Jessica Holter's Blog: Jessica Holter's Author Blog - Posts Tagged "truth-is-a-trap-house"

Lady on Location is an excerpt from my new book Truth is a Trap House. I hope you like it. ~ Jessica Holter

Lady on Location

Invited to the party on short notice
to get my hustle on in a
house built on a foundation of pain
It was raining on a hot day
in Atlanta, where the sun is God,
we don’t stay wet for long
I turn off the expressway,
take a left turn downhill,
drive by hustlers and hitters,
pass lurkers and loafers,
penny players, and dimes
who have stood in my line before
Pulling up to where there
should have been a curb
but there was none
in this danger zone;
no stopping and no parking
All the guests ignored it
as they gathered, waiting
for the door to open.
I roll my bag of products
across weeds and wild grass,
up the rickety old steps,
hot rain steaming away
in the Georgia heat.
I step inside the trap house
a poet had converted
to host her Open Truth Night,
She had assembled assorted characters
for an evening of interactive artistry
and though they cleaned up well
I can still smell crack in the walls
freshly papered with faces
of the great ones,
Sanchez, Brooks, Angelou
Lourde, Giovanni, Hughes
their legacies suspended in orbit
There are no pipes or needles
in this house of illness anymore,
But the scent of misery and fear
is still stuck like gum on the carpet.
The players are costumed,
pensive and attentive,
as they take instructions
and assume positions
at appointed stations in the room.
Athletes in ballet shoes
stretch and contort
for their opening dance to
Ntozake Shanges choreopoem
I would be playing myself,
Lady, bathroom attendant extraordinaire,
Goddess, healer, truth sayer
For most of the guests
I would not need an introduction
I work in clubs all over town,
Wherever good music, hot women
and strong drinks can be found
The Lady’s Room concierge service
is just a bathroom visit away.
Now that I have my own product line
Lady’s Presents reminds them
where to find quintessential butters,
Silky skin milk and the most potent
THC-infused massage oil—so relaxing,
you’ll wish you could smoke it.
The bathroom is adjacent to the kitchen
I post my sign on the door
Lady’s Room: Towels for Tips
There is only one toilet
but as promised,
it is clean and new,
made of black porcelain
matching a free-standing sink.
Above it is the original mirror
recently handpainted with
healing symbols and
a single sentence
written in cursive
“You have been here before.”
God bless her heart, I say to myself,
the creative redhead poet tried.
There was no telling of
the things that mirror had seen
the night Old Scatter died.
While I am not easily frightened
finding comfort and wisdom
in conversations with spirits,
I sprinkle black salt
on the edges of the mirror
and the remainder of my satchel
in the doorway to deflect mischievousness
and stay focused on my business.
The bathroom is roomy enough to set up
where a wall had been removed
leaving a large doorframe draped
with a shimmery beaded curtain
behind it was a green room
where actors had hung purses and jackets
on a black coat rack perched between
two matte gold dressing tables,
made of wood and glass.
Lights glimmering around the mirrors,
matching brass and red velvet stools
give the room a touch of class.
Voices in the kitchen
tell me to prepare,
but I’m not yet
when an old lover
I had been trying to forget
knocks on the door.
I open, hesitantly, welcome him
but he cannot come in,
Just hovered there, saying
he was still in love with me
All love ain’t good love,
I remind him and myself.
Waiting for him to walk away
he explains that he is part of the show,
and has prepared his love confession
for the microphone,
Wishing only that I
hear what he has to say
To which I respond,
as the house begins to bustle,
and people form a line behind him
I will not be able to hear his sonnet
because I will be working,
Leading us quite naturally,
into an old, familiar argument
that stood in opposition to my hustle
when we were together.
I accounted for the time lost
acquiescing to his emotional needs
by creating Lady’s Presents
to represent me during my year-long
absence from the scene.
Stomping away like a toddler,
he disappears through the door
into the living room, where
colored girls begin a dance
for a satisfying rainbow.
My smiling invitation to
Lady’s Room guests is enough
to straighten me out of
his haunting negativity
for hours until a fight broke out
over my last jar of Sage Butter
my most popular product
effective sold by the promising claim
“8 Ounces of Healing Power
for Quarelling Lovers”
Sold out, I take the opportunity
to catch what may be left
of the performance
Stepping into the creative spectacle
where actors are still in character
engaging guests with
a limited menu of water,
cranberry and grape juice,
inviting them to choose
organic fruits from bowing heads
of servants draped in white linen
Communicating only in rhyme
in rhyme and song, the room hums
with an expectant calm
The redhead hostess moves, center floor
on the carpet, that does not emit
the scents of pain and fear anymore,
Drowned out by sage and
fragrant essential oils I sold
the walls are warm, healing arms
wrapped around a community
of pimps, hookers, and drug dealers
put out of their enterprises
when the late homeowner, Scatter
shut them out
He donated the house
to the nonprofit organization
that funded the poet
who invites my lover to the mic.
He smiles in my direction
nods proudly and arises.
The chatter subsides when he begins
an ode to love he dedicates to Scatter
A man, he says, made the ultimate sacrifice
surrendering his life in dedication
to something he believed was right
To the love of my life,
he began his confession to me
He apologized publicly
for his selfishness,
for stealing me away,
from a community that needed me,
from work I loved, and those
I had healed with countless hours
of bathroom therapy,
He had seen the error of his ways
and would proudly marry me
while standing by my side,
But he knew it could never be.
With the mic in his hand
he walked my way
held me tightly in an embrace
It was Open Truth Night
he had been waiting for it
to come clean.
My old lover, an amateur poet
and recovering drug addict,
A man I thought I had healed
over a teary year of sweat and panic,
had shown up here to confess
that it was he who had killed Scatter!
He had been hired by the man in red
now, standing behind him,
looking me squarely in the eyes
as he pulled the trigger and splattered
me in the dead poets’ blood.
In shock, I watch
as the room springs into action
The redhead, her singers, and servants,
Pimps, hookers, and retired drug dealers
Poets and athletes with ballet shoes
Every soul in the Trap House
from every tiny stage
of the room, they pounce,
Beneath the watchful eyes of authors
they scribe a bloody ending
stomping holes in their collective enemy,
the man who dared destroy
what they were building
They roll the bodies up
in the old carpet
and made me vow
to never speak a word of it.
The redhead hostess
took the mic, her hands,
still red with foul play
Standing in the open space
where hardwood floor revealed itself
She looked at me with a sinister grin,
asking me if I was okay,
Finally, she said,
we can build our stage here.
Speechless, I prepare to leave.
Startled back into my seat
by a thunderous roar
Applause and victorious laughter
filled the trap house
as the actors take a bow.
My heart is still pumping fast
when I hear the moans of men
The realization takes
a moment to set in
I watch in shock and awe
as the players unroll the carpet
and free their fellow actors
The revelation of this immersive
who dunnit scheme
came as such a relief
I had been the unwitting victim
of a cunning theatrical plot,
The Legend of the Trap House
would echo through the block
and flow out to distant counties
to theater lovers who long
for culture, shock, and awe.
As for me, well,
I kept doing my business
and got back with my man, y’all.