Something about taking the ferry from NJ to NYC makes me feel like a pirate. Like I’ve left the old world behind in search of treasures untold, like I’m free to take the city by my hands, rape the scenery and tall buildings with my eyes, take New York on as my own. Los Angeles belongs to movie stars and people who drive $60,000+ cars, New York belongs to the people that walk the streets with heads buried in blackberrys or iPhones, to dirty water dog dealers and tourists in “I love NY” shirts, to bums in doorways catching up on sleep and men in suits heading to places I’ve only read about in the financial times. New York belongs to the people, a collective people, a people who don’t realize they own it because they are consumed with simply existing within it. New York could be mine too, and after a month or two my perspective would change; I would belong to New York.
Saturday went well, aside from the case of the disappearing car. Taryn said there are three possibilities regarding the car:
1.) it was stolen by her man’s psycho ex-lady as punishment for Suri vinthizzle (tt’s younger brother) getting parking and red light tickets.
2.) it was stolen by a psycho fan that followed us home and absolutely HAD to have something that belongs to her. This option frightened me most.
3.) it was really stolen, and now the car parts and my porn was being sold off piece by piece, DVDs ending up on canal street would serve as the only proof.
As I felt a little bit happy that my movies were already half gone, the only option that frightened me was #2, because my luggage had tickets on it with phone number and address. Last thing I want is for a psycho truck stealing fan to call me or show up at home like stolen goods equals an open invite.
I sold every non stolen piece of product, toward the end of the day screaming “get your penny flame DVDs, half off, everything must go!” and of course selling things for half that of my competitors and finally giving things away in a scurry to go home empty handed. And my hands were empty by 10:15 pm, and my heart was heavy, because the funeral march was over, my coffin in the ground, and all I had left to do was refill the hole with dirt as I walked out of the Expo and away from an entire life. Enough tears had been shed for this strong heartless woman named Penny, enough laughs and fake smiles had passed my lips, and enough second guessing about whether or not it is really possible to get off a horse midstream, swim back to shore, and hop on a new one.
(side note, my ferry is crashing through waves, the front being sprayed with salty water, starboard shifting to the sky as the horizon dips in and out of my view.)
Sunday, as I had nothing left to sell, was reserved for football. What better place to watch the Giants than among true Giants fans? In a real Giants sportsbar? And I wanted desperately to watch the raiders game, but I had promised Angel a few hours shopping so it’s to the streets of NYC, to the sidewalk and to my wallet, which bled less than $100. After the shopping venture, and bloody wallet excursion, I met with an East Coast amigo, saw a man about a horse, and it was this man that that enlightened me to the notion that brightness levels on high is for rich people. My levels have been low since this revolutionary development, and my battery has lasted like the medium well to do girl I am. Sunday night involved dinner with a dear friend Steve, his wonderful and energetic family, and a long drive back to Jersey. After waking Taryn’s man at 3am, it felt appropriate to hit the sheets, and as the house fell dark, I took no notice of the black northface duffel bag sitting in the hallway. In fact I stepped right over it.
I stepped right over my stolen and now returned career, had already let go of the life, and all the DVDs that went along with it. In the morning however…
In the morning I came downstairs to make coffee and that open coffin stared me down. My decrepit face, exposed breasts and years of work stood firm, as if to say “you can sell me off, I can be stolen or lost, but I will always be here, I will always be a part of you. I will always be in you.” I realized option #1 had been the real scenario, and that I still have over 50+ DVDs, thousands of slicks and ten mags to my name. An entire duffel bag still connecting me to the last, still zipping me into the persona, ever remindful that while memories may fade, they never disappear entirely. I asked Taryn for my next course of action.
“you could always sign at exxxotica Miami, sell it off there, and THEN be done with it. It’s only a few months away…”
This is not an option for me. I’ve said my goodbyes, and stand by my word. But what do I do with my career? My bag of proof? What the fuck do I do with all this Penny Flame porn?
After some serious thought, and a little emotional turmoil, I think a move across country may be in my future. I can get in with the guys at canal street and slowly start feeding my movies to the streets of Manhattan because even though She may be circulating through the underground porn market, I can walk the streets head held high, with a new life ahead of me, new surroundings- people and mentalities, and new seasons to remind me that while change may be necessarily painful, I mustn’t suffer to rise from the ashes of a former life, and the lifestyle of a former pornstar.