A Performance to Remember.. Cookie Becomes A Beatnik

In the fall of 1958, the first Beatnik-style coffee house opened its doors in Fort Worth, Texas. Calling itself “The Cellar.”

Fort Worth did not welcome its presence or the inhabitants it attracted. Conservative city fathers asked, “Where did these people come from? Have they always been here?” It was a cowtown of shit-kicking cowboys, Cadillac-driving oil men, and country club debutants wearing Justin boots. My cousin Carmalita, who preferred the name Cookie, was a perfect fit for the coffee house and secured a job as a waitress at the new establishment.

Being seven- years younger than Cookie, the other cousins and I had limited interaction during her teenage years. Still, I know from the family stories and the “almost out of earshot whispers” that she was a real hellion of a girl. Her mother, a rosary-clutching Catholic, believed her daughter to be mentally disturbed and demon-possessed. She was neither, just a rebellious girl born twenty years too early who refused to fit into the conservative society of the 1950s.

Immersing herself in books by Kerouac and Ginsberg that glorified the new lifestyle of the “beat generation.” Cookie began dressing in the style of “the Beats.” She envisioned herself traveling west with Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise as they motored their way to New Mexico in search of God and the meaning of life fueled by Marijuana sticks and two-dollar-a-bottle liquor. Jack Kerouac was her hero.

Waist-length black hair and a resemblance to a young Ava Gardner didn’t endear her to the Sandra Dee-loving girls’ club at school. She was labeled an outcast. She dropped out of Paschal High School at sixteen to live in sin with her next-to-worthless greaser-hoodlum boyfriend, a motorcycle-riding teenage hubcap-stealing thief from the north side of town. This decision resulted in her instant banishment from the family.

Polled by a phone-in family vote, she was christened the “little trollop.” Her name was not to be spoken at gatherings, and her mother requested all photographs containing images of Cookie be returned to her for proper disposal by fire in the backyard BBQ pit. Her father was brokenhearted by her rejection. Unable to watch her sweet sixteen birthday present, a Ford Fairlane convertible, sit abandoned in his driveway, he sold it. The rebellious type was not tolerated well in the 1950s, especially in Texas and our extended family.

“The Cellar” grew in popularity, and crowds of unwashed self-appointed poets and deep thinkers found their way to the dark, smokey den.

Cookie grew tired of the bland poetry readings from ancient books and tried her hand at writing. Her heart was full of self-induced resentment, and it didn’t take long for her to dish on everyone and everything she felt had “done her wrong.” Her parents were number one on her list. She asked the club owner to let her perform a personal poem about her life, and he agreed.

Saturday evening is reserved for the serious night-dwelling “hip beats.” They convene and hold literary court to anyone who will listen. Mixed groups gather around small tables, arguing about poetry, politics, religion and the meaning of life. Old Crow adds the extra kick to the strong coffee. An occasional strange cigarette might be passed around.

Sensing the time is right, Cookie takes the stage, cradling a cardboard box under her left arm and a large pair of sewing shears in her right hand. She sets the box on the floor next to a tall stool. Tears stream from her eyes, forming dark streams of watery mascara onto her peach-pale cheeks. A thin tinsel string of snot drips from her left nostril, resting on her upper lip, and glitters in the spotlight, bathing her face in an ethereal glow. She sniffs and gags a few times, composes herself, and begins her poem.

She retrieves her favorite childhood doll baby from the box and lays it on the stool top. She grabs a large meat cleaver from the box and beheads the poor toy. A gasp erupts from the crowd. Earlier, for maximum effect, she filled the doll’s plastic head with Heinz Ketchup and potted ham to simulate blood and brains. The ketchup-splattered patrons recoil in horror when the doll’s head is guillotined and bounces onto their table by the stage.

Next, she pulls a beautiful 8×10 glossy photo of her parents from the box and cuts it to shreds with the sewing shears. She pulls a Girl Scout uniform from the box and rips it to pieces, throwing the all-American remnants of the uniform into the audience.

Cookie leans into the microphone, takes a long drag from a Pall Mall, and in a low growl, says, ” I never liked dolls or toys, but you made me treat the little fakes like real people. I fed them imaginary food, bathed them in imaginary water, changed their tiny poopless diapers, and dressed them in stupid clothes, and for that, I hate you and cut my hair.” With that statement, she grabs a chunk of her beautiful lady Godiva’s length hair and removes a six-inch portion with the sewing shears.

She continues, ” I didn’t want to be a Bluebird, but no, I had to be like the other girls on our street, you know, I don’t like the color blue, and for that, I hate you, and I cut my hair.” Then, whack, another large section falls to the stage. ” you hate my boyfriend because he is a bad boy, and he is all that, but I love him and want to spend my life on the back of his ratty-ass motorcycle holding a nursing baby in each arm as we travel west to find the meaning of life.” She then whacks the left side of her hair to within inches of her scalp.

The audience is on the verge of bolting for the door, fearing her next move may sever an artery and expire in front of them. A voice from the back of the room yells, “This chick is crazy, man.”

Cookie ends her act and exits the stage, leaving a pile of black hair mixed with ketchup and photo paper. The crowd of poets and hip cats give her a lukewarm reception. This performance was too unhinged for the normally unshakable.

That performance at the Cellar that night was the debut of what would become known as “Performance Art.”

Cookie got her wish. Less than a year later, with a baby in her arms, she and her boyfriend made their way to California, and that’s another story.