by Vanda
“A wonder, isn’t she?” He lifted the arm off the record player.
“What’s on the flip side?” I asked.
“Nothing important. Let me look at you.” His eyes swept over my body, so I held my purse over my chest.
“No. Down.” He twirled his cigarette through the air. “I’m creating.”
I put my purse down and stood there feeling like that poor frog I dissected in biology class. Max ran a finger over his mustache. “Okay. Got it. Look in the mirror there.” He pointed with his cigarette.
“No.”
“I have no time for prima donnas. Do you want to meet Juliana or not?”
“What does looking in a mirror have to do with meeting Juliana? I don’t like looking in mirrors.”
“I know. It shows. Look anyway.”
I slowly turned toward the mirror, looked quickly, and turned back to him. “Okay, I did it. Now what? ”
“You did not do it.” He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me back. “What do you see?”
“Me. Who else would I see?” I tried to turn away, but he held me to the spot.
“Tell the truth. When you look in a mirror do you ever see yourself?”
“No.” I sighed, looking down to avoid the reflection that was looking back. “I never see me. Are you happy now? You’ve succeeded in making me totally miserable. Did you bring me all the way over here to do that?” I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.
“Oh, it’s not that bad. Let’s go.” He pushed himself through the door before I could walk out on him.
“Where?”
The door swung closed almost hitting me in the face. “Hey!” I yelled, pushing it open again. “You are no gentleman.”
Max ran up the steps and was on the sidewalk, shouting, “Taxi! Taxi!”
I came up beside him as a taxi pulled over. “You’ve got money with you?” He opened the door.
“Yeah, but not for taxi cabs. Why can’t we take the subway?”
“Maxwell P. Harlington the Third in a subway? Don’t be daft. Get in.”
I slid into the cab and Max got in beside me. “Macy’s,” he told the driver.
“Macy’s? Are you certifiable?” I pictured myself as the best-dressed person on the breadline.
“Well, you can’t afford Bloomies, can you?”
“No.”
“Then Macy’s basement will have to do.”
“Oh, the basement.”
I came home with a pair of slacks. I’d never had slacks before. No one ever wore them except to do the gardening or maybe at the beach. Garbo wore them a few years back and the magazines wrote awful things about her. The Brown Derby in Hollywood refused to serve Marlene Dietrich when she showed up for lunch in pants. Katharine Hepburn wore trousers all the time, but she was always getting kicked out of hotel lobbies. One time the producer of one of her films took her pants out of her dressing room and left a skirt. She walked across the movie lot in her underpants.
I sat down on my bed holding my purchase in my lap. I loved Katharine Hepburn’s movies, but I was no Katharine Hepburn. And if they made fun of Garbo and kicked out Marlene Dietrich, what would they do to me?
Aggie walked in from an audition Max had set up for her and threw her purse on her bed. “What are those?”
I held them up. “You’re not going to wear those in public, are you? No decent place will let you in. ”
“Well if I wear a coat over them maybe …?”
“It’s eighty degrees out!”
“Well, a light one,” I held them against me. “And if I keep my legs together real tight maybe they’ll look like a long skirt.” I looked at Aggie, hopefully.
“It’s up to you, but I wouldn’t be caught dead in public in those.” She flopped on her bed and wrapped her arms around Poopsie, her floppy teddy bear. “Oh, Poopsie, honey, I’m so exhausted. Hey, Al, say hi to Poopsie.” She faced the bear toward me.
“Yeah, hi, Poopsie,” I said. I hated talking to that dang bear.
“Say it like you mean it. You’re hurting his feelings.”
“HELLO, POOPSIE!” I shouted.
Aggie pulled the bear to her breasts, sheltering it from me. “She’s just mad ’cause she wasted her money on those silly trousers,” she told it. “Everyone’s gonna laugh when she wears them outside.” She sunk deep into her pillow and Poopsie fell to the floor.
“Aggie?” I crept near her bed. “Can you hear me?” She made no response like she was already asleep. “Do you ever miss home? I know that’s silly. How could anyone miss Huntington? Still, sometimes, at night ….” I waited. Nothing.
I walked to the window and leaned on the sill, looking out at the brick buildings. I remembered how I would listen to the train whistle at home in bed late at night dreaming of it taking me far away from Huntington.
Chapter Seven
The limousine bumped and shook over the cobblestones on its way past Wanamaker’s department store. We turned off Broadway onto Eighth Street.
“Max, you know we could have just walked. It’s not far.”
“Maxwell P. Harlington does not—”
“Walk when he can take a limousine and look like a complete donkey. I know.”
“That wasn’t exactly how I would have put it, but you have the spirit of the thing.”
I opened the window trying to catch a breeze. I didn’t feel comfortable driving in a limousine like a grand lady. Last week after work, I walked up this street to the Whitney Museum ’cause I don’t know much about art and I wanted to educate myself. Sam’s Deli was across the street so I got myself a cheap salami and cheese sandwich. It seemed to me that in a neighborhood where you could get a cheap salami sandwich, you didn’t need to arrive in a limousine.
Timothy, our limousine driver, pulled the car over to the curb in front of an awning that said Tom Kat Klub. He opened the door for us. Timothy was a muscular man in a black jacket with a cap on his head. He bowed, “Good evening, Mr. Harlington. Evening, miss.”
Max yanked the long coat off me and threw it in the backseat. Timothy drove off leaving me standing on 8th Street where everyone could see me in pants. Max held the door of the Klub open, and I slipped inside looking straight ahead so I wouldn’t see people pointing at me. I followed close behind Max trying to keep my legs pressed tight together, but I kept knocking myself over.
This place was even smaller than the other club and not as bright. It was just as noisy, though. I hurried to sit down, relieved that sitting meant no one could see the bottom half of me. The ceiling fans whirred, pushing around the heat.
Max said this place was called a supper club and proceeded to order us two bologna sandwiches to go with our Manhattans. I learned much later that supper clubs had to serve food ’cause New York law required places serving liquor to also provide food even if it wasn’t anything more than a crummy bologna sandwich.
Soon the mistress of ceremonies came out on the tiny round stage. She was the tallest lady I’d ever seen with big wide shoulders and big hands she flapped around like fans. She had blonde hair that was piled higher on her head than Miss Virginia Sales’, and she wore a dress that twinkled. She winked at people in the audience and moved her hips like Mae West. I leaned over to Max, “I’ve never heard of a lady announcer before.”
Max grumbled, “That’s a man.”
“Really ?”
“I hate that. Men parading around like women. Undignified.”
“That lady is a man? Wow!” I sat back in my chair. What an amazing place this New York City was.
The man dressed like a woman, the mistress—no, master of ceremonies—sang some Broadway show tunes that I knew from the radio. Then he told some smutty stories. Max looked all around the room like he was nervous about something.
We had to sit through a comic, a juggler, and a man singing love songs while sweat rolled down his nose. Finally, the mistress/master announced Juliana. There was polite applause in between talking and silverware dropping as Ju
liana floated onto the stage looking untouched by the eighty-eight degree heat. She wore a silky, royal-blue dress that fell to her mid-calf. Before leaving the stage, the master of ceremonies said something about his phony breasts compared to Juliana’s real ones only he used a different word for them that I didn’t like to use. I didn’t like that man dressed as a woman saying that to her, but the audience thought it was hysterical. Juliana blew him a kiss as he lifted the hem of his dress to exit.
She leaned against a pole that was in the center of the stage, and the piano in the back played the introduction. She sang into the microphone starting off slow, then the tempo picked up, and she moved away from the pole and danced while singing. She danced close to the edge of the stage and I gasped, afraid she’d fall off, but she didn’t. Max looked proud of his protégé.
She finished the song with a flourish. I applauded so hard I thought my hands would fall off. Max didn’t clap; he just stared at her. “Such a beautiful woman,” I heard him whisper, but he wasn’t talking to me.
Juliana leaned against the piano and began “Ten Cents a Dance.” Max slapped his hand against the table. “I told her never to sing that song.”
“Why not? I think it sounds good. ”
“You would. Can you picture that woman actually working for ten cents a dance, having men slobbering all over her?”
I had to admit he had a point, but I didn’t want to admit it. “It’s just a song.”
“Just a song?” He shook his head. “Don’t talk to me.” He grumbled through the whole song.
When she finished, he crossed his arms over his chest, scowling, his mustache wiggling on his upper lip. “Come on, Max, clap for her. She was good.”
“How would you know? You’ve got stardust in your pants.”
“What?”
We had to sit through a few more acts, but I don’t remember what they were. None of them were like Juliana. A couple times the fortune-teller stopped by our table wanting to tell our fortunes, but Max shooed her away.
When the lights came up, Max got out his wallet to pay the bill. Timothy, the limousine driver, rushed up to the table. “Mr. Harlington, Mr. Harlington, there’s an emergency. Come right away.”
“Can’t it wait, Slag, uh, Timothy? I’m right in the middle of—”
“It’s urgent, sir.”
“Oh, well, in that case. That’s the line to Juliana’s dressing room.”
“But you said you’d introduce me.”
“I would. But there’s an emergency. Hurry. You don’t want to miss her.” He threw some bills on the table and ran out with Timothy.
I sat there thinking I should forget it and go home. Still, I did go to the trouble of buying the slacks and wearing them in public.
I stood behind a man and a woman who chatted cheerfully, talking about how wonderful she’d been and predicting she’d soon be a star.
Another couple turned to talk with them. “Wasn’t that impersonator funny?” the woman in a hat with a feather bobbing up and down said. “I just love fairies.”
“You don’t see many anymore,” a man in a business suit and a big belly said. “Used to be there were lots of clubs where you could see the pansies and bull daggers, but not so much anymore. Used to make a man glad to go home and make love to his wife.”
“George. We’re in public,” the woman who I supposed was his wife said, hiding her face with her gloved hand.
George laughed. “You know what I mean.” He nodded at the other man, who chewed on a cigar.
“I surely do know,” the man said, with a slight Southern accent. “Those fairies made a man glad he was normal.”
Juliana opened her door. She was all pink and white in her dressing gown, her lipstick, red, and when she spoke her voice was like a velvet ribbon floating on a breeze .
“To Vivian. Is that correct?” I heard her say as she scribbled on someone’s program.
“Tom?” she asked the man standing next in line. “Well, aren’t you a dear, Tom.” Tom walked off happily caressing his program.
As she handed back a signed program “To Barbara,” the male impersonator came running up to her. He didn’t have his wig on so it was easier to see he was a man, but he was still wearing the dress and high heels. It was scary seeing him look like a man and a woman at the same time.
“Juliana, darling,” he said, “I simply must speak to you.” He took out a handkerchief to wipe tears from his eyes. “I don’t know what to do. Oh, that man. Can you spare me a teensy weensy?”
Juliana smiled. “Of course, dear. Go in.” She turned to those of us on line. “Sorry. No more tonight.”
A woman walking past me said to her friend “Can you believe that? Wearing trousers in public.”
I quickly pulled my legs together. In my hurry, I’d forgotten what I was wearing.
Her friend in a hat with floppy flowers agreed. “Like a farmer. What is the younger generation coming to?”
I felt my face getting hot. Before Juliana disappeared with the master of ceremonies, she pointed. “You.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Wait. Will you?”
“Sure.”
She winked and a flurry of butterflies rose in my stomach. Then she was gone, and I was waiting by myself.
I wondered if that man in there with her was a real homosexual, not an actor like Danny Kaye. I reasoned that he probably was, judging from what the people in line said about him. Max had dumped me all by myself in a place that had real homosexuals running around. How could he do that? I was sure Max must be a very dangerous person to even know about places like this.
The time went by and Juliana didn’t come out. I paced to keep my feet from falling asleep.
I looked at my watch and then I remembered Mrs. Minton and her curfew. I had to go and forget about…
“It’s all going to turn out just fine, Stevie,” Juliana said to the impersonator. “You’ll see.” My breath got stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat. I’d never been this close to anyone that glamorous before. It was almost like standing next to Garbo.
Stevie sashayed by me managing those heels a lot better than I could.
Juliana said, “Come in.” I followed her into her small room. It had a vanity, a Japanese screen, and a rack of elaborate dresses too fancy for the room with its pockmarked cement walls. The whole place smelled of lipstick and face powder .
She sat at her vanity and crossed one leg over the other. I could see the garter that held up her nylon.
I stayed pushed up against the shut door and limply held out my program, “Uh, miss? Miss?”
“Juliana,” she said as she slid one of her nylons down her leg.
“Miss Juliana—”
“No. Just Juliana.”
“Oh. Okay.” I was sure I’d start breathing again soon. “It’s just that I’m so nervous. Oh, I didn’t mean to say that.”
“You’re delightful.” She slid the second nylon down her leg.
“I am?”
“Yes, and I love what you’re wearing.”
“You do? Max said—”
“Max? Max Harlington? You know him?”
“Yeah.”
“How is Max? I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“You haven’t? But I thought …”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.” I forgot I was still holding my program out toward her.
“Did you want me to sign that?”
“Oh, yes, would you?”
“No.” She got up.
“Huh?”
Barefooted, she padded toward the screen. “I have a feeling that you and I are going to know each other for a long time. I’ll sign that when we know each other better, when it will really mean something.” She slipped behind the screen. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Her head poked above the screen as she fiddled with buttons and snaps and taking things off and pulling things on.
“Al, uh, Alice, uh ….” No one had ever called me sweetheart before.
Not even Danny.
“You don’t have a last name, either, Alice?”
“Oh, no, I do. It’s uh, uh …” The smell of her lipstick was affecting my thinking. “Huffman.”
“Well, Miss Alice Huffman. Everyone in New York City seems to come from some other place. Where do you come from?”
“Huntington.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s in Long Island.”
“Oh.” Juliana stepped out from behind the screen. She wore a green day dress with the collar up. “Well, Miss Huffman—”
“My friends call me Al.”
“Does that mean I should call you Al?”
“You could if you wanted to.”
“All right. Al . You shall walk me home. ”
“Yes? You want me to—to …? Yes!” I was sure I sounded like a donkey.
As we stepped outside, we were greeted by the sound of church bells singing through the faintest hint of a breeze. “Listen,” I said, stopping. “I love that sound.” I felt my heart rising in my chest, and I didn’t want to move while I still could hear that sound.
“That’s Grace Church,” she told me.
“Grace,” I repeated. “What a wonderful word.” As the chimes continued to sing, I turned toward her like there was something in me I had to tell her, but I didn’t know what it was. “I—I love it,” I choked out. “Sound. I love it. I love it like it was a person. Sound. It gets inside me and—and—”
“The church bells are quite beautiful,” she said, but there were question marks in her eyes. Does she think I’m nuts? Nuts like my mother? “Shall we?” she asked, stepping off the curb.
I followed her to the other side of the street. “That’s the Brevoort Hotel, isn’t it?” I asked. “I read that that hotel is where bohemians and artists used to go at the turn of the century.”
“Did they? They have an elegant nightclub inside. Swanky. Magnificent acoustics. Wouldn’t I love to appear there?”
We continued our walk down the street. “This whole area,” I told her, “used to be a great place for artists and socialists and all kinds of strange people. Bohemians. I like reading about them. Once I thought I might want to be a bohemian. I thought I’d come to Greenwich Village and be daring and intellectual and, well—bohemian. But so far I haven’t found any.”