But merely costuming butch is not enough for me. I had to go all out and create a whole imaginary persona for myself.
The decade was easy: the 1970s, obviously. That polyester, button-down shirt, and cheesy pendant couldn't be from any other decade. The persona? Street tough. I was an urban street tough, making my way on the mean streets of ... well, some urban place. I would photograph... urban stuff.
Now I was rolling. I was on the lam, see... Okay, I was mixing up my decades but how could I be a street tough without immediately falling into Raymond Chandler's lingo? It can't be done! At least, it can't if you're read as much Raymond Chandler as I have. Plus, in the first year of my back injury, I was almost entirely bedridden so I listened to a lot of old time radio plays. Chandler (and Dashiell Hammett) virtually invented the vernacular for radio play street toughs and private dicks and, slightly later, film noir.
Okay, so I was a private dick, circa 1976, the last of a dying breed of Chandleresque tough guys. And, having a slight gambling problem, I was on the lam from my bookie. Yeah, that was it. Yeah.
So: In which tough guy and private dick, Charlotte Issyvoo, sets forth on her day.
|Leather jacket was an ex's; Jeans: Reitmans|
It was all so sad, I'd needed a drink. Okay, a few drinks. So sue me. Scratch that.
I felt like a dog's breakfast, like something that crawled under a dumpster to die. I needed dough, lots of dough. I needed it bad.
I figured I'd try my luck at pool. My luck was bound to turn around some time. I could just feel it.
|Pendant and gold chain: vintage; Shirt: Reitmans|
Okay, so today turned out to be an exception. So sue me. On second thought, scratch that again.
|What? I'm just scratching my ear here. I did not flip you the bird. Can't a guy scratch her ear here without it being a national emergency?|
(Fashion note: a tough guy never wears big earrings. She could lose them in a fight, or in a lousy game of cards.)
|Ring: vintage; Earrings: from a dodgy little hole in the wall jewelry store in a strip mall|
|What ya lookin' at? You lookin' at me? Drive on. There's nothing here to see.|
Lucky for me, I've got a friend in Mark, at a little joint called Mark's Pet Stop. He don't take no guff from nobody. He's also built like the side of a barn. Nobody, and I mean nobody, messes with Mark, so I cooled it there until I figured it was safe to go home.
Why does everything have bars on it these days? It reminds me of the clinker and the last thing a guy wants as a lullaby is a reminder of the clinker.
Awww, skip it. Tomorrow's another day and my luck's bound to turn around some time, right? I can just feel it.
(I'm linking this up with Spy Girl.)