One time in Detroit, I got my purse stolen right off my arm while I was talking to my Mother on the phone. My purse was more like an overnight bag - small suitcase looking.
I was across the street from the theater where I was dancing at as a stripper - the Wood-Six Burlesk Theater on Woodward at a little grocery store on the coner. I was standing right inside the glass door area right before you go into another door to the store. I had my back to the outside door talking to my Mother on the telephone.
I had my purse on my shoulder. I felt a tug on my purse. I paid no attention. I thought, for some reason, it was some of the guys I worked with across the street teasing me. I kept talking without turning around. I felt a few more small tugs and then all at once, I felt myself being knocked up next to the glass wall. I looked and saw only the strap of my purse hanging down. He had ripped the purse from the strap. I had been knocked up next to the wall in the process.
I ran out and saw him running down the sidewalk and duck in an alley. He had on a brown jacket. This was the only way I could have identified him. I could only recognize his back with a brown jacket.
Lucky for me I had on high-heeled boots; so I could not chase him. He would have probably killed me if I had followed him in the alley. I just stood on the corner screaming at him.
I went across the street and told the projectionist what happened. He came out with me. We crossed the street and saw him coming out of the alley. We ran over to him. The projectionist had an ice pick. He told the guy to give me back my purse. Of course, he denied it all. He said, "I don't know what you're talkin' about, lady". The projectionist told me, "Just give me the word. I'll stick him". I told him not to beause I could not say 100% that it was him. I had not seen his face.
As we walked back to the theater, we saw a police car. We told them what had happened. They did not act surprised. In their matter-of-fact-"Ho-Hum" attitude they said, "Yeh! We saw you talking to him".
Sometimes I watch a movie of someone about to be attacked. The person had plenty of time to do something to get away or to defend themselves, but does not move. I think, “Why doesn't she move? Why doesn't she do something? She could do it now! She could escape or do her attacker harm!” The fact is that in some real-life experiences a person is too scared to move. I know this because I went through it one time.
I was driving down Western Avenue toward Blue Island in Chicago. I was on my way to dance as a stripper at Flapper's Peep show on Blue Island. The traffic was back-up at a stop light. I did not realize I was parked in the traffic in a bad area of Chicago. But I was soon to find this out.
I had my window down with the radio on enjoying the nice afternoon. My purse was on the seat. All at once, a young, tall slender-looking black guy reached in the window and grabbed my purse. At that point, he could have done anything to me. I was so scared. All I did was sit there and scream. I could not move. He took off running toward a big apartment complex. Which I found out later was the projects of Chicago.
I saw a police car on the corner. I went and told the policeman what happened. He had a “ho-hum” sort of attitude. I told him I knew which building he ran into. He asked me if I could identify him. I said, “No, but I know what kind of shirt he has on”. He said, “Oh! Those guys change shirts all the time”. He would not help me at all.
By now, I was more mad then scared. I thought I would just try to find him myself. I drove up to the location where he had stolen my purse, turned right and drove around the apartment complex. Lo and behold! To my surprise there he was lounging on the grass! He looked up and saw me and started running. I was following him in my car down streets I did not know. He ducked into another building. I was too mad by now to realize that I was in his territory and did not use enough reasoning to think, “What am I going to do with him if I catch him?” I was not smart enough to know that if I had stopped and overcame him that his friends would overcome me. He would have been too strong for me to restrain anyway. I was too dumb to know that no matter what I could do, I would not get my purse back. This was his neighborhood. I did not realize what danger I was putting myself in. Lucky for me he never stopped. He probably would not have ran; but he probably was wondering if I had a gun on me. Since I was bold enough to chase him, he probably thought I had some kind of equalizer on me.
While I was chasing him in my car, my tire went flat. I thought, “I'm sure not going to change it here. I'm getting out of this neighborhood!” By now, I was beginning to really realize the danger I had put myself into. This danger was much worse than getting my purse stolen.
I rode the car on the flat and got out of his neighborhood and decided I would just ride it on the flat tire until I got to work. I was now back at the point where the crime had been committed once again waiting for the light to change – only this time full of frustration with a flat tire – unlike when I was sitting there relaxed enjoying the day with my radio on before he stole my purse. As I was sitting waiting for the light to change, the policeman who I had asked for help pulled beside me and decided to add a little salt to my wound as he said while observing my tire, “This just isn't your day – is it?”
No, it was not my day. But I learned a lot that day. The police who took my report when I got to work told me to always put my purse out-of-sight. I told them that maybe I should have had my window rolled up. They said he would have probably busted my window anyway to get my purse. And then I would have a window to replace besides all the other trouble. They tried to make me feel it was my fault. But I did learn many things that day the hard way – just as I have done so in the past during several incidents. I, also, learned that the policeman is not always your friend.
The New BOOK TRAILER of Opal's book THOUGHTS OF A STRIPPER:
Going to Newfoundland was a very exciting experience for me. It is the first time I had ever been out of the United States. It really took along time to fly over there; but I slept most of the way anyway.
I flew to Montreal, Canada from the United States. I do not remember what state that I was in when I left. When I got to Montreal, it was confusing for me. The people working at the airport would say, “Bonjour”. I would say “Oh! Hi!”
I had a little trouble with my luggage. The woman taking my luggage told me I had too much. I started telling her that I had to have it all with me because I needed it for my job. She got really angry. She started tossing my luggage and speaking her language. It did not take any knowledge of the French language to know that she was cussing. But anyway, she at least, let me take it all.
I had a little trouble at the custom's entrance. I do not remember the details. I just mainly remember having to go to an office and talk to a man in a suit behind a desk about why I was going to Newfoundland. He said that I was supposed to have some kind of work papers. He asked me how much money I had on me. He made a call and discussed my situation with someone on the phone and told them that he believed my story. I just had told him the truth about being booked in Newfoundland to dance and that I did not know I was supposed to have work papers. In the end, he let me proceed on my journey to Newfoundland.
It was fun just to have a lay-over in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Well, not really a lay-over – more like just changing planes. When I was a kid we used to say, “I'll knock you clear to Nova Scotia!” Now I was here; and nobody knocked me here.
I danced in St. John's, Gander, Corner Brook, and Spanish Fork. My transportation to Newfoundland and back was paid as part of my contract. I was supposed to stay six weeks; but my tour was cut short in Spanish Fork. I had not completed my week at the bar when one night a bar-room brawl broke out.
The owner of the bar had two women who were wives of two band members and me get in a little closet off the side of the bar which was their store room for liquor. I could get a good look at the fight from where I was standing. We were in back of the bar off to the side. The rowdy customers were climbing on top of the bar trying to get behind it. The owner was behind the bar with a ball bat keeping them from accomplishing that effort. One of the wives of a band member who was in the store room with me fainted. They were both crying. I was, to my surprise, quite calm and trying to comfort the scared women. I just figured, “Well, I'm here. There's nothing I can do about it now. All I can do is hope for the best and that I live through it all. The same philosophy I had when I was flying.
Lucky for me, the bar owner was the winner. I do not know how he got rid of them. I did not see all the fight; but I am sure the band members helped out, too, especially since two of them had their wives that could be in possible danger.
After this incident, I was really scared to be there. I just wanted to go home even if it meant no pay. I needed to figure out a way to get the owner of the bar to let me leave immediately. He was really upset. I realized that he was more upset than me. I used this to my advantage.
I do not remember all of the details; but I convinced him to let me leave that night. I concocked a story that there was a possibility that I was not there legally and that he might get shut down because of it. That's all he needed to hear! He was nervous enough. He did not want anymore trouble.
He had his wife take me to the airport immediately. We were in the car at the airport. She pro-rated my pay for the week and gave it to me. I told her that I needed the money for the plane ticket. She was not going to give it to me. I told her that the deal was that the first place I danced paid for my way over and the last place paid for my way back to the United States. I do not know how I convinced her. Maybe she was more nervous than her husband and just wanted me out. But whatever the reason, at least, I got the ticket paid by her and left. I was really glad. Here I was in a small fishing port so far back that the bus or a taxi would not go there. I just wanted to “get-out-of-town”. I had had enough run-ins with the law in Kansas City about my stripping. I sure did not want to be in a jail in a foreign country.
I was supposed to work in Labador the next week. It was not on my contract; but the woman who owned the bar in Labador saw my show at one of my stops and booked me for the week after Spanish Fork. I wish I could have worked for her.
I will never forget the means of transportation I used to get from place to place. I took the plane to my first stop which was St. John's where the air force base was located. The next place I went either Corner Brook or Gander, did not have an airport; so I took the bus. The next place, either Corner Brook or Gander, did not have plane service or bus service; so I took a cab. The last place, Spanish Fork, did not have plane service, bus service, or cab service going to this place. I paid a cocktail waitress and her husband to drive me to this next destination. I was wondering if the availability of transportation was going to get any worse. But he bar-room brawl took care of my chances of venturing any further.
The cocktail waitress who had taken me to Spanish Fork and I developed a passing moment of friendship. She wanted me to bring my kids and visit someday in the future. She said that I had changed her mind about strippers. She said that everyone thinks they will go to bed with anyone. But she said how she knew I had not been touched by anyone since I had been in their little fishing port. So that really made me feel good that I had had the capability of projecting this fact to someone to let them know that a woman is not a whore just because she is a stripper.
I wish my family would have learned this in my life-time. But that is gone to the wayside. After so long a time of trying to fit in one gives up even if it is her own family.
The bar that I worked at where the cocktail waitress and her husband gave me a ride to Spanish Fork was either Gander or Corner Brook. I think it was Corner Brook. The owner was really nice to me. He took me on a tour of the fish factory. That was the big industry of the town and the only thing going on except me. I appreciated his being so nice to me. I especially, appreciated his kindness one night when some guys were trying to break my motel door down.
I was in a room that had an entrance to the outside as well as a door to the hallway. After my show one night, some guys were outside my room hollering for me to let them in and pounding on my door. Once again, as in the bar room brawl incident that happened the next week, I remained unusually calm. I started to heat a cup of water in my little electrical pot that I heated up things like soup. I had decided that if they knocked the door down, I would throw the hot water in their faces and try to run out. I was afraid to open the door to the hallway because I thought they might have someone standing outside that door waiting for me to open it. Then I did hear a knock at the door in the hallway. I thought, “Oh! No!” Then I heard the kindest voice in the world to me at that time. It was the owner. I let him. In. He went to the other door and got rid of all the idiots.
I remember one place I danced in Newfoundland where the working conditions were horrendous. I had to walk from the dressing room which was a storeroom through a kitchen that was quite unkempt. I had to step over crap like chicken parts and lettuce to get to the stage which was only a corner of the dance floor. All the customers gathered around me to watch me strip to the music.
I wish I would have gotten out and seen more of Newfoundland while I was there. But I was always too afraid of someone maybe trying to hurt me. Or someone thinking I was easy sex material since I was a stripper. I tried to avoid all trouble as much as I could. I lived through it all without getting hurt; so maybe I was right.
I did venture out one time to see a hockey game – mainly because I had never been to one before. It was nothing like I had expected. I was scared to death of the crowd. The hockey players were so violent. The crowd would holler, “Kill him! I want to see some blood!” I was glad to get back to my room safely after that game.
I took a walk one time in one of the cities where I worked. I realized that they had nothing better or as good as the United States. In the restaurants, the tables were just wood – no formica – maybe that is better.
At one town, I think it was my first stop – St. John's – my motel room was a bedroom in a large house. Everyone used the same restroom and shower. The restaurant was a kitchen. I would sit at the table and order my meal. This was quite different for me. Sometimes in the living room some musicians would play their guitars and sing. I went down and listened to them sometimes.
St. John's is where they wrote a really nice article about me and put it in the paper. I still have it.
I am glad for the experiences I had in Newfoundland even thought some of them were scary. It was a pretty country from what I saw of it. The most I saw of it was when I took a taxi from one spot to the next because the plane or bus did not go that far back. There were big trees for miles and miles. It was really pretty. Newfoundland seemed like a place untouched by human hands except, sadly I must say, the fishing ports where I danced. The fish in the sea at these places experienced the devastation and murder at the hands of the fisherman.
Watch the New BOOK TRAILER of Opal's book THOUGHTS OF A STRIPPER at:
Sometimes when I would get a rowdy crowd or a difficult one - especially, in the burlesk theaters - I would stop my strip act and do my yoga positions. By this time, I would be pretty well naked. The guys would be hollering obscenities or whatever. I would do my yoga and was able to block out everything they were saying or, at least, block it out to the point of having me not care what they sid - no feelings toward their words at all. One might say I was in a state of meditation at this point.
On the stage, I always looked differently than off the stage. As a matter-of-fact, unlike most people, I looked and still do look better without my clothes on. Still, at the age of fifty-four, I look like eighteen from the neck down. But from the neck up - my face looks like a road-map.
When I was on the stage, I was beautiful. This was my area of feeling on top of the world. I knew at certain moments on the stage that nobody could look as good as me. I was at my best as far as beauty was concerned.
The beauty which I possessed on the stage was more than skin-deep. By becoming a stripper and baring it all, I was able to mentally bare my sould and transform my consciousness on a higher realm of thought. My thoughts were beautiful, too, even though I was performing to what most people consider the "next thing to prostitution".
My older sister, Darla, was always the prettiest and still is. She has a natural beauty that needs no make-up. My physical appearance - my face - needs make-up to even become attractive. The only time I have ever been pretty is on the stage. At these time, my beauty soared and surpassed even Darla's natural beauty.
One time when I was dancing on the stage - stripping - there was a man and a woman sitting on the front row of the burlesk theater. They were gazing at me. The man said something to the woman. She said, "Be quiet, I want to see this". The man looked at me and said, "You've got a body even Jesus could fall in love with".
Sometimes when I would be dancing a a stripper in the strip clubs - after I finished my show, I would come out with something skimpy on to hustle drinks from the men. Sometimes a guy would say to me, "I want to talk to that girl who was just on the stage". Needless to say, it was me. That is how much different I looked on the stage - naked - compared to having on clothes - even skimpy clothes.
Opal's new podcast as THE OLD STRIPPER:
The trailer of the upcoming feature film THE OLD STRIPPER:
Jack's new Filmmaker V-Log about his Mother Opal, the OLD STRIPPER:
