Harlow

Harlow has been on my mind a lot lately. Not Jean Harlow, the MGM 1930s blonde bombshell, I have been thinking about Harlow, the lesbian stripper whore. Those are Harlow's words, not mine.

I met Harlow a month after BC and I moved into our apt in Chelsea in 1971. We met all the other tenants in our building shortly after moving in but not Harlow. Chatty Patti, the unofficial hostess of Club 450, (nickname for our building) welcomed us with open arms and endless gossip about the other tenants and neighbors. She said that Harlow was a stripper that lived on the top floor of the building and never associated with her neighbors, real mystery woman. Harlow capitalized on her resemblance to Jean of the movies. She was also soft, voluptuous and had dyed her naturally blonde hair platinum. She always wore white and never was seen without her sun glasses. Harlow was at the top of her game and a NY legend of sorts.

Some nights when I had trouble sleeping and didn’t want to disturb BC I would go up to the rooftop and smoke a cigarette or two. It was one of those nights that I ran into Harlow for the first time. She was there in the dark with her own cigarette and didn’t acknowledge me at all. When she finished she disappeared downstairs. This happened again over the next week or so. Finally I walked over and spoke. We exchanged a few words and parted. Our conversations grew in length over the months.

Eventually I was invited into her apartment. It was one of those mirrored deco jobs with soft lighting and blackout drapes and matched her perfectly. We sometimes talked ‘til dawn, then she would go to bed and I would go back downstairs to BC. The rare occasions Harlow was seen in daylight she was usually climbing into or out of a limo in front of the building. I was to learn that several A list NY women enjoyed her company …for a fee. And Harlow was expensive.

One day after I returned from school there was a knock at the door. Harlow was standing there in a silk kimono wearing her shades and holding a shoebox. That image is burned in my brain. She handed me the box and asked me to keep it for her, then she opened the lid and showed me the pile of money inside. I told her I thought it was a better idea to just put in a bank. That’s when she asked me to bank it under my name or put it in a safety deposit box for her. She didn’t want to explain her source of cash to the IRS or keep it in her apartment. Anyway that’s how I became her banker. She would give me cash and I would take it to the bank.

Eventually I was able to drag Harlow to the Sunday brunches our building pals threw every week. She learned to let go, enjoy herself, and make some new friends.

One day Patti was whining about her car. She needed a lot of work done and couldn’t afford it. I told her I would lend her the money. She said she couldn’t take it until I explained it wasn’t my money, it belonged to Harlow. She wanted to make sure it was ok with Harlow so I led her upstairs. Harlow opened her door a crack, long enough to tell Patti to just to tell me the amount needed that I handled her finances and she didn't need the details. I loaned Patti the money, she paid it back with interest, and Harlow made even more money.

When BC and I moved from NYC I transferred all the money back to Harlow, and we kept in touch for many years.

When I returned home from my April trip I took my passports back to the bank and put them in my safety deposit box. I put them on top of some cash I keep for emergencies. I’ve been thinking about Harlow ever since.