Not me, you weridos…that’s creepy…this gal:


There were 28 of us girls at the New Orleans Playboy Club, and we were girls, not women, make no mistake. I found out later that they called me “HG” behind my back, for “homegrown.” Most everyone else was local, working class, with that heavy Yat accent. They had no illusions about what the job was: glorified cocktail waitressing in a birdcage costume, satin ears and killer shoes. I was starry-eyed and thought I’d hit the big time.


Writers, take note: these first-person vignettes are great launchpads for fiction.



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