Brandon Stanton - Tanqueray

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To Mitch

It was a cold day in late November. Id just finished running on the treadmill at the gym. I didnt have a change of clothes and was covered in sweat, but I figured I could survive the half-mile walk home. As I made the final turn down my block, I noticed one of those people who doesnt seem to exist outside of New York City. It was a black woman in her late seventies. She was dressed in a custom floor-length mink coat and matching mink hat. And she looked amazing. Under normal circumstances Id have asked for her photograph. But these werent normal circumstances. It was very cold, I was drenched in sweat, and I didnt have my camera with meso I settled on just saying hi. You look great, I told her. And I intended to keep walking. But the woman had other ideas. Maybe she sensed an opportunity. Stephanie always senses opportunity.

Let me ask you a question, she said, waving me over with her hand. Why is it only white boys who wear shorts in the winter?

And thats how it all began. I laughed at her question and slowed down to reply, but I wasnt given the chance. Because as soon as I came near, she asked me where I lived. I pointed at a nearby building. That used to be the white ghetto, she said. I would sell rhinestone G-strings to all the hookers on this street. Everyone bought G-strings from me because they lit up like Christmas trees in the headlights. Stephanie then launched into a monologue that lasted several minutes. It was clear that this woman was a born performer. She was onstage, and I was an audience of one. This show had no intermissions. And she never paused for applause.

One of the first things she told me was that shed danced burlesque in the 1970s under the stage name of Tanqueray. Shed been quite successful at it, apparently. I was the only black girl making white girl money, she said. Then she told me about the first time she had sex. And the time she met James Brown. And the time she sold stolen mink coats for the mob. It was a frantic journey through space and time. One minute wed be in the 1940s talking about her childhood in Albany, then suddenly wed be in the locker room of the 86 New York Giants. Occasionally there would be some connective tissue between the stories, but most of the time there wasnt. It was a jukebox of stories set on random. But all of the stories did share one common trait: they were all captivating. And Stephanie could recount all of them in photographic detail.

As the monologue grew richer and richer, I began to feel the familiar itch I get in the presence of any great story. I should be writing all of this down. So I waited patiently for Stephanie to inhale, then I jumped in to interrupt. I run a website called Humans of New York, I told her, pulling out my phone and scrolling through my work. Id love to feature you. But I need to run home and grab my camera. I could tell she was a bit confused. And my credentials didnt mean much to her. But she was also enjoying the audience, so she agreed to wait. A few minutes later I returned, still wearing shorts, and took a few photos. Then I pulled out the notes app on my phone. Normally when I interview someone, theres a process I follow. Ill ask a few broad questions to find the story. Then Ill pull on the thread with a long series of follow-up questions. But none of that applied to Stephanie. I just let her go and wrote down everything she said. A few choice excerpts from those first set of notes:

The head of parole fucked my mother cause she was prime pussy.

We always sent Brenda out first because she could play the harmonica with her coochie.

Those are the ones with boobies but still have the equipment which the straight men love cause they can get done up the butt.

It was wild, wild stuff. All of it seems so familiar now, because Ive spent countless hours talking to Stephanie. These days I can listen to her describe the most graphic sex scene without raising an eyebrow. But on that first day I listened to all of it with my mouth wide open. Id never heard anything quite like her stories. They were full of wild characters: Joe Dorsey could pick any lockin the city. And he could get by any doorman because he dressed like Wall Street. There was a lot of unconventional sex. Men would line up at the stage with ketchup and mustard. But all of it was delivered in the deadpan of someone completely at ease with the subject matter. Nothing seemed to shock Stephanie. As soon as I got back home, I searched the internet for anything I could find on this woman. The only thing that came up was a slice of life piece from an Economist reporter whod done a short profile on Stephanies favorite diner. The article featured quotes from several regular customers. One of them was Stephanie: I used to be a stripper called Tanqueray, shed told him. Im going to make a book out of my life one day. Then apparently he moved on to the next booth. Whoops.

That night I did my best to structure a few of Stephanies monologues into chronological order. I posted them on Humans of New York alongside the pictures Id taken, and the response was greater than Id anticipated. Much greater. Quite frankly, people went nuts. After forty years of retirement, Tanqueray had burst back onto the stage in a big way. Stephanie couldnt leave her apartment without being stopped for photographs. Reporters were calling her on the phone. Her old hairdresser, who lived in LA, heard a rumor that Halle Berry wanted to play Stephanie in a movie. When I called to check on her, she was a bit confused by all the attention. Whats the name of your newspaper again? she asked. But she was having fun. A lot of fun. She didnt really need to know the details. All she needed to know was that she was back in demand. Ive got a lot more stories, she told me. We should talk some more.

And thats just what we did. We started meeting regularly for interviews at the diner near her house. Or more accuratelywed meet at her place, shed grab on to my arm, and Id escort her to the diner. Even though the total distance was half a blockit was a harrowing journey. Stephanie moved less than one mph. The first time we crossed 9th Avenue, the pedestrian signal turned green, and then it turned red againand we were still in the middle of the intersection. Stephanie was obviously in poor physical shape, but she always insisted that we make the trip. The diner was her second home. She knew every waiter. She told me several times that she was planning on getting one of them a stripper for his birthday. She always ordered a burger and fries. The next day shed complain that she needed to stop because the salt made her legs swell up. Then shed order the burger and fries again.