"My Last Glimpse of Dawn" by Robin Loving (ebook reader android txt) 📖

It took a moment to register inside my young, hair-sprayed head, that I had lost a vital body-part.  But once I recognized the toilet-paper wad, as once being my, ‘left breast’ …my thirteen-year-old face, lit-up like a flare.

I quickly looked around, hoping nobody else had noticed – but my eyes were met with several quick glances of accusatory amusement.  Those same looks only found in the dark-hearted souls of women who’s boyfriends and /or husbands had just recently been whooping and hollering for the Go-Go dancers at this particularly small EM club in Baumholder Germany. I knew word would travel fast:

“The one on the right is…flat-chested!!”

Only once over the course of our six-month dancing career, had Dawn and I been given our own dressing room to change out of our sweaty outfits, and freshen-up a bit during our breaks. I think it was a broom-closet.  We had to share it with a broom.  It didn’t have a light, and it didn’t have a mirror.  So...like any normal teens of the 60's-ish GoGo dancer era...we were forced to share common ground with the commoners in over-crowded bathrooms.  Hardly a gentle memory.

I think I remember placing a bet with Dawn that same night, against a woman who seemed to be wrestling with her 'hot pants'. The ‘hot-pants’, looked to be winning the first round, as she tugged at the hem…trying to un-wedge the seam from her butt-crack. I had just been whispering to my sister, how this woman certainly took the “hot” out of ‘hot-pants’ when, at that same moment, I discovered my own bra-shaped-wad of toilet paper glaring up at me like a helpless victim of ungodly circumstances.  I tried engaging Dawn in one of those silent little pleas for help; the type of look that only close-knit, dancing kin-members are aware of, but she must have mistaken the urgency in my eyes for something else.  Before I was able to flop and scramble toward 'The Wad'...she had my head tucked between her overly-ample breasts...anchoring me in for a quick tease of the top-knot, that so distinguished us from the rest of the herd. 

“Hold still!” Dawn ordered, as she transformed a dainty, half-giggle into her most serious tone.

Her pretty brow was furrowed, as she concentrated now, on the immediate need to apply more glue to the false eyelash that was dangling from my lid.  I remember that image clearly.  It was quite like a black-widow spider; ready to devour my blue-eye-shadowed face...but Dawn saved me, on that one.

Left to my own resources; head still held intact while my eyes were being assaulted by quick bursts of 'whiskey-breath'..., I blindly kicked around trying to make contact with the offending paper-culprit. I managed to kick it into oblivion - but at the same time, sent one of my pink pumps flying into a nearby toilet, exposing the huge holes in my black fish-net stocking. I looked at the bare toes on my gawky, over-sized foot, and knew I would die that very moment of my embarrassment.

Dawn had kicked her own shoes off and had me facing her in a chair. She was armed with her can of industrial-strength, ‘aqua net’ hairspray. I didn’t know how she could possibly get any more ‘tease’ into the wad of hair sitting on the back of my head.

“Cover your face” - she ordered again – this time a bit more sternly.

The cold, sticky mist settled on my bare arms - and the cloying, sweet smell clung to my nose-hairs - threatening to cut off my air-passages.

“Groovy…death by suffocation”, was what I mumbled and felt at the time.

I was peeking through my fingers at the perfectly-pedicured toes of my older sister, and at that moment I felt a rush of intense hatred.

“Nobody deserves to be this perfect” I thought to myself, and felt totally justified in my thinking, as she turned to her own reflection in the mirror - pursed her perfect lips for a quick application of white lip-gloss, and found nothing else in need of a touch up.

******
Dawn was almost four years older than I. In teenage years, that is the distance from here to Pluto. She was at the peak of her blossoming perfection, and I was only knocking on womanhood’s door: And nobody was answering.  Don't get me wrong:  I was completely mesmerized by my older sister, and so was everyone else who knew her. The only flaw I could see at that time - as I scanned her from those pretty-pink toenails, to the perfectly teased and varnished top-knot on the back of her own head - was, well, maybe that her bust was much too large for the rest of her petite, five-foot tall frame.

*****

“O.K…perfect!” Dawn announced – in her naturally unselfish and (only to me) annoying way - as she gave me the once over…scrutinizing her handiwork.

I knew I was far from “perfect” as we made our way back to the cozily-cramped little table next to the stage. I sucked down my third Sloe-Gin-Fizz in one long, pouty drag, and then ordered another. The GIs who made up the “PJ Blues Band” were briefing over our final set. We would start off with “Light My Fire” by ‘The Doors’. I was happy with that, and I was happy that the drinks kept coming in. It never occurred to me until much later in life that women ever had to pay for their own drinks.

*****

Dawn and I took our places opposite each other at the front of the stage while the anxious GI’s started their ‘whooping’ noises. I was swept away in the fuzzy-buzz of my last drink, and the flashing blue and red lights of the night club – half-believing part of the “woo-hoos” were meant for me. My smile returned, and once again I loved my built-in, best-friend sister.  Breasts or no breasts…I still knew how to dance, and I didn’t care if people were laughing at me. Breasts, or no-breasts…I still knew how to dance.  Even soggy-footed...I still knew how to dance.

There were only three things I was certain of at that tender age of thirteen: I knew how to dance. Drinks were free. And my sister Dawn was as close to perfect as humans can get..

___________________


Twenty-five years later, I'm standing before a massive concrete building that feels cold and forbidding, despite the hot Sacramento sun. Somewhere inside there I'll find my sister Dawn.

I just talked to her a week ago. She and I have drifted apart; after fifteen years of living together under different personas – with or without men in our lives – needing each other as up-lifting spirits in our down-trodden lives, or just plain needing someone to help each other in desperate situations. We could always find a party back in 'the day', with lots of oogley-eyed men, to remind us of just how desirable we were...and always would be.  Drugs and alcohol always played a huge role in those feelings of care-free, immoral immortality.  For some reason, Dawn and I both, have never felt very comfortable in the world without the assistance of that type of launching pad.

When Dawn called a week ago, she had an urgency in her voice.  Something I couldn't quite pin-point, but I could tell that she was high. I left that life behind years ago after an entire decade of bouncing from couch to couch…drug to drug, with never a sense of who I was or where I belonged. Most of that time had been spent either living with her, or around her, but her influence has always been near, and still proves to be an over-whelming force in my life. It's very hard to ignore the excitement she incites. Men have always loved her, and since I've always been a combination of, self-assigned bodyguard, slash, best friend…I've always been able to fly along on her coat-tails.

*****

It's taken me more than a decade to come down from that ‘high’, and try to adjust to a somewhat ‘normal’ life-style.  I have a ‘real’ boyfriend, ‘real’ friends, a ‘real’ home and a steady job. Still, a part of me always misses that excitement.  I think that's why I cut our last conversation short.  I felt that urgency of yours.  I feel like I 'owe' you a place to retreat from the drama of your world, but I just didn't want to take that chance, and offer you a place to stay.. I can't afford to lose ten years of sobriety to the temptation I knew you'd be packing along in your over-night bag...and I'm still very jealous of you.  I know how you've always been around my boyfriends.  There isn't a man alive, who can resist you...and you will always be a temptrist.  That's why I ignored the plea in your voice...and that's why I'm here now.  You needed a place to go, and I ignored that.  You've ALWAYS given me a place to be...when I needed it. 

About a week ago..., I dreamt of a beautiful girl running up a circular wroght-iron staircase. When she got to the top, she found herself trapped. I could see the panic in her eyes and I was seized-up in her fear.  And then, when she realized she had nowhere else to run, she leaped over the edge. She had a long fall. I think that person was you Dawn.  I had that dream the night after we last talked.

*****

My Father was waiting at the Hospital when my two other sisters and I arrived; disheveled and tear-stained.  He had been sitting with Dawn for two days, and looked haggard. No hints of encouragement came our way either. He warned us that Dawn was in bad shape when he excused himself and left us to find our own way.

A red-lipped woman who smelled of moth-balls and had the appearance of being schooled in the fine art of ‘receptionist’ pointed us in the direction of the nearest elevators, that would take us to, what she almost lovingly referred to as…”The Tower” (ICU). I couldn’t shake the look of guilt on my estranged father’s face as we passed a mile-long hedge of utilitarian couch, and stood waiting for the ‘ding’ that would signal our assent. Dawn had been staying with him at his girlfriend’s house when she had her ‘accident’. She had fallen and hit her head on a shower wall that was made-up of field-rocks. One of the many ‘field-rock’ showers, in one of the many bathrooms that graced Bonnie’s multi-million dollar home at South Lake Tahoe. Bonnie hated Dawn, and I knew it stemmed from jealousy.  Dawn had needed to get away from there.

Once we reached our floor - and with a little asking around - the three of us found ourselves standing in front of a half-drawn curtain. Without looking beyond, I touched the course weave and tried to draw strength from the boldness of the floral print. My sisters and I moved as a single-unit into the space where Dawn should have been laying. I think we all felt the same measure of horror at what lay before us…it surely wasn’t our beautiful, perfect Dawn.  This wasn't MY perfect Dawn.

In the few moments I stood there staring in shock, before I could approach her bed, I had many flashes of her rare, benevolent beauty.  A beauty that spanned three decades. A beauty I had always been envious of, and always tried to emulate - although I never could.  I still feel a