The last time it happened I simply bent my knees into my chest, put my feet on her back, and kicked her as hard as I could out of the bed. She landed on the floor with a thud and woke up crying. It was one of the most satisfying moments of my life.
Lisa helped me carry my shit downstairs and we set up house in the tiny one bedroom apartment. We were completely on top of each other but the domesticity kept me grounded. I cooked and cleaned and yelled at her for being such a slob and she sat on my bed watching tv with me for hours while I smoked and brooded. We both got Pomeranians and ate brunches at sidewalk cafés with the dogs in tow. One night I walked in and there was a Doberman puppy snuffling around in my bed. And I didn’t really mind.
One of her favorite moments was walking onto the stage balcony at the Limelight on a night we were headlining. The crowd went crazy thinking it was me, and she smiled and waved and tossed her hair. It was a nonstop party and there was a regular train of hot long-haired guys and partying female friends traveling in and out of our tiny place, dogs underfoot, music blasting. And she never seemed to mind that the situation had reversed itself, now she was the one in the background while I pirouetted on the lawn.
Lisa and I have the same rotten sense of humor, people will look at us in genuine horror at some of the things we snicker to each other. Whenever a gorgeous girl walks past us we usually turn to each other and say in unison, “Whore.” It’s really about making fun of our own insecurities but sometimes people don’t get it.
And she was one of only two people up until recently who understood that I was far more fragile than appearances belied. Even though it looked like I was the one with all the power and control, I was always veering on the edge and she protected me in ways that I didn’t fully understand until much later. When 9/11 hit and my sister couldn’t get through on the phone she got completely hysterical and I was touched that she was so worried about me.
Me: *sigh*…So what do you want, a medal?
What is the deal with those horrible knit yoga gaucho style pant that every woman in NYC has suddenly started wearing? You know the ones—they are made of thin knit fabric, come in a variety of colors, have a roll-down waistband, and stop below the knee where they flap around as the wind takes them.