Worldly women "who had been around"

I first met Denise in the workshop run by our improv group, The Wing. She was young, but something about her suggested to me those tart-tongued women with hearts of gold whose cynical wise-cracks and snappy advice livened up movies of the forty's and fifty's. These were worldly women. They were, in the discrete phrase of those times, women "who had been around."

I once told Denise I'd speculated that when she was born, the doctor looked her over and said, "That kid's been around."
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There was an aspect of Denise that seemed a little displaced in time. She expressed surprise that I didn't listen to "Make Believe Ballroom," a radio program that played the jazz and band music of earlier generations. She liked old movies that showed earlier times, especially San Francisco decades ago. I was pleased to be able to tape for her a showing of "The Lineup," filmed in San Francisco in the sixty's and ending in a chase sequence that culminated at Sutro's bath house, one of the that city's lost treasures.
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Denise was a valuable member of our improv group, The Wing. In one of the set pieces, a parody of a commercial demonstrating brand loyalty, she played a shopper offered a choice between a her box of Tide and a valuable alternative.

"Denise. I'm going to take away your box of Tide and give you ... a poke in the eye with a sharp stick!"

Denise always got maximum laughs as you watched her silently considering the offer, considering the stick, wavering, then finally reaching the confident decision that she was staying with Tide. Thus proving,

"You just can't get them to switch!"

The laughs weren't in the words but in acting, which she played to perfection.
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The Wing dissolved and scattered. In Los Angeles, Denise wanted to move to New York, but was worried she wouldn't find a place to live. My wife and I assured her that of course she'd find a place to live, pointing out,

"...you're not going to move to New York and find people standing on street corners with all their belongings because they couldn't find a place to live."

It was a joke then, and Denise found a nice midtown apartment. Today, people without a place to live is now no longer a joke. The only reason I could occasionally visit San Francisco is that Denise and Joe made their great apartment there available to me while they were traveling. That generosity was typical of her, and of them.
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In New York Denise and I worked on a comedy act. She probably would have had a better chance of succeeding on her own. But she worked hard on the act and pushed me to match her efforts. We rehearsed at my apartment almost every afternoon. She didn't care for subways, so she solved her transportation problem by roller-blading the many blocks from her apartment to mine. At that time a tall blond on roller blades was not a common sights on the streets of midtown Manhattan or the lower East Side. Denise might have helped move the Southern California trend eastwards.
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She worked at a restaurant in Manhattan that catered to foreign tourists. Many of her customers came from countries where the management added the tip to the check, so they didn't personally tip. Again she employed her problem solving skills by simply writing what she considered a suitable tip on the check before presenting it. She said no one ever complained.
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The mystery of how someone so alive, so much a part of other's lives, someone with so much more to give, can suddenly be gone, is beyond understanding. There is no explanation, no comprehension, no consolation. If there is any solace to found it is this: She had the wonderful gift of knowing how to get the most out of living, of doing the work necessary to find the joy in life. Her life was short, but full. She'd been around.
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-Terry Day