I couldn’t wait for last Thursday to end so I could go home, lie down, and think about what I’d just done. I felt like I’d entered a place from which I would never be able to return. My life had changed irreversibly, and not necessarily for the better.
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That’s when I saw it: a black suede tasseled handbag that made me shiver with desire. No other purse has ever made me feel so vulnerable, so desperate. I entertained visions of myself at exclusive, arty affairs, wearing my zebra suit, fancy bag in one hand, extra-dirty martini in the other, pinky erect. I’d impress my new friends with some wild but charming story and they’d throw their heads back and laugh heartily. “Oh, go on,” they’d urge. And I would.
The saleswoman cleared her throat. “It’s been marked down twice,” she said. My heart started pounding and my arms went numb; I was sweating through my top.
In the middle of the bar/lounge area a wobbly table was piled high with stacks of white pastry boxes. Music writer Jessica Hopper was attacking them like a vulture, pulling out sesame ball after croissant Lorraine and shoving them in her mouth, trying to gross people out. It was working. “These are really good for the skin,” she said, squeezing out the bean paste from a sesame ball–it looked like coagulated blood–and rubbing the oil into her hands.
The place looked like Santa’s psychedelic workshop: Christmas lights, troll dolls, and manly tools were strewn over tables, benches, and utility cabinets full of hardware. On a counter near the door, platters of cheese cubes and julienned vegetables surrounded a big pink ham that had been ripped apart Ren-faire style. A four-foot stage bounced as several young ladies danced on it to bad 80s music.
