Early Bordello Decor

One of my early semesters in college I lived with my Grandmother in the city. I could sit here and reminisce about the three block walk down tree lined streets every morning and afternoon, the aroma and the taste of really good coffee at the little shop adjacent the bus stop, the trek to and fro campus and the education I received. But last night for some reason, I dreamed of the bedroom she assigned me and found myself alternately shaking my head and smiling.

This room, the second bedroom in the house was straight out of the early 1900s, belonged in a brothel above a seedy saloon and deserved a fashionably dressed and painted lady smoking her cigarette through a long black tube standing outside her door waiting for a visitor.

It was a good sized room at the back of the house. It's only windows looked out over a covered patio so there was no real light source, save the window in the walk-in closet that looked out onto a tiny side street next to the house. A flick of the light switch - the kind that clicked on and off, not those silent things we have now - revealed a painted white door and similar popcorn ceiling, adorned with those sparkly doodads that twinkled in the moonlight and had you lying in bed at night thinking of the night sky.

From the door way, directly in front of you was a large four poster bed, usually draped in a white tufted chenille spread, with it's high mahogany head board and equally high foot board. The corner posts always took me to the place where elegant white silk scarves bound delicate wrists in some unspoken and never ending game of passion. I think the white spread and matching accent pillows were grandma's attempt at propriety in a riotous field of color which she clearly did not decorate herself.

To the right of the bed sat one of two matching mahogany night stands, a cream colored lamp and a tall bureau that lounged against the wall next to a simple queen anne wing chair. On the far side of the bed sat the other night stand, same lamp, and a squat six drawer dresser. At the end of the bed against a smooth plaster wall I get the impression of book cases with glass fronts, but I cannot recall exactly. I close my eyes and see leather bound first editions accented with dainty thimbles from her collection and grandfather's many elephant figurines. Yes... they were there. I inherited those and I will cherish them as I did him.

So far nothing out of the ordinary. I suppose that's true. I spent many an hour sitting on that queen anne chair, with it's deep maroon crushed velvet covering, stroking the silky fringe that cascaded from it, like tassels from a burlesque queen. Reading mostly. Studying the likes of Plato, Shakespeare, O' Henry. Sometimes I put down the student version, run my fingers across the rippled leather of the first editions and if she had a copy, read it from there. It somehow felt more authentic, more worldly to smell the old paper, hear the pages crack and rustle as I turned them and tried to make sense of the allegories that often escaped me. I could get the gist of it. I could understand the stories, but often my youth and inexperience refused me the subtleties.

I recall waking on the first of many mornings while I stayed there. It was winter, cold and dark in the house. I think it was a Sunday and I still had unpacking to do. I snapped on a light, swung my feet to the floor and that's when it hit me and I couldn't help but giggle. My bare toes ran decadently through the very expensive and very soft burnt orange shag carpet that adorned the floor. Between the tufts of chenille, the crushed velvet, the smoothness of the mahogany and the carpet, it was veritable tactile feast for the taking. And I did.

No worries though, the feast continued on, chiefly with the walls. Two were painted and two were carefully wallpapered. I can't remember exactly which, but I believe the wall behind the bed was painted lemon yellow. Yes... I see it now, complete with the decorative base boards done in a contrasting orange a shade or two darker than the carpet. It ended abruptly at either end as the east and west walls were covered in giant hibiscus flowers of magenta, deep crimson, yellow and orange, all flocked onto the wallpaper and instantly a profusion of spring run amok in the dead of winter.

Lamps sparkled with tiny crystals and puffs of bright cotton dangling from the trim. Dressers were scarfed with rich linens that carried through the theme of spring time in a whorehouse. A copper pitcher and bowl leaned arrogantly against the wall on top of the bureau, as if daring me to move them. Fine china bells from all over the world lined the window sill in the walk-in and dainty satin padded hangers in a multitude of color held dresses wrapped in plastic straight from the cleaners.

Despite the wild array of color and style, it became my space. Not one I would have chosen for myself, but one that I grew to love just the same. After a long day of school, an every longer work day, I would retreat into this room, this apparition for which I could conjure up dancing girls, Calliope music and masculine laughter. For a moment the world seemed a better place for it having been there.