too, Edi." But her cheeks crimsoned. "He likes the look of my legs in stockings."
"Are you kidding? I'm sure Sam's laid more than eyes--"
"--Nylons, I mean. And they're costing him more than he knows. Sam's what they call a 'neurotic.' He pays me to do humiliating things in the window." Judy turned her eyes to the shutters and twisted her glass in a ring made of her hand.
"What things exactly do you mean?"
"The window faces the alley, where the men who don't have jobs collect. The first time I did it, it was terrible. Sam said vicious things, and the men laughed at me--a dumb girl pressing her flesh to the glass like chicken under Glad wrap. But I learned how they like it. Slow, Edi. 'Cause what they want most is time. They see I'm young; I think they'd like to be. And they don't want to work again, if it's for the suits who pass and sneer and flick spent butts their way. They want to spend the afternoon with my body, and I don't think it's wrong. They watch my hands on my skin and I move like this: cupping my shapes. It's like you're pulling silk over your arms, your throat, along your thighs... only you're wearing nothing but these touches."
"In the street window?"
"Uh huh," she said, in a trance.
She sculpted herself before me. I was swaying. I was unsteady. "I'm hungry, Jude."
"Ah! Any warmer clothes in this place? Let's go out."
"It's auntie's place. She used to keep a hundred sets of the same outfit," I said. She tore me from the couch.
Judy opened the closet and gasped. "Look at these suits! Let's hit the town!"
The next hour was a blur of pink mohair. We ate a fast meal, silently, but everyone we encountered felt like Judy was their girl for a moment. When Judy paid, the colored boy behind the restaurant counter laid down his cold cuts and measured his thumb against his chin, smiling just to stand two feet from her. The bums we rushed past on the sidewalk quieted.
"Are they... Have...?"
"Who knows?" Judy waved.
"Don't!" I felt we were girls again.
"Are they... Have...?"
"Who knows?" Judy waved.
"Don't!" I felt we were girls again.
I brought her back to the apartment. I couldn't stand waiting to hear the rest of the story.
You are viewing page eight of "Edith/Judith," a fashion photostory whose accompanying text draws inspiration from pulp magazine stories.
CREDITS Models: Tonya Smith, Carmine Leighton; Hair: Corrie Horacek; Clothing by Sartorial Splendor; Photographs, text: Tom Seiler.
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