Change Machine

Unlike the City of Seattle, I find change to be mysterious and elusive. The Four Seasons stands on the block where The Lusty Lady once was, across from the Seattle Art Museum. In 1994, when I arrived, the central location of the Lusty Lady was as baffling to me as the patient pedestrians refusing to cross the street when there were no cars in sight. The duality of Seattle didn’t make sense to me, the city being sedate but funky — in this case, literally. For the Off-Beat Crowd, read the marquee under the neon pink Lusty Lady sign on the day I ventured inside. I watched the men; dirty jeans, suits, high heels. I slipped in behind a suit, without having to touch the door myself. Inside, I felt a camaraderie with the male receptionist, based on our shared profession.

I was a temp receptionist. I was only curious, and exploring my new city; temping had a scripted, mild sameness — a monotony I was trying to break up. Every day, I sat surrounded by giant fake-looking rubber plants, hidden from view if the angle was right, in a succession of hermetically sealed buildings, wearing someone else’s poorly fitting old clothes repurchased from Buffalo Exchange, and feeling as if I should also probably be wearing a wig, using an alias, feeling so incognito, not myself. People seemed so calm and quiet, and I mistakenly thought this must be what adulthood was like, but it was really only Seattle, and also professional environments.

But, the dramatic backdrop of Puget Sound thrilled me — all vast sky and water, many shades of blue. Evenings, the elevator plummeted downward — my face slimmed, turned towards the mirrored ceiling, alone in the box. Once outside, if it wasn’t winter, I loved the light of the sky and water reflected in the windows of the buildings. The light here changes constantly from moment to moment, but always remains itself. Age 25, I was a reluctant east-west exile, in a new city far from home. The light meant everything to me, intangible as my sense of self at the time, but also breathtaking. Self-banishment requires inspiration.

Inside the Lusty Lady, the male receptionist’s face, neck, and arms were covered with tattoos. Flowers, skulls, snakes. Just watch and you’ll pick it up. It’s not real dancing. Just kind of move around. Half the women wear wigs. Don’t use your real name. Ten bucks an hour to dance, sixty in a private room, glass between you and the customer. He called me Sweetie, so I said Hon, trying to fit in. Hon was the only thing I’d said all day except for the rote phone answering greeting, and then hold, please. A petite, self-possessed bird of a woman walked past, wearing only a thong, feathers, and high heels.

Men lined up at a change machine, quarters necessary for the private booths. I wished a person could put money in a change machine and feel or be different than one’s current incarnation, and just change. Above the change machine were photos of the dancers, a pornographic yearbook roster. Thongs, bras, corsets.

This was the kind of thing I did back then, long ago, in my twenties, in order to seek experience to write about. I created faux experiences because I couldn’t quite come up with real ones. Some were far-fetched, like this one. So, I fake interviewed with Bernadette, an owner, wearing gardening shorts, smelling of garlic, and talking about her kids’ dentist. Can I ask you if your fluffy red hair is a wig? Clearly I was already an imposter in my own life. We stood together in the tiny booth. The dancer couldn’t see us. Some men are exhibitionists, some not. Some people prefer to be invisible.

The woman’s vagina was innocuous, pink, exposed, vulnerable, with just a little hair, like an adolescent boy’s wistful and wispy attempt at a goatee, a whisper of a mustache. Small, pale animal that looked in need of white, cotton panties in order to be demurely hidden, modest, safe. Bernadette informed me that it is illegal to insert a finger into a vagina in a place of business. I felt relieved, protective of the dancers. I exited soon after, wistfully passing the change machine.

The next morning, everything was the same. I stared at the pedestrians standing still on the corners, waiting for the light to change. The bus creaked around the corner of Broadway and Pine heading downtown to where I took my seat surrounded by the ubiquitous rubber tree plants that at least afforded me a semblance of protection. I was sorry I had wasted people’s’ time. My research had only added to my confusion as a recent transplant. Near public self pleasuring was fine; jaywalking was not. Capitol Hill, no one ever seemed to wash their jeans; downtown was Stepford wives, The Truman Show.

But, the light was so lovely here, and remains that way, still. And that’s the crux of it, really.

My main memory of my arrival in Seattle really is of people eternally facing people on the opposite corner of an empty street each morning in the lovely clean gray-white tempered dawn light. Ministers at weddings advise couples to look into each other’s eyes because that is what will stay most physically the same over the years. That’s how I feel about the sky and water here. Latitude and longitude is all that stays the same here, except for the sky and water. I had a kitchen in a big old house on Capitol Hill, and beautiful late afternoon sunlight would make the room golden and celestial. And then, tall condos went up next door and the room went dim and earthly. Sunbursts here match my own intermittent bouts of high activity, and in this unique way Seattle and I are truly well suited for each other.

I relate to the fact that weather is so rarely completely one way or the other here, but wavering, best characterized by ambiguity. Scattered thunderstorms, mostly sunny, partly cloudy. I loved the light here, and I still do. The city evolves and grows taller and denser and certainly filters it differently than before. But, the light here stays the same.