I was walking down Mission Street; I live in the Mission, between 16th and 20th, where all the action is — crack, prostitutes, taquerias and Latin Pentecostal churches up and down each side of the street. One of the churches was in full swing that evening with lots of singing and shouting. I peeked into the large front window to check out what was going on inside. It was packed. There was a stage up front with a piano and a lectern. Flowers were all around and the young Latino minister was addressing the attendees in Spanish. He was emotional and even seemed angry at times — alternately looking up at the ceiling, grasping his chest as he delivered an impassioned message to his flock, then glaring at the floor, yelling and shaking his fist. Everyone seated were raising their hands, crying and yelling out in Spanish. Some were even jumping up in their seats and twirling where they stood. The spirit was everywhere. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. Until, from behind me, I heard someone commenting on what I was watching inside.
“They do all that laying of the hands and exorcism stuff. Like that vice president lady on TV. Did she win? That shit’s crazy. Look at ’em go!”
I turned around to see who it was. A small group of black transvestites were hanging out near the entrance of a seedy hotel next door, smoking cigarettes and checking out the scene up and down the street. The one who was talking to me stood out amongst them, mainly due to her sheer size — she looked like an Olympic track star wearing a long, straight, blonde wig, stuffed into a black miniskirt. Flicking her cigarette and fixing her hair, she said to me, “Oh my Lord, lookit here. Honey who gave you those eyes, your mamma or your daddy? I bet it was your mamma.” She spoke with a deep, Texan drawl.
And she was enormous. The heels of her pumps sounded as though they were digging into the concrete below her. Everything about her was big. Her feet, legs, shoulders and hands were like a football player’s. But, even with these distractions, she carried herself with the poise and grace of a refined lady about town … who was missing a front tooth.
“You a cop? You don’t look like a cop.”
“No,” I told her. I’m just checking out this church. Isn’t it something else?”
She tossed her cigarette away, threw her hair back over her shoulder and looked inside. “Yeah, you don’t know the half of it. You from San Francisco?"
“No. I’m from LA. I’ve been here for about a year. I live in the neighborhood.”
“I see. I ask because you remind me of a man I knew up in Portland. He had pretty eyes like yours. I’m JJ. We’re calling you ‘Portland’ today!” She laughed and looked back to her friends. “Hey girls, this is Portland!”
“He a cop!” screamed someone from the crowd. “Naw, he’s a reporter.” Ain’t ya, Portland?”
“What makes you think that?” I asked. She motioned around us, “You’re paying too much attention to all this, that’s why. Down here, you’re either a cop, a reporter or a horny Mexican … Hahaaaa!” All the girls in the group exploded into laughter, slapping their legs, playing with their hair and twirling around in their pumps. I got caught up in their fun and started laughing too. By this time it was clear that they were indeed prostitutes and had known each other for a long time.
“You see, Portland,” JJ explained, “A few of the young guys in there always stay after the services to ‘clean up.’ They make sure all the others are gone before they lock up and come hang out next door with us. You have to understand, they’ve left their wives and girlfriends back home in Mexico, or wherever, and they send money back to them each month … well, not ALL the money.” She giggled and patted me on the shoulder. “They’re real sweet. I’ve never had any problems with them. They always tell me ‘thank you’ when we’re done.”
Then one of the girls in the crowd shouted out, “Yeah they’re real sweet all right! Girl, once they’re reminded of what you got between your legs, you’ll find out just how nice they are!”
“Don’t mind that bitter hag. She jealous I have a little boyfriend. He’s inside there now. He tells me he loves me and shit. Hell, he’s just a lonely, horny little boy is all.” “Wow,” I said, “when he tells you this, what do you tell him?” She whipped her head around and shot me a look as if to say: This interview is over. “I tell him to go home to his friends.” It became uncomfortable, but then, her face lit up as she broke off her stare and redirected it up and over me, shouting, “Ooooh … here comes Creamie!” Her friends began screaming and dancing around while pointing behind me. I turned around to see what the fuss was about.
Strutting up the street, brushing past everyone she came across, “Creamie” was extraordinary. Her appearance was immaculate: long, straight hair pulled back tight and draping down her back. She wore huge, round, black sunglasses and sported a pale yellow form-fitting cocktail dress with matching pumps. Everyone scrambled out of her way while gazing at her. For a second, I felt underdressed, like I had showed up to an awards party and forgot my tux. The girls were all singing “Go Creamie! Go Creamie! Go Creamie!” As they did, she strutted to their rhythm, walking hard against the sidewalk in her heels. JJ bent over and whispered in my ear, “We call her Cream Rinse. That’s because she don’t take it in the mouth … it all ends up on her head.”
Once she reached the group, Cream Rinse stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me and then scolded JJ. “Why you hangin’ with a cop?” JJ calmed her down and assured her I was a “reporter.” “Oh I see. Well, what do you want to know? I run things around here, anything you got to ask, you ask me. Would you like to know who we’re all voting for?” “Yes!” I told her. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here.” Creamie turned around to the girls and shouted out, “Who we voting for?” “OBAMA!” they screamed back, and went berserk jumping up and down and laughing and hugging each other. “You write that down. Mission Street is for Obama.”
“Got it.”
“Once my boy gets in there, he gonna fix it.” She smiled at me and gave me a hug. She was soft and smelt like flowers and Carmex lip balm. “OK, now get outta here. We’re opening up for business. You don’t need to be here for that, sugar.” Cream Rinse patted me on the head, turned around to the girls and waved them into the hotel. One by one they waved “good-bye” to me and blew kisses. JJ, the last one up, turned to me right before she closed the door behind her, blew a kiss, smiled and shouted to me, “Hey Portland, are you gonna write about me?”
Posts
