The Duchess of Harlem
The Duchess of Harlem (Circa 2008)
I stared into the polaroid which I so delicately balanced between the tips of my fingers.
My eyes were affixed to the woman who stood at the center of the frame. Her gaze was so
powerful it was as if her eyes had formed a pair of daggers which jutted into my very soul. Her
esquisatness was not limited to her eyes however, her hair, which tumbled down to her hips,
looked as soft as a mare’s belly, and her smile, while youthful and shy, hinted at intoxicating
eroticiy which had the means of erecting even the most disciplined of celibates. Behind her
magnificent figure stood the oversized plastered legs which bent at the knees and spread apart as
if welcoming an inspection from a gynecologist for giants. At the point where the legs met, stood
the entrance to Harlem’s esteemed night club, The Itch.
I gazed up from the photo and at the deteriorating mass before me. A once prosperous
titan of Harlem’s redlight district, The Itch had been reduced to a crumbling stained heap. The
decorative legs which had at a time been routinely replastered and painted over had been
neglected for years. Patches of fungi and moss took refuge within its eroding crevices as bits and
pieces of plaster & concrete lay scattered around the perimeter like the fallen leaves of an ancient
sequoia. Despite its inevitable collapse, I couldn't help but admire the club’s persistence in
remaining both operational and standing over its 70+ year life span. Wabi-Sabi (not to be
mistaken for wasabi which is a Japanese equivalent to horseradish) is a term coined by the
Japanese to describe the acceptance of beauty which is imperfect. The idea behind Wabi-Sabi is
to look beyond the implied “imperfections” and instead allow its degradation to share with us its
many lessons, stories and unique beauty which it stands to represent. Although the eroding mass
hinted at many stories, the story which had brought me here today was not in regards to The Itch,
itself. I returned my gaze to the crumpled photo in my cusp. It was at that moment I became
conscious of my heart beat, which thumped along as though esteemed American Drummer,
Ringo Starr was nestled inside banging out a drum solo. I carefully folded the tattered photo into
the pocket of my loose-fitting cargo shorts, and proceeded into what many conservative
christians have referred to as the “Womb from Hell”.
In the 1970s The Itch was the bustling epicenter of Harlem’s nightlife. The tables were
hand crafted by local woodsmen, the food was made fresh and never frozen, and the bartender,
Big Buck, was always devising clever new cocktails (It was said he never repeated a recipe -not
once). In addition to everything else it had going for it, it was said to have some of the best
dancers in the world, the very best being, the woman in the photo. Needless to say, all great
things come to an end, and as I laid my eyes upon the club for the very first time, it was apparent
to me that The Itch’s best days were well behind it.
I pulled up a seat at the stained and blistering bar next to a plump sweaty man in 60s. He
wore a straw hat and smoked what appeared to be a crack pipe. The man also didn’t have any
pants which I found odd, but I buried my observation and proceeded to order a drink from Big
Buck. Big Buck was 70 going on 80, but he looked to be 90. Nevertheless, even with his
hunched back, greasy eyebrows, and patchy beard, something told me that back in his hay-day
there was something about this man that drove the women mad. After a minute of calling out to
the hearing impared senior, I finally caught Big Buck’s attention.
While I was most looking forward to meeting the lady in the photo, I too reserved
excitement for sampling one of Big Buck’s famous cocktail contraptions. I placed my order for
the daily special and watched as Buck pulled a mysterious acorn from his vest and proceeded to
smash it against the table with the palm of his hand. Once it was reduced to a crumbled mash,
Buck scraped the remnants of the acorn into a glass and threw in some oily leaves from a nearby
drawer. He then sloshed in a 2:1 ratio of lemon juice and vodka and topped the whole thing off
with some grated apple core, which he quickly returned to its home in the bar’s sink. The
walking antique slammed the beverage onto the bar and slid it over to me, sloshing about a third
of it onto the hand carved counter in the process. Although I was suspicious of the oily leaves
which shared a striking resemblance to poison oak, I figured it was in ill-taste to question the
veteran bartender’s unique craftsmanship and creativity. Out of respect for the artist, I took a sip
of the Oaky Sour, allowing the numbing grime to coat the inside of my mouth and throat. I then
signaled to Buck to close my tab. As he stalked over to the register to exchange my $20, I
couldn’t help but notice Big Buck’s sagging cheeks hanging out of what appeared to be NO
PANTS. “Odd”, I thought to myself, as I recalled the man beside me who continued to smoke his
crack. At first, I thought myself to be going crazy, but as I made a pan of the club, I realized
hardly any of the patrons had bothered to wear any pants. As Big Buck handed me my change, I
asked him why no one was wearing any pants. Big Buck didn’t hear me and began to trudge over
to the other end of the bar. I called out after him -screaming like a rooster on a traditional
all-American farm. This time he turned to face me, nodded, and proceeded to make me another
drink. Rather than disrupt his flow, I chose instead to admire his craft. “Waba-subi”, I thought to
myself as Big Buck obliterated another acorn beneath his sweaty palm. As soon as he’d placed
my second drink in front of me, I called out to him with my question. This time he heard me
correctly. “It’s Bottomless Night at The Itch, and that doesn’t only apply to the strippers!
HAHA.”, Big Buck belted, “If you show up without your pants you get bottomless fries'' A smirk
found its way onto my face. There was something about tradition which I had always found so
gravitating. Maybe this place wasn’t as washed up as I had it out to be. After paying for my
second drink, I took my two Oaky Sours and proceeded to a table in the dance section of the bar.
I was lucky enough to catch the last few minutes of Maximum Payload’s routine as she thrust her
bottom side in the air in repeated movements in celebration of her femininity. I was mesmerized
by her femenine grace, I could feel my cargos expanding, and although her performance was
enthralling, she was not who I had come here to witness. I had come for The Duchess of Harlem.
The Duchess was born into a lower class family, who resided within the slums of Harlem,
sometime before the start of the second world war. Against her parent’s best wishes, she
eventually convinced them to enroll her into a local dance studio. The child had many dreams,
but above all else, she dreamed of becoming a professional ballerina. She dedicated hours to her
craft and even managed to place in several local competitions. Despite bearing shallow wallets,
her parents continued to pay for her classes, agreeing that their daughter’s dreams would always
come before anything else. Sadly, things took an abrupt turn for the worst when at the age of 12,
her parents' suffered an unplanned death by u-boat annihilation while taking on a vacation to
Europe. The Duchess was left both orphaned and without a means to pay for her dance
competitions. Although she was greatly saddened by her loss, she quickly came to terms with the
fact that no one was coming to help her, and that she was on her own. In light of this, she began
dancing on the streets of Harlem, panning for change. Some say it was her persistence, others say
it was her personality, nevertheless her 12 hour work days raked in tremendous profits from
monocle bearing capitalists who frequented the streets on which she performed. Every evening
she would take her jar of earnings and store them in a hole which she had secretly dug
somewhere in Times Square. For the next year, the Duchess was homeless, and while the odds
were stacked high against her, she was determined to achieve economic prosperity. By the time
she was 19, she had invested heavily in real estate and had full control of 7 business properties
across the Harlem district. Aside from her business ventures, she established permanent soup
kitchens, shelters and was even planning on opening a dance studio for underprivileged youth.
However, after stumbling upon a nightclub, the course of her life took a dramatic shift. She had
intended to enter a shoe store in the hopes of securing a fresh pair of boots, but had instead
stumbled upon a nightclub, a type of establishment she had never known existed. The spectacle
of flawless dancing kept her at bay. Tears streamed down her cheek as the dancers effortlessly
carved their bodies around the poles. She remained in the club until they closed in early dawn.
The very next day she signed off her entire estate to a number of homeless youth, so she
could start fresh as an exotic dancer. She took on the moniker: “The Duchess of Harlem'', a move
that would become so definitive that her birth name would be replaced indefinitely. The
Duchess’ performances quickly grew in popularity, so much so that men were willing to fly
across the country to witness a single dance. Tickets to her performances were commonly
scalped and were oftentimes sold at enormous profits on the black market. By 1950, just a year
after beginning her new career, The Duchess opened her very own club, The Itch. Aside from
housing some of the greatest dancers to ever grace the Earth, The Itch processed a number of
unique features including a fine interior, kind staff, and an entrance which would turn the head of
any passersby. Although countless men would ask for her hand in marriage, the Duchess would
always deny them. In a male-dominated society, the Duchess had flipped the status quo for it was
she who instigated intercourse and not the other way around. Several of those who lay with the
Duchess would go on to achieve great things. Such men include the likes of: Mickey Mantle,
Muhamad Ali, Michael Jordan, and several more. Even those who simply found themselves in
her presence experienced some degree of fortune. In one case, a Mississippi man visiting
Brooklyn to purchase a gorilla for his zoo, found himself at The Itch, and after watching The
Duchess perform went over to a slot machine and instantly won $15,000. In another instance, the
Duchess was driving to work when a suicidal man from Nebraska stepped out in front of her.
After being propelled 20 feet, the man was immediately rushed to a hospital. While attending
treatment, he fell in love with the nurse who he’d eventually go on to marry.
The Itch (circa 2000)
As the years went on many would speculate whether the Duchess simply had good taste
in men or whether it was her magical sexual energy which would propel the careers and talents
of those who’d cross her path. Drawing from the many stories which tell of the Duchess’
influence, one wonders what could possibly degrade such a powerful reputation. As it turned out,
not all who would lay with the Duchess would go on to become great people. Among those she
unfortunately bedded include: Bill Cosby, Ronald Reagan, Ted Bundy, and others. Despite her
scope of influence, like many problems facing adult males within this country, the blame for the
actions of these men was disproportionately placed upon the shoulders of women -her shoulders.
In addition, around the time these “scandals” began to make their rounds, the non-profits which
she had entrusted to the homeless youth had, without her knowing, over the years, degraded into
exploitative profit seeking corporations. Despite her no longer having any stake in these
ventures, the foundations had continued to bare her name (“Duchess of Harlem”) and
consequently contributed to the demise of her public image. The combination of these scandals
and the societal shunnings which followed, eventually coaxed the Duchess to regress into a less
public lifestyle, choosing to only dance on specific nights for a select group of loyal patrons.
Over time, even the loyalists of her fans began to appear less frequently, realizing they’d much
rather gawk at a young fleshy body than that of some 90 year old sack of skin and bones.
Fast forward to present, hardly anyone ever frequents The Itch as they used to. A room
once filled with people clambering over one another to get a view, was now reduced to a small
group of about 10 pantless old men. The seniors shuffled in circles, before me, crying out in
sporadic screams which were either an early sign of altizmers or a form of ritualistic calling for
the Duchess. Those who had them, thrust their canes in the air, and dropped to their knees
screaming into the air like teenagers at a rock concert. I trembled in excitement. Was I about to
witness the Duchess of Harlem perform?
The lights in The Itch went dark, and the club immediately fell silent. From within the
void of darkness erupted the strum of a rock guitar. Wretched moans of excited old men filled the
space. Suddenly, a military-grade flash bang erupted at center stage. The blast sent a piercing cry
through the club and sent me over the backend of my seat. As I worked to regain my sight, I
could begin to make out the shape of a person on stage who just seconds ago had not stood there.
Although my ears continued to ring, by the 20 second mark I had managed to recover most of
my vision enough to confirm I was in the presence of the legendary human which I sought.
Having fallen to the floor, several pantless seniors struggled to lift themselves up. One had
singed hair, but the smile on his face told me he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Although
her primary audience struggled to regain consciousness, the Duchess began her routine without
them. Beginning with a grueling scream, the Duchess leapt at the pole in front of her, securing it
beneath her bony hands, and allowing the momentum of the jump to send her into a voyeuristic
spin. The skin beneath her arms, which normally draped like defiant flags, flapped
uncontrollably as she made her rounds around the pole. She then brought her spin to a halt, lifted
her legs into the air and positioned herself so that she was upside down. From there, she slid
down the bar, dropped to the floor and transitioned into a somersault.
As I continued to watch the performance, several thoughts ran through my head. Here
was a woman who, at the cryptic age of 90, performed with the same level of energy as a pair of
newly wed mormons on wedding night. Her speed, although stunted from the years of
degenerating bone matter and muscle tissue, was as impressive as the invention of ice cream.
While her movements called for an immense amount of energy, her facial demeanor remained so
relaxed that at one point in her performance her dentures fell from her mouth. Quite casually
however, she found them on the floor, and elegantly pushed them back into place, before
winking at her senior entourage. The pantless old men went ballistic. The Duchess’ performance
remained strong throughout the entirety of its 30 minute run. For her climactic finish, the
Duchess performed a minute long single leg wrap spin around the bar. The Duchess then brought
her spin to a halt and stood front and center to face her audience. One by one, she stared into the
eyes of her fans, as if to spend a private moment with each and every one of them. When her
eyes fell on my own, I felt my heart catapult itself towards the bottom of my foot. With one final
scream, the Duchess clapped her hands together and performed a backflip. She landed on her
knees to the sound of a loud “crack”, even so, her face remained unphased. The club erupted into
a roar of applause which lasted no longer than 12 minutes.
As patrons began to return to their tabless, the Duchess remained motionless at center
stage. Minutes passed before Big Buck would go up and check on her. The Duchess of Harlem
was pronounced dead on the scene and was wheeled out by the local morgue who had been on
standby at the corner of the bar. As I later discovered, The Duchess had intended for that dance
to be her last. That is why her most devoted fans had gathered and rallied the way they had. This
was a special performance, a performance of passion, grace, and an ode to all that was beautiful.
I sat back, humbled by having experienced something so magical. I would have very much liked
to have spoken with the Duchess, but what she gave me was far more valuable. Was it mere
coincidence that I would be one of the last to witness her perform? Was this the taste of fate? As
pruned as she was, it was impossible for me not to see the beauty in the Duchess through all she
had overcome, and all she had set out to accomplish and succeed. I continued to sip my
beverage, assuring myself it was not the beverage which made me feel the strange sensations in
my stomach, but rather the thrill of witnessing a performance of The Duchess of Harlem.