“Hey you mind filling me in on what the hell we’re doing?” Trudy scratched the skin on her face and
head, and wrinkled her forehead. She had a colony of little red bumps on her chest, near her
collarbone, but she was still an undeniable beauty, chipped tooth, scabs and all. The angles of her
face were sharp like the girls in “Style” magazines. She picked at a pimple on her cheek.
“For starters, the fucking Waldorf’s sold my shit. I guess they thought I bailed on rent and moved
back to Humboldt. And, my Mom’s cancer has spread. She won’t do surgery and anyway, it’s
inoperable.” My eyes stung with earlier tears, tired, dry and itchy. My stomach was emptied out and
hollow.
“Where is she?” Trudy lit a cigarette and squinted her eyes at nothing, or maybe at hooker ghosts.
South of Market contains many alleys with street with names like “Bonnie Brae” and “Pearl.” A cab
driver told me that those were the names of the whores during the gold rush. I always think of those
women while walking through the fog. Hooker ghosts claiming their corners, and waiting for the men
with gold to take them somewhere better.
I found a tight parking spot near Ronna’s on Guerrero Street on the steep hill a block away from the
garage where Ian and I used to meet. I saw the rust colored door in front of the tiny garage where
his girlfriend parked her car. We’d do lines inside her sea foam green 1969 Volkswagon Karmann
Ghia Coupe and kiss for hours, until my mouth burned.
“She’s in bed, at home.”
“No kidding. I mean what town? Where does she live, idiot?”
“C’mon. We’re going to crash at Ronna’s. You’ll like her.”
I hadn’t spoken to Ronna in a month or longer. I hoped she was home and not out chasing straight
guys.
I grabbed my bike messenger bag and locked everything else in the trunk. We hiked up the steep
hill. There’s hardly ever sun in San Francisco, just smoky clouds that wrap around the buildings
and turn everything gray and a cold wind from the water. It’s the doom and gloom of it-San
Francisco’s awful charm.
We walked up the red, wide steps to Ronna’s door, which had purple and red tulips in stained glass
above it. My mom would squeal over it. She loved tile, macramé, stained glass or anything made by
hand. It impressed her. Anything crafty that required a skill that she didn’t possess, she would
collect. She attended street fairs and craft fairs religiously. She’d send me cutting boards that
someone carved in the shape of a pig, or potholders with panda faces and ears, tea cozies shaped
like fish, with green cloth scales, cow faces that were coasters.
I rang the buzzer and waited. Ronna answered the door with a towel wrapped around her head like
a turban and a bright green clay mask on her face. She was wearing red marabou stilettos and a
short pale blue vintage nightgown and silk pink shorts. She was a long, lean vision and the creases
dried with green clay around her mouth proved she smoked way too many Dunhill Blue superior
milds. Her arms had red and black Japanese dragons tattooed on them. She was one of the most
beautiful drag queens in town and stood over six and a half feet tall. There was music coming from
the other room. It was “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins.
“Look who I see,” she sang at me and directed me inside. She was even thinner than I
remembered. She was now supermodel skinny with vintage chic style. Her eyebrows were plucked
so much they were almost gone. Her pupils were dime-sized.
“Who were you expecting?” I teased her. “Hope I’m not disappointing you too much.” She glared at
me but it was a playful, flirtatious glare. She turned me around and gave me a pinch on my behind.
I laughed and darted away towards the kitchen.
“And who’s this?” She glanced at Trudy whose eyes were glassy and hungry.
“This is Trudy, my friend from up north.” Ronna extended her long, witchy nails painted orange.
Trudy kissed her hand and said, “Pleasure to meet you, dear.” Ronna smelled her hand and
wrinkled her nose and waved it in front of her face,
“Pee-eew. You both could stand a shower. Maybe you should shower together and I could film it,
hmm?”
“All right. I’m not a lesbian yet, so take it easy,” I shook my head at her.
“Give it time,” she purred and raised a meticulous plucked “Mommy Dearest” eyebrow at Trudy.
Ronna’s apartment was a classic Victorian flat painted cheery sunflower yellow and light green, with
gold trim. She refinished her own furniture that she collected from “put-out night” in the Mission,
which happened once per month. On “put-out night,” people put out unwanted furniture on the
sidewalks. Ronna showed me how to score great stuff. We got in her truck and drove up and down
the Mission for hours. She wanted someone to help her carry the chairs, desks, bookshelves and
tables into her apartment so she could reupholster them herself. Ronna didn’t like to be alone. So,
we got high and stretched gold and pink swirly pastel fabrics over the seats of the chairs that we’d
found on the sidewalks. I learned how to patina. I painted legs of chairs silver blues and raspberry
reds and did lines and watched the light come and go from her bay windows for weeks. She taught
me how to staple the fabric to the bottoms of chairs after stuffing the seats.
Her apartment was painted shimmering colors, like a teenager’s eye shadow pallet. I loved the big
bay windows and heavy sliding doors that separated the rooms. She even had a kitchen nook with
a corner wall bench next to a window with a view of the fire escape. There was burgundy fabric
piled on top of the table next to an upholstery gun and black and gold thread and a miniature
ironing board that ejected from right out of the wall. Her narrow cabinets and shelves were painted
bright pink. Ronna was the composed petite housewife from Victorian times. She even had a glass
hutch filled with precious moments ceramics babies. She flowed towards the refrigerator.
“I was just making lunch. I hope you’re not too hungry.” Ronna got out a pink china butter dish and
poured out enough meth for three generous lines on an etched square glass paperweight and
used a razor to cut it up into fine powder. I sat at the table and rolled my head side to side to loosen
up my stiff neck. I licked my lips and sucked in because I was salivating and it embarrassed me.
There was a black vase with four purple irises in bloom. I reached for one and touched the violet
blossom to see if it was real.
“Don’t touch anything!” Ronna smacked my hand away. It was real. So was the Chia pet next to it, a
plant that held the loose shape of a bunny. There were bottles of paint, hot glue and pearl beads
stacked in a neat pile on the floor. In addition to her ongoing upholstery projects, Ronna built and
traded Barbie paraphernalia from the eighties. There was a plastic pink Barbie corvette on a table
under a lamp, with the glue still glistening.
“This is the latest batch. Not too thrilled.” Ronna handed me a white plastic straw with stripes.
“I have something good,” I said reaching into my messenger bag for the stash. “It’s Texan.” Trudy
sat down at the table and eyed the lines, suspicious. Her lips were moist. Ronna was desperate, like
me, but the way she moved around the room with confidence and grace, you wouldn’t guess she
needed anything or anyone. Trudy was brash and didn’t care about hiding her need.
“Listen, if you don’t mind, I’m ready for a fix, so while you nit pick the batch, I’m going to smoke this.”
She reached for her glass pipe and set it on the table next to the bunny shaped plant that swayed a
bit.
“Hang on a minute, patience.” Ronna walked over to the kitchen sink, bent over and ran warm water
over her face and rubbed until the clay turned into slimy paste. She rinsed most of it off except for
around her hairline. She scrubbed the sides of her head to get the edges of green off her skin and
hair. Trudy let air escape through her lips in an exasperated huff and got up and walked towards
the window. She crossed her arms.
“I’m stepping out here for a smoke,” she said to me. I shrugged then reached into my Ziploc bag
with the white shards of meth and put them on display on the table.
“This isn’t like Ian’s usual cat piss crack, girls,” I said, admiring the stellar batch from the Texan. I
used a straight razor to split the glass into fine choppy shards, then into perfect snowy lines, the
“breakfast of champions” to replace all meals for the next two days.
“Who’d you get this from?” Ronna knew me well. The cocked eyebrow again; in my direction this
time.
“A guy I met up north. I need to sell it.” I looked into her light blue eyes. They were melted sky, with
gold pepper specks. She stepped towards a cabinet and brought out the latest digital scale. It was
just short of three ounces, more than I thought. If she knew the stuff was hot, she didn’t care. I kept
breathing.
“I’ll give you four thousand cash right now.” Ronna did a line and clenched her teeth, wrinkled her
nose and grinned in my direction. Her eyes flashed at me a mixture of terror and pleasure. There
were always both with speed.
head, and wrinkled her forehead. She had a colony of little red bumps on her chest, near her
collarbone, but she was still an undeniable beauty, chipped tooth, scabs and all. The angles of her
face were sharp like the girls in “Style” magazines. She picked at a pimple on her cheek.
“For starters, the fucking Waldorf’s sold my shit. I guess they thought I bailed on rent and moved
back to Humboldt. And, my Mom’s cancer has spread. She won’t do surgery and anyway, it’s
inoperable.” My eyes stung with earlier tears, tired, dry and itchy. My stomach was emptied out and
hollow.
“Where is she?” Trudy lit a cigarette and squinted her eyes at nothing, or maybe at hooker ghosts.
South of Market contains many alleys with street with names like “Bonnie Brae” and “Pearl.” A cab
driver told me that those were the names of the whores during the gold rush. I always think of those
women while walking through the fog. Hooker ghosts claiming their corners, and waiting for the men
with gold to take them somewhere better.
I found a tight parking spot near Ronna’s on Guerrero Street on the steep hill a block away from the
garage where Ian and I used to meet. I saw the rust colored door in front of the tiny garage where
his girlfriend parked her car. We’d do lines inside her sea foam green 1969 Volkswagon Karmann
Ghia Coupe and kiss for hours, until my mouth burned.
“She’s in bed, at home.”
“No kidding. I mean what town? Where does she live, idiot?”
“C’mon. We’re going to crash at Ronna’s. You’ll like her.”
I hadn’t spoken to Ronna in a month or longer. I hoped she was home and not out chasing straight
guys.
I grabbed my bike messenger bag and locked everything else in the trunk. We hiked up the steep
hill. There’s hardly ever sun in San Francisco, just smoky clouds that wrap around the buildings
and turn everything gray and a cold wind from the water. It’s the doom and gloom of it-San
Francisco’s awful charm.
We walked up the red, wide steps to Ronna’s door, which had purple and red tulips in stained glass
above it. My mom would squeal over it. She loved tile, macramé, stained glass or anything made by
hand. It impressed her. Anything crafty that required a skill that she didn’t possess, she would
collect. She attended street fairs and craft fairs religiously. She’d send me cutting boards that
someone carved in the shape of a pig, or potholders with panda faces and ears, tea cozies shaped
like fish, with green cloth scales, cow faces that were coasters.
I rang the buzzer and waited. Ronna answered the door with a towel wrapped around her head like
a turban and a bright green clay mask on her face. She was wearing red marabou stilettos and a
short pale blue vintage nightgown and silk pink shorts. She was a long, lean vision and the creases
dried with green clay around her mouth proved she smoked way too many Dunhill Blue superior
milds. Her arms had red and black Japanese dragons tattooed on them. She was one of the most
beautiful drag queens in town and stood over six and a half feet tall. There was music coming from
the other room. It was “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins.
“Look who I see,” she sang at me and directed me inside. She was even thinner than I
remembered. She was now supermodel skinny with vintage chic style. Her eyebrows were plucked
so much they were almost gone. Her pupils were dime-sized.
“Who were you expecting?” I teased her. “Hope I’m not disappointing you too much.” She glared at
me but it was a playful, flirtatious glare. She turned me around and gave me a pinch on my behind.
I laughed and darted away towards the kitchen.
“And who’s this?” She glanced at Trudy whose eyes were glassy and hungry.
“This is Trudy, my friend from up north.” Ronna extended her long, witchy nails painted orange.
Trudy kissed her hand and said, “Pleasure to meet you, dear.” Ronna smelled her hand and
wrinkled her nose and waved it in front of her face,
“Pee-eew. You both could stand a shower. Maybe you should shower together and I could film it,
hmm?”
“All right. I’m not a lesbian yet, so take it easy,” I shook my head at her.
“Give it time,” she purred and raised a meticulous plucked “Mommy Dearest” eyebrow at Trudy.
Ronna’s apartment was a classic Victorian flat painted cheery sunflower yellow and light green, with
gold trim. She refinished her own furniture that she collected from “put-out night” in the Mission,
which happened once per month. On “put-out night,” people put out unwanted furniture on the
sidewalks. Ronna showed me how to score great stuff. We got in her truck and drove up and down
the Mission for hours. She wanted someone to help her carry the chairs, desks, bookshelves and
tables into her apartment so she could reupholster them herself. Ronna didn’t like to be alone. So,
we got high and stretched gold and pink swirly pastel fabrics over the seats of the chairs that we’d
found on the sidewalks. I learned how to patina. I painted legs of chairs silver blues and raspberry
reds and did lines and watched the light come and go from her bay windows for weeks. She taught
me how to staple the fabric to the bottoms of chairs after stuffing the seats.
Her apartment was painted shimmering colors, like a teenager’s eye shadow pallet. I loved the big
bay windows and heavy sliding doors that separated the rooms. She even had a kitchen nook with
a corner wall bench next to a window with a view of the fire escape. There was burgundy fabric
piled on top of the table next to an upholstery gun and black and gold thread and a miniature
ironing board that ejected from right out of the wall. Her narrow cabinets and shelves were painted
bright pink. Ronna was the composed petite housewife from Victorian times. She even had a glass
hutch filled with precious moments ceramics babies. She flowed towards the refrigerator.
“I was just making lunch. I hope you’re not too hungry.” Ronna got out a pink china butter dish and
poured out enough meth for three generous lines on an etched square glass paperweight and
used a razor to cut it up into fine powder. I sat at the table and rolled my head side to side to loosen
up my stiff neck. I licked my lips and sucked in because I was salivating and it embarrassed me.
There was a black vase with four purple irises in bloom. I reached for one and touched the violet
blossom to see if it was real.
“Don’t touch anything!” Ronna smacked my hand away. It was real. So was the Chia pet next to it, a
plant that held the loose shape of a bunny. There were bottles of paint, hot glue and pearl beads
stacked in a neat pile on the floor. In addition to her ongoing upholstery projects, Ronna built and
traded Barbie paraphernalia from the eighties. There was a plastic pink Barbie corvette on a table
under a lamp, with the glue still glistening.
“This is the latest batch. Not too thrilled.” Ronna handed me a white plastic straw with stripes.
“I have something good,” I said reaching into my messenger bag for the stash. “It’s Texan.” Trudy
sat down at the table and eyed the lines, suspicious. Her lips were moist. Ronna was desperate, like
me, but the way she moved around the room with confidence and grace, you wouldn’t guess she
needed anything or anyone. Trudy was brash and didn’t care about hiding her need.
“Listen, if you don’t mind, I’m ready for a fix, so while you nit pick the batch, I’m going to smoke this.”
She reached for her glass pipe and set it on the table next to the bunny shaped plant that swayed a
bit.
“Hang on a minute, patience.” Ronna walked over to the kitchen sink, bent over and ran warm water
over her face and rubbed until the clay turned into slimy paste. She rinsed most of it off except for
around her hairline. She scrubbed the sides of her head to get the edges of green off her skin and
hair. Trudy let air escape through her lips in an exasperated huff and got up and walked towards
the window. She crossed her arms.
“I’m stepping out here for a smoke,” she said to me. I shrugged then reached into my Ziploc bag
with the white shards of meth and put them on display on the table.
“This isn’t like Ian’s usual cat piss crack, girls,” I said, admiring the stellar batch from the Texan. I
used a straight razor to split the glass into fine choppy shards, then into perfect snowy lines, the
“breakfast of champions” to replace all meals for the next two days.
“Who’d you get this from?” Ronna knew me well. The cocked eyebrow again; in my direction this
time.
“A guy I met up north. I need to sell it.” I looked into her light blue eyes. They were melted sky, with
gold pepper specks. She stepped towards a cabinet and brought out the latest digital scale. It was
just short of three ounces, more than I thought. If she knew the stuff was hot, she didn’t care. I kept
breathing.
“I’ll give you four thousand cash right now.” Ronna did a line and clenched her teeth, wrinkled her
nose and grinned in my direction. Her eyes flashed at me a mixture of terror and pleasure. There
were always both with speed.
| Ronna's By Antonia Crane |
 |  |
All files © Copyright 2009 The Sylvan Echo