Valerie in New York Ch. 04

[Valerie Solanas did have dinner with publisher Maurice Girodias in 1967 and that is depicted in the movie. I re-imagined that scene here. The scene with the customer in the courtyard (it's described, not depicted, in this story) is also in the movie. I changed that too to make it fit my vision of her personality.

The scene here involving the pimp is entirely from my imagination.]

*****

By the summer of 1967 Valerie had made acquaintances with two prominent New Yorkers, men who might, she thought, help her into ventures that would improve her financial and social status. One of them was the artist Andy Warhol who had by then developed an entourage of people who functioned as both his friends and employees. At that time he was moving beyond his earlier interest in the visual arts to include both live and filmed performances.

Valerie had at first tried to get him interested in a play she had written. He was unimpressed with the idea but he did get her parts in two movies he directed. She tried to ingratiate herself with his hangers-on but they mostly resisted her moves to get closer to them. They imagined themselves as being weird but also as cool and hip, while Valerie seemed to them to be merely weird. It took her a while to realize that she remained an outsider even among other outsiders.

The other man she met was not as well-known as Warhol but he seemed interested in developing her as a client. He was Maurice Girodias, founder and owner of a publishing company, Olympia Press. In the last two decades he had handled the work of Vladimir Nabokov, William Burroughs, Henry Miller and many others. A native of France, he was forty-eight when he met Valerie, a fellow tenant for a while at the Chelsea Hotel. When he found out that she claimed to be a writer, he invited her to dinner to talk over her prospects with his firm.

On the evening of the dinner meeting Valerie appeared wearing a new dress and shoes. The shoe heels were higher than anything she had worn in years and she tottered a bit as she approached the table where he was sitting. He stood up to greet her and was about to make a compliment about her appearance but something stopped him from doing that. He didn't know her that well but he already was sure that the anything close to the term "light-hearted" didn't apply to her. It wasn't just that she seemed so serious most of the time. There was some darker side to her that he sensed but didn't fully understand yet.

For her part Valerie knew that this was an important meeting and she needed to project a professional attitude as best she could. That wasn't easy for her as she often spoke what was on her mind even if it went against her best interests. The previous couple of years had hardened even further. She had to think before she spoke tonight.

They made some small talk about the restaurant and the menu it offered. Maurice suggested lobster, "It's one of their specialties here."

"Oh no, I've had that before," Valerie said. "It's a real mess cracking those things open." She was familiar with the seafood restaurants on the Jersey Shore of her youth.

"So it's not the taste then."

"I do like it, we used to get it at this place called Captain Starn's in Atlantic City." She remembered going there with her grandmother on the streetcars that ran out to a neighborhood called The Inlet.

Instead she ordered a shrimp and rice dish and a glass of white wine. While they waited for their orders he talked a bit about his publishing ventures and some of the authors he had met. He was a bit surprised that when the waiter brought Valerie's food she immediately took the initiative and ordered more items for herself: a plate of French fries and a glass of beer.

Maurice had been to enough lunch and dinner meetings to know that most of the important business got done later in the proceedings when the main course was done. Yet he noted that for a couple of minutes Valerie ate in silence and seemed not to hear the few remarks he made.

Then the reason came to him. He knew something of her hardscrabble life hustling on the streets and he guessed, she probably hasn't had a decent meal in a while. As if reading his mind, she suddenly stopped and said, "Oh, Maurice, I'm sorry, I sometimes go for a while without a real meal."

He noticed that she seemed genuinely embarrassed; he saw a brief break in her tough demeanor. Maybe she fakes some of that toughness. "That's all right, I understand," he said.

"Yeah, a lot of times, the best I get are those hot dogs from Nathan's on Eighth Street. Those things - well, let's just say that they get tiring very fast."

A little later they were having more wine while Valerie indulged in a piece of chocolate cake. She asked him, "All right, Maurice, what exactly is it that you see in me? You want me to write about my experiences on the street I suppose."

"That could be among the possibilities. I was thinking of either fiction or a nonfiction treatment, maybe both. We'll have to see."

"You don't really know anything about what I have to do, do you?"

"No, of course not, I never said I did." He tried to read her expression, and he could see defiance above an underlying sense of pain and anger. He decided to ask her, "Do you ever turn down clients, do you ever refuse to do what they ask?"

She leaned back and drank some more wine. I should get another one of these - what would it be, the third? - but after all he's paying for it.

Then she answered, "Sometimes I do, Maurice, but sometimes you get too far into a thing to back off. It's like - well, like any other job, sometimes you do what the work requires, get it?"

After a pause she continued, "I'll admit this to you - I wouldn't tell anyone else - but I'm afraid out there. All of the women there are afraid. If something happens to us no one knows or cares."

Maurice thought, I would care, but he didn't say it; he assumed it would strike a false note with her.

Valerie said, "There are other, call them smaller issues. Like some of these johns, these customers, well sometimes they're not the most, ah, hygienic people around. The way some of these guys smell, they way they taste . . ."

Maurice thought, taste? Oh, of course.

"You know what's even worse?" she said, "Maybe it's the things they say."

Maurice wanted to know about that. He figured it was Valerie's choice to describe it or not. She said, "They come to me, they pay me for whatever they want, a blowjob, anal sex, they want to paddle my ass, they want me to paddle their ass - and then they have the nerve to loathe me, to think I'm a dirty little object they have used."

She was very intense now and Maurice felt some anxiety; I wouldn't want to get on her wrong side. She said, "I don't judge their urges, everybody's got some, but if you hate yourself, you hate what you want, don't you dare blame me for it. I'm not your problem."

"It's projection of course," he offered.

She laughed and said, "So what do you think of my manifesto? You see where it's coming from now?"

Maurice had read one of the mimeographed copies that she had created herself and had been selling on street corners in recent months. Eventually he would publish an edition from his own company but at this point in 1967 he wasn't quite sure what he thought of it. "There's some interesting ideas in it, but . . ." He decided to offer an opinion, "Maybe you're own experiences are not a fair way to judge all men."

"I figured you'd say that. It sounds like all these johns are scuzzy perverts, but that wouldn't be true. All kinds come to me, a lot of them think they're respectable, or pose as such. Some are even the cream of society - the curdled cream I'd say. They jump into their private sewers and want to take me with them."

"Do you really believe in violence?"

"I have some fantasies perhaps. How about a bunch of hookers get together, we agree on a plot? We'll slit the throats of some johns, leave them in their cars. Imagine the reaction as they are found over the course of a few days. The rest of them would all be afraid to go out. Mind you, I'm just thinking out loud here."

"Wouldn't you be destroying your own customer base?"

Valerie shrugged, "Yes but it sure feels good to think about it. Actually it's the pimps that really deserve to go. I'd really feel no qualms about offing them."

"Do you have a pimp now?"

"What you mean is, does a pimp have me? No, no yet, but my luck will run out eventually. One of them is going to notice me and then it's over."

She closed her eyes and suddenly felt weary of the topic, "Maurice, would you order me another glass of wine?"

"Of course."

She felt a bit conciliatory towards him and said, "I know you were talking a bit about Olympia Press and I kind of missed some of what you said."

"I was going to offer you a copy of Lolita - as a gift, you can keep it."

"I've heard of it."

"I'm think you would appreciate it - I mean appreciate it as literature."

A few minutes later they were looking over an agreement letter that Maurice had drawn up. It allowed him the first right to publish her next work, which they both assumed would be a novel. He also gave her a check for $500 which was in effect an advance payment.

"This is yours to keep regardless of what you do in the future, but I hope you will continue to consider me as your choice for publishing all of your work."

He noticed that she had examined the check briefly and now seemed to be thinking of something else.

"There's something bothering you? I get the feeling you're remembering, maybe something painful."

Her mind came back to the present, "You're pretty good Maurice, I mean about guessing these things. Okay, I'll tell you. You want to be sure I have some good stories, right?"

He thought, she's got this strange mix of vulnerability and hardness. "Of course, tell me about it."

"Very nice wine, by the way." She was into her third glass now and she had also finished her beer. Even with dinner, I'm kind of lit up right now. Maybe I should stay shitfaced all the time, but no, I'm not going down that route. She knew that drugs and alcohol would be a trap for her, and she still had hopes for getting a better life. Maurice and Olympia Press might be a way to get there.

She said, "I was out last March, it was an afternoon, I rarely work before dark but this was, well, an exception. Usually they come up in cars but this guy was a pedestrian. He didn't have a hotel room, so we just went into this courtyard behind a warehouse. It was a Sunday - that's why no one was around."

She had Maurice's full attention. He thought, I have faith in her, in her voice, she's going to work out for me. I can't help but think that; this business is my life and my business depends on the writers.

"So it's just bare concrete back there. He decides to just do it standing up." Maurice wanted to know what she was wearing but didn't ask.

"He's really abrupt with it." Should I tell Maurice the details? Sometimes she felt shame, and if she hadn't felt it in the courtyard she felt it now in the restaurant. "So he just shoves it in and I'm not - I'm dry, okay, and it's uncomfortable. I'm looking up at a window just to look at something besides him. And, fortunately, he's fast, really fast, like three minutes or something. And then I realize he was in such a hurry that he hadn't paid me yet."

Maurice said, "You make them pay first, correct?"

"I try to, but once in a while, like this case, I miss it. So I said, real matter-of-fact - I gave him a few seconds to catch his breath - 'You owe me that, whatever the amount was.' And he takes out his wallet and pulls out this big wad of bills and sticks the whole thing right into my mouth."

Maurice knew her well enough to guess the gist of what would be next.

"So I spit out the bills and I yelled at him, 'Get your fucking money out of my mouth.' I even threw some punches at him; I landed one on his chest and I was trying to hit his face but he blocked me. I mean, he was a lot bigger, I really couldn't do any damage to him. So as he backs off and starts leaving, he says, 'You stupid cunt' and I yell at him, 'I will fucking kill you if I ever get the chance.' "

She looks fierce right now, Maurice thought.

Valerie continued, "As you probably could figure out, it's not a good idea to get into altercations with johns. If you wind up in the hospital or a morgue, you've just a whore. Who is going to do anything about it?"

"Do you carry a weapon?"

"Maybe I should, like a gun. That would equalize things. Like if met the cash guy again."

She noticed Maurice frowning at her. "Even a man that rude doesn't deserve to die for it," he said.

It struck her that she should be careful about she told Maurice. She sipped from her wine, swirled it around and looked into the glass. She was gaining a bit of time to indulge her fantasy about that john. Her need for revenge was powerful and she couldn't just will it away.

She imagined meeting him again. "Oh hi, no hard feelings. Needing some pussy again?" And then when he takes it out, maybe it's one shot, maybe two, blow some holes in his cock and balls just to see the look on his face. And then, "Oh, does that hurt? I can help." Then two or three into his head, professional hitman style. Hey, bullets are cheap.

Maurice seemed to be waiting for a response from her. She said, "Maybe I'll fictionalize it, I'll have a character that loses it because of the pressure." Isn't that character actually me? "Is that the sort of thing I should write about?"

Maurice answered, "Well, yes - absolutely."

"Although it seems a bit pulpy, perhaps?"

"No, not necessarily. Not to change the topic too much, we published Candy a while ago. It's satirical, kind of goofy as they say here in the U.S."

"Really, can I have a copy of that too?"

I wonder what she'll think of it. "Of course."

"Meanwhile, let me sign this agreement. Do you have a pen?"

After she had signed the document and put away her check, Maurice offered a toast, "To future ventures."

They clinked their glasses and then Valerie said, "There was sort of an amusing thing about that back alley scene. It was kind of a windy day and I had a hell of a time collecting all the money that was blowing around."

Maurice tried to smile but he had a pained look instead and she noticed it. She said, "Okay, it's not that funny but it does have a sort of slapstick feel, like something Charlie Chaplin would have made."

Maurice had a hard time imagining that, "I'm not sure they would have gotten away with that in the 1920s, unless they were really subtle about it."

Valerie leaned back and looked more relaxed than usual, "Well, in any case, with some luck, I'll be out of this life soon."

*****

1966 Jaguar Mk II 3.8

Valerie was used to noticing the makes and models of the cars that stopped by the curbs where she was standing. One evening in April, 1968 one drove up that surprised her because she didn't recognize what it was. It was obviously a foreign vehicle but she couldn't say that she had seen one like it before.

She was on Twelfth Avenue a couple of blocks north of her usual post near the bar. The idea of varying her position had occurred to her before but the habit of being on this wide harbor-side avenue had become part of her life on the street. That life was supposed to end sometime this year if certain things fell into place. There wasn't a lot of evidence that matters were going in the way she wanted but she kept her hopes up anyway.

This particular auto was a dark green sedan, somewhat rounded and more compact than bulkier American cars. It could have been one of those French ones, a Peugeot perhaps, a make she had heard about but rarely seen. The driver rolled down the passenger-side window, "Hey honey, get in, I need to talk to you." It sounded like an order, not a request, but it didn't seem like a cop would be in this particular car. Valerie felt a twinge of concern, but she did as she was told. She opened the door and sat in the front.

The driver immediately head north. Valerie looked around and noted the tan leather seats and what appeared to be real wood, not that American plastic laminate, on the dashboard. She asked, "What kind of car is this?"

"It's British, it's a Jaguar."

"I've heard of those, but I've only seen those two-door sports cars."

"This is the Mark 2, a '66, a little less common. Notice the Jaguar hood ornament." The chrome up there was shaped like the jungle feline in full pouncing motion.

The driver seemed to be a Latino, but he had only the slightest accent. He was in his thirties, and he was nicely but casually dressed in a sport coat. His hair was fashionably on the long side and he had a bushy mustache. Valerie sized him up quickly: a smooth talker, fairly good looking, he could be a customer but he probably wasn't. His approach so far pointed in a different direction.

"I'm Pedro by the way. And you are?"

She wondered if lying would help but she decided against it, "I'm Valerie." She tried to get a wedge into the conversation before he could continue, "Where are we going?" The car was heading for the West Side Highway viaduct which lead to the Henry Hudson Parkway beyond.

"I'm just going to drive up the highway for a while, fewer distractions." It was about eleven P.M. and the traffic was light at this time of night. He continued, "I'll drop you off back there or wherever else you want to go. Do you want a cigarette?"

This was one time when she didn't. "No thanks, I'm good." She wanted to hear from him and get this conversation over as quickly as possible.

As he drove up the ramp he said, "I've seen you around in that area for a while now." She wanted to know how long that had been but she didn't ask. He continued, "I get that you're a part-timer, but you're in my territory and I can't have floaters coming in and out."

"What exactly is your territory?"

"Well that's hard to say. It's not exactly a set of blocks, a space I mean." She knew what he meant; his territory was mostly defined by the women he controlled, not a specific geography.

"So it's sort of a state of mind." She hoped that sounded a bit sarcastic.

"Valerie, there are benefits here for you. I provide some order, some protection - predictability you might call it."

She understood that was mostly not true, and she pushed back a bit, "Really? And who is the one who actually finds the customers, negotiates with them? I do."

"Of course, but it's like the taxi business. You need a medallion to actually cruise the streets. You have these guys who do without it - the gypsy cabs - but it can't all be like that, it would be chaos."

Right now the road ran through the darkened Riverside Park. She decided she could argue a bit, he would accept that. "Yeah, and who gave you the right to hand out the medallions?"

He shrugged, "Nobody. It's like that guy said a long time ago, wasn't it in the 19th Century? Anyway, he said, 'I seen my opportunities and I took them.' " He chuckled at that.

What a witty asshole, Valerie thought. She had heard that line herself somewhere, it might have been an old Tammany Hall politician. She was angry that Pedro was so blunt, so untroubled by his own corruption.

He went on, "Valerie, I need to know how much you are taking in, either weekly or monthly. We need to talk about that."

"I don't know, it's kind of erratic."

"Then come up with an estimate of some kind. You don't have to do that tonight, you can think about it if you need to."

There was rage in her now, she could imagine killing him. The nerve of these men, taking a cut of the money women made on the street and doing it with real and implied threats. He continued his pitch, "I could take you out to dinner, say in a day or two, and we can work out the details."