Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas

by Maya Angelou

  I said, “No.” Desperate, maybe. Fanciful, maybe. Fancy? No.

  He told me he was a merchant marine and was staying in the hotel and asked would I like to come upstairs and have a drink with him.

  I would.

  I sat on the bed in the close room, sipping the bourbon diluted with tap water. He talked about Newport News and his family as I thought about mine. He had a son and daughter near my age and they were “some kinda good children” and the girl was “some kinda pretty.”

  He noticed that I was responding to the whiskey, and came near the bed. “Why don't you just stretch out and rest a little while? You'll feel better. I'll rest myself. Just take off your shoes and your clothes. To keep them from wrinkling up on you.”

  My troubles and memories swam around, then floated out the window when I laid my head on the single pillow.

  When I awakened, the dark room didn't smell familiar and my head throbbed. Confusion panicked me. I could have been picked up by an extraterrestrial being and teleported into some funky rocket ship. I jumped out of bed and fumbled along the walls, bumping until I found the light switch. My clothes were folded neatly and my shoes peeked their tidy toes from under the chair. I remembered the room and the merchant marine. I had no idea what had happened since I passed out. I examined myself and found no evidence that the old man had misused my drunkenness.

  Dressing slowly I wondered over the next move. Night had fallen on my affairs, but the sharp edges of rejection were not softened. There was a note on the dresser. I picked it up to read under the naked bulb that dangled from the ceiling; it said in effect:

  Dear Clara,

  I tell you like I tell my own daughter. Be careful of strangers. Everybody smile at you don't have to mean you no good. I'll be back in two months from now. You be a good girl, hear? You'll make some boy a good wife.

  Abner Green

  I walked through the dark streets to Ivonne's house. After I explained what had happened, she suggested I telephone home.

  “Hello, Tosh?”

  “Marguerite, where are you?” The strain in his voice made me smile.

  He asked, “When are you coming home? Clyde hasn't eaten.”

  I knew that was a lie.

  “Nor have I. I can't eat,” he said. I wasn't concerned about his appetite.

  I said, “You're tired of being married? Yes? Well, I'll be home when I get there.” I hung up before he could say more.

  Ivonne said, “Maya, you're cold. Aren't you worried about Clyde?”

  “No. Tosh loves Clyde. He'll look after him. He loves me too, but I gave up too much and gave in too much. Now we'll see.”

  The thought of his loneliness in the large apartment made my own less acute. I slept badly on Ivonne's sofa.

  I went home the next day and we resumed a sort of marriage, but the center of power had shifted. I was no longer the dutiful wife ready with floors waxed and rugs beaten, with my finger between the pages of a cookbook and my body poised over the stove or spread-eagled on the bed.

  One day my back began to hurt with a sullen ache, the kind usually visited only on the arthritic aged. My head pulsed and my side was punished by short, hot stabs of pain. The doctor advised immediate hospitalization. A simple appendectomy developed complications and it was weeks before I was released. The house was weary with failure—I told my husband that I wanted to go to Arkansas. I would stay with my grandmother until I had fully recovered. I meant in mind, as well as body.

  He came close and in a hoarse whisper said, “Marguerite. Your grandmother died the day after your operation. You were too sick. I couldn't tell you.”

  Ah, Momma. I had never looked at death before, peered into its yawning chasm for the face of a beloved. For days my mind staggered out of balance. I reeled on a precipice of knowledge that even if I were rich enough to travel all over the world, I would never find Momma. If I were as good as God's angels and as pure as the Mother of Christ, I could never have Momma's rough slow hands pat my cheek or braid my hair.

  Death to the young is more than that undiscovered country; despite its inevitability it is a place having reality only in song or in other people's grief.

  CHAPTER 6

  When our marriage ended completely, a year later, I was a saner, healthier person than the young, greedy girl who had wanted a man to belong to and a life based on a Hollywood film, circa 1940.

  Clyde was heartbroken by the separation. He acted as if I were the culprit and he and Tosh the injured parties. His once cheerful face was a muddle of solemnity. He grumbled and whined, asked again and again, “Why did Dad leave us?”

  My direct answer of “Because he and I didn't love each other anymore” frightened him, and when he looked at me his eyes held the wonder: Will you stop loving me, too?

  I tried to soothe him by explaining that he was my son, my child, my baby, my joy. But his good sense told him that Tosh had been my husband, my love and his father, and I had been able to sever those bonds. What safety was there for him?

  A few months before the separation my mother and her close friend, Lottie Wells, returned to San Francisco from Los Angeles. They opened a café with ten tables and a ten-stool counter where they shared soul-food cooking chores. Lottie was a strong, powerfully built woman the color of freshly made coffee. She spoke softly, hardly above a whisper and was so tender it was impossible to resist loving her. She folded Clyde and me into her care and became our beloved Aunt Lottie.

  At first Mother had exhibited no change in her attitude to my marriage, but when she observed my faithful husband, the good provider, and Clyde's love for Tosh, she had said, “O.K., so I was wrong. He's good. I'm big enough to admit my mistake; are you big enough to understand that I only wanted the best for you?” When I told her later that the marriage was at an end, she only said, “Well, as I always say, ‘No matter how good a fellow seems on the outside, you have to take him home to know him.’”

  Now that I was trying to mend the rift between me and Clyde I appreciated her indifference.

  There are few barriers more difficult to breach or more pitiable to confront than that of a child's distrust. I used every wile in the mother's little homemaker kit to win my way back into my son's good graces. I paid attention to his loss and sympathized with him. I taught myself to skate so that we could go to the rink together. At home, I cooked his favorite foods, in portions that would please a cowpuncher and surrendered my reading time to play Scrabble and twenty questions and any other diversion he chose. In the street we skipped over cracks in the pavement in a sport he called “no stepping on the lines.”

  Gradually we rebuilt our friendship.

  As that emotional worry diminished, a practical one assumed importance. My pride had not allowed me to ask Tosh for money, but he had left me the small bank account and it was dwindling fast. I had to get a job and one that paid enough so I could afford a baby-sitter. I started looking.

  • • •

  Four dingy strip joints squatted cheek by jowl in San Francisco's International Settlement. The exteriors of the Garden of Allah and the Casbah were adorned with amateur drawings of veiled women, their dark eyes sultry with promise and their navels crammed with gems. The Pirates Cave and Captain's Table advertised lusty wenches and busy serving girls with hitched-up skirts and crowded cleavages, all sketched by the same wishful artist.

  I stood on the pavement across from the Garden of Allah. A papier-mâché sultan with a lecherous grin winked atop the one-floor building. Around the doorway old photographs of near-nude women curled under a dirty glass façade. Large letters proclaimed BEAUTIFUL GIRLS! CONTINUOUS ENTERTAINMENT! The advertisement had read: “Female Dancers Wanted. Good take-home pay.”

  The interior was dimly lighted and smelled of beer and disinfectant. A large man behind the bar asked if I had come to audition. Most of his attention was centered on checking the bottles.

  I said, “Yes.”

  He said, “Dressing rooms downstairs. Go that way.”
r />   I followed the path of his arm and descended a narrow stairwell. Women's voices floated up to meet me.

  “Eddie's a nice Joe. I used to work here before.”

  “Yeah. He don't hassle the girls.”

  “Hey, Babe, who made that costume?”

  “Francis.”

  “Frances?”

  “Nah, Francis. He male, but he's more twat than you.”

  I allowed the light and sound from on open doorway to direct me. A floor-to-ceiling mirror made the four women seem like forty. They were older than I expected and all white. They were taken aback by my presence. I said hello and received hi's and hello's and then a heavy silence.

  They busied themselves professionally gluing on eyelashes and adjusting wigs and attaching little sequined cones to their nipples. Their costumes were exotic, complicated and expensive. Rhinestones twinkled, sequins shone, nets and feathers and chiffon wafted at each movement. I had brought a full leotard, which left only my hands, head and feet exposed. Obviously I couldn't compete with these voluptuous women in their glamorous clothes. I turned to go. Wrong place, wrong time.

  “Hey, where ya going? This is the only dressing room.”

  I turned back to see a short redhead looking at me.

  She said, “My name's Babe, what's yours?”

  I stammered. I ran through all my names, Marguerite, Maya, Ritie, Sugar, Rita. The first three were too personal and the others too pretentious, but since I felt least like Rita, I said “Rita.”

  Babe said, “You'd better get changed. The band will start soon. What's your routine?”

  I had no routine. When I read the ad I had expected to audition for a revue and thought a choreographer would give me steps to do, rather like a teacher asking questions in an examination. I said defiantly, “I do modern, rhythm, tap and flash.”

  Babe looked at me as if I had answered in Latin.

  “I mean what's your routine? I'm little Red Riding Hood, see?” She posed, offering her costume for my observation. She wore a red gathered see-through net skirt with folds of the same material draped across her shoulders. Clearly visible beneath the yards of cloth were a red brassiere and a red sequined belt low on her hips; panels of red satin hung from the belt to cover her crotch and the cleavage of her buttocks. A precious little poke bonnet sat on her red curls and at her feet was a cute wicker basket.

  I said, “I see.” And did.

  She pointed to an older blonde, whose breasts hung heavy and uncovered.

  “That's Rusty. She's Salome” (she pronounced it “salami”). “She does the Dance of the Seven Veils. That's Jody, she's the Merry Widow. See? Kate is the only one who's not somebody. She does acrobatics. You know? Flips and splits and things like that. So you gotta have a routine.”

  None of the women looked up.

  I said, “Well, I don't have one, so I'd better go home.”

  She said, “Let me see your costume. Maybe we can make one up.”

  I was unable to resist Babe's friendliness. Reluctantly I took the balled-up black leotard from my handbag.

  “That's it?” Astonishment narrowed her voice into a shriek. The other women looked up for the second time since I'd entered the dressing room.

  As usual when I was embarrassed, I responded with an angry stiffness. I said, “Well, I am a dancer. I might not have a fancy costume, and I may not have a routine but I can dance. So don't try to make me look small.” I looked around at each woman as I fought back mortification. The dancers resumed picking at their flesh privately, like cats licking their fur.

  Babe said, “Wait a minute. Don't get your ass on your shoulders. They've never had a colored girl work here. Why don't you try it? I used to work at the Pirates Cave down the street and my best friend was Pat Thomas. She's colored, too.”

  I thought I am expected to stand here embarrassed and listen to that old “colored best friend” lie again. I rolled my leotard and put it in my bag.

  Babe said, “I got an idea. What size are you?”

  I told her.

  She said, “I've got a G-string and bra made out of rabbit fur. I'll let you wear it, just for the audition, and you can be Jungle Bunny.”

  That was out, and I told her so emphatically.

  She said, “Boy, you sure are sensitive. I didn't mean no harm.”

  I said. “I didn't mean to scream at you.” After all, she had been kind.

  “Well, let me think.” Her face worked as she looked at me. She shouted, “I know, I know.” She bent quickly and began fumbling in an open suitcase on the floor. She pulled out a blue satin set of panties and brassiere. Both pieces were studded with rhinestones and trimmed with blue-dyed feathers. “Try these on.”

  I undressed while the other women finished their makeup, their faces averted from me. I looked closely at the seat of the panties, and although they seemed clean I didn't pull it too close.

  Babe said, “Boy, you got yourself a pretty figure,” then she draped yards of blue tulle over me that floated and fell to the floor. “Now you're Alice Blue Gown. That's your routine. You know the song? It's a waltz.”

  The first tuning-up notes of a rhythm band reached the dressing room and the dancers started like robots jerking to attention. They picked up their purses and rushed to the stairs. Babe trailed them.

  She whispered, “They only want four girls and we are five. I hope you get the job. Be real sexy. And don't leave your purse in the dressing room.” She turned and raced for the stairs.

  The figure in the mirror was strange to me. A long mostly straight brown body clothed in a cloud of blue gauze. I would never be able to dance with all that material playing around. I took it off, folded it and laid it on Babe's tote bag. I tried to bring the lyrics of “Alice Blue Gown” out of my memory. I couldn't remember and I knew I couldn't waltz without a partner. I went upstairs wearing the bra and G-string.

  Four white men sat murmuring in the shadows in the back of the club and four black men were playing “Tea for Two” on the bandstand. Rusty moved across the square polished floor, ridding her body of veils and indifferent to the music. Finally, as the music stopped, she was still as a statue and almost as pale. No hint of sexuality touched her body. And no applause appreciated her performance. She left the stage.

  The acrobat took over next as the band began “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” She wore a tasseled green G-string and brassiere and somersaulted, double-somersaulted, back-flipped, held one leg up over her head, showing the green patch that covered her vagina. As the last notes faded in the air she spun and jumped, ending in a perfect split. She jiggled short rises and allowed the floor to kiss her. There was no response from either the men watching or the men playing.

  Jody walked onto the stage to the strains of “Besame Mucho.” She wore black tulle, corseted to her body by a sparkling black waist cincher. Her black-stockinged legs and black patent shoes raced across the floor. She rushed from one side to the other, throwing wicked come-hither looks and tossing her wisps of clothes into the audience. When she finished, clad only in a black G-string and bra, she turned her back, pooched her behind up and looked over her shoulder with a pout. The music had ended, but she waited to her own drummer, then went around collecting the discarded clothing and went downstairs.

  When Babe walked onto the stage, the four men fell silent. She nodded to the musicians, put one hand on her hip and held her basket aloft with the other.

  The band played “All of Me” and the woman became a sexy, taunting twelve-year-old. She pranced about the stage offering illicit sex. She stuck out her tongue in a juvenile tease, then changed the purpose by sliding it around her lips insinuatingly, curling it over the corners. Her eyes were hard and wise and her body ample and rounded. Her breasts jiggled and her hips quivered with promise. She stripped to the red G-string and cones which covered her nipples.

  When the music stopped, she stood still, looking out toward the men. Her face wrinkled in a strange smile. She had been sexually exciting and knew
it. Within seconds, they began their murmuring again, and Babe collected her discarded clothes and waved at the musicians, who grinned in response. She passed me saying nothing.

  I waited in the dark, not quite knowing if I should introduce myself or just go up and start dancing, or be sensible, race downstairs, put my clothes on and go home.

  A voice shouted, “Where's the colored girl?”

  I nearly answered “Present.” I said, “Here.”

  “Well, let's go,” the voice ordered.

  I walked onto the stage and the musicians stared their surprise. The drummer beckoned to me.

  “Hi, honey. What's your routine?”

  Certainly not “Alice Blue Gown.”

  I said, “I don't know.” And added, “I can dance, but I need something fast to dance to.”

  He nodded. “How about ‘Caravan’?”

  “That's fine.”

  He spoke to the other players, counted down four and the music began. I started dancing, rushing into movement, making up steps and changing direction. There was no story, no plan; I simply put every dance I had ever seen or known into my body and onto the stage. A little rhumba, tango, jitter bug, Susy-Q, trucking, snake hips, conga, Charles ton and cha-cha-cha. When the music was finished I had exhausted my repertoire and myself. Only after the low talking resumed in the rear did I realize the men had stopped to watch me and that the other women had dressed and were sitting at a small table in the dark.

  The drummer said, “Baby, you didn't lie, you can dance.” All the brown and black faces smiled in agreement.

  I thanked them and went downstairs with pride to change clothes. Babe passed me on the stairs, carrying her bag.

  She asked, “How did it go?”

  I said, “O.K. What about these things?” meaning her G-string and bra.

  She said, “Bring them up with you. I'll just put them in my purse.” They would have fit comfortably in a cigarette package.