Joanne sometimes wonders how she got here.
Ivy-League educated, with the world at her fingertips, Joanne Jefferson now spent her days among starving artists, junkies, and radicals—a far cry from the life she had expected to lead just months before.
She remembers how it once was. She'd attended college and law school in the midst of some of the country's brightest—and most privileged—young minds. She remembers the attractive young coeds, bluebloods all, who comprised her circle of friends. There were countless weekend outings to some of the American northeast's finest hotels and restaurants. Even the quality of her junk food improved. Her comrades wrinkled their noses at her favorite snack, Chips Ahoy; they soon bought her cookies that sold for $25 a pound at the upscale bakery downtown. Joanne had grown up comfortably, to be sure, but compared to those in her social circle, she felt downright pauperish. Because she never outgrew her taste for her plain old generic Chips Ahoy, because she wasn't accustomed to such wealth, she just didn't feel worthy to be part of their exclusive bunch.
Her friends hadn't cared, though. A laugh, an arm around her shoulders, and the insistence that she forget her troubles. "Don't you worry," they'd told her. Invariably, someone would produce their credit card and pay her share, never grousing or grumbling about the freeloading black girl from 'the city.'
She remembers the dinner conversations, sometimes continuing deep into the night. Politics, philosophy, classic art and music…the list of subjects was as long as the discussions themselves. These young connoisseurs knew it all, experts on seemingly any topic. Joanne loved to debate, to discuss, but mostly to marvel at her surroundings. In her elementary and high schools, nobody thought or cared much about the world outside of one's own neighborhood. It was, after all, where most of her classmates would stay for the rest of their lives. Now, however, she was where she was born to be, among interested, educated, talented young people. Her parents had come of age during the civil rights movement, working their way up the social ladder; now here she was, continuing the climb. It was a heady and intoxicating sensation.
She remembers the restaurants, the fine food and high prices. She remembered the Italian place, little more than a hole-in-the-wall, and the sophisticated bistro with the menu in French. The seafood shack was their most common destination, though, seemingly casual but unexpectedly pricey. Her allergy to shellfish severely limited the menu options; she may have mentioned it once or twice, but her words were lost in the chatter of art exhibitions and ballet. Joanne didn't mind, though. For her, it was enough to sit and talk among these marvels, these up-and-coming giants of the professional world.
The years slipped by, far too fast in Joanne's opinion. She received her diploma, first for undergrad, then for law school. She was admitted to the bar. Instead of taking the fast track to a six-figure job, however, her fortunes were forever changed the day she collided full-speed with a sassy brunette named Maureen in a crowded corner deli.
And now…here she was: a loft on the Lower East Side, where six colorful characters had taken over her life.
She can't pretend that they are as educated a group as the Harvardians. Collins is a college professor, true, but his presence is often spotty at best, tangled up as he is in papers and coursework. Other than Mark, who completed his bachelor's degree, everyone else has attended only high school or a couple years of college before eschewing the idea of higher education. Tiny Mimi dropped out of the eleventh grade and never looked back.
They know a bit about the fine arts, a smattering about politics, usually limited to the contents of the Village Voice. Mostly, however, they hone their own crafts. Creating, participating. They are the creators of art, not the viewers.
This is all very foreign to Joanne. Art has always been created for her. She, herself, doesn't create. She dresses in a crisp pantsuit and argues in front of a judge. That is her livelihood. This bohemian world is within walking distance of her childhood home, a short bus trip from her alma mater, yet it is astonishingly different from the sphere in which she grew and developed.
That is why it's hard to pinpoint why she feels so comfortable.
She is startled from her thoughts by shout from the street below Mark and Roger's loft. Collins and Angel are here. Joanne, the only one within earshot at the moment, retrieves the key and flies out to the fire escape, shouting a greeting and tossing the keys to the ground.
Angel enters first, glorious in a DayGlo-blue miniskirt and form-fitting blue-and-green top. Green leggings and those infamous heels complete the ensemble. A brown paper grocery bag in each arm, she greets Joanne cheerfully. Collins follows close behind, barely visible behind his own mountain of bags, still his loud, boisterous self.
It's Superbowl Sunday; though no one is a huge football fan, it's an opportunity to drink, to be loud and boisterous. Roger and Mark are at the repair shop, trying to get the old TV fixed. Of all days, today is the one on which it decides to blink out. Mimi's napping in Roger's room, and Maureen is…well, she's not quite sure where Maureen is.
Joanne helps Angel and Collins unload the food while they laugh over the day's misfortune. They decide that it's almost right that such a thing occur; it's so very them.
Joanne likes that, after only a month, she's considered part of "them."
She peers into the next bag. Pretzels, chips, salsa…the usual game day fare. At the bottom, however, is a ring of shrimp and cocktail sauce. Aware of its cost, she removes it from the bag with care.
Angel looks up, sees her with it. Clucking her tongue, the drag queen reaches across the table. "Don't you dare, sugar," she admonishes, "you're allergic." She sets it down and begins to peek into the other bags that now litter the aluminum table, muttering to herself. "Now I know they're in here somewhere, and I just don't…aha!" With a flourish, she reaches into one of the unopened bags, removing a bright blue package. She carefully tosses it to Joanne, who catches it in surprise. Slowly turning it over in her hands, a small smile spreads across her face.
She holds her first bag of Chips Ahoy in over six years.