All the Beautiful Girls

by Elizabeth J. Church

  Tomorrow’s audition was at noon. She was nervous, but she reminded herself that nothing worth having comes without effort, without overcoming fears and doubts. And this was all about her dream, the talent and hard work that would take her away from all that had been. She fell asleep lying on her side, watching the slit in the curtain where pale moonlight shone through.

  Ruby wore a miniskirt over her cherry-red dance shorts, a sleeveless, white cotton blouse tucked into her shorts, and the necklace with her mother’s rings—a good-luck charm she’d not taken off, even to shower or swim, since graduation night. In her dance bag, she carried a pair of flats and a pair of heels, since she wasn’t sure which the managers would want to see her perform in. She’d thrown in her tap shoes, too—just in case.

  Ruby walked beneath the fifteen-story sign that held aloft the giant gold Aladdin’s lamp. Leaving behind the day’s heat, she entered the mercifully air-conditioned lobby. The Aladdin was barely a year old, and Elvis had been married here just last month. She looked behind her, for a moment thinking she might see her footprints alongside those of Elvis, sunk into the carpet pile.

  After asking for directions, she made her way through the cacophony of slot machines, blackjack dealers, scattered roulette and craps tables. She saw mostly middle-aged people, a lot of bow ties, women in simple A-line dresses or strapless cocktail dresses and permanent-waved hair. A sign announced that the Gold Room offered around-the-clock dining, and posters advertised Topless Scandals of ’67, Pussycats Galore Revue, and the Jet Set Revue. As Ruby reached the Aladdin Lounge at last, she thought that this casino alone must employ dozens of dancers; surely the odds were in her favor.

  Inside the lounge, two gray-skinned men sat at a table next to the stage, tapping their cigarettes into an overflowing ashtray. They looked up at Ruby, and one of the men thrust his chin in the direction of a door. Ruby made her way through that door, where she found less than a dozen other girls in their dance attire, stretching and warming up. She smiled nervously, but none of the girls returned her greeting. Chalking up their lack of friendliness to pre-audition jitters, she noticed that all of them were wearing heels. At least that question was answered.

  Ruby was bustier than any of them, maybe a little less adamantly muscular, and definitely longer-legged than most. Some—clearly ballerinas—were thinner, and others had washboard torsos beneath midriff tops, the tails of blouses tied beneath their breasts. One particularly thin, limber dancer displayed several medals from national classical ballet dance competitions on a ribbon looped through the handles of her gym bag. Ruby found a spot near the wall and began her stretching routine. She wanted to ask someone what happened next but knew better. This was no friendly competition.

  Deacon, one of the men seated near the stage, identified himself as the choreographer’s first assistant and called them all onto the stage to line up. Ruby found a spot second from the end, stage right, next to a thin-boned ballerina in a black leotard. The girl had pale, milky skin and a blue vein that beat stridently at her temple. While Ruby stood as if at attention, stiff, her feet together, her hands at her sides, some of the other girls posed as if they were being photographed. Ruby felt sorry for them, thinking that they’d confused a beauty pageant with a dance audition.

  The assistant walked along the line, assessing. Ruby smiled a tentative smile, which Deacon either didn’t see or ignored—he wasn’t spending a lot of time looking at their faces. He told the shortest girl she could go, and Ruby watched the girl’s hunched shoulders as she left the stage without having danced a single step. To the remaining girls, he said, “Listen up and watch.” Then Deacon stepped back, and keeping his cigarette in his mouth, pushing up the sleeves of his wrinkled oxford shirt, he clapped twice and executed a surprisingly swift, intricate floor pattern including a series of soutenus, piqué turns, chaînés, a curved walk, ronds de jambe, and kicks.

  “Now,” he said when he’d finished. “One at a time, starting with you.” He pointed his cigarette at the milk-skinned girl next to Ruby.

  Ruby was stunned. They were to perform the identical choreography he’d just completed, and after seeing it only once? She glanced left toward the other girls, thinking she’d see the same surprise on their faces, but they were impassive. The girl next to her stepped out from the line and flawlessly repeated Deacon’s performance. Ruby watched, counting and saying the names of the moves to herself, trying to will her body to learn the movement combination by osmosis.

  “Good, good,” Deacon said, and then he nodded at Ruby, who stepped forward. He clapped his hands twice, signaling the start of Ruby’s performance.

  Ruby found her spotting point, managed the soutenus and what she thought was the right number of chaînés, but she screwed up on the ronds de jambe and ended up by ad-libbing with her hitch-kick—her most impressive move. Heart pounding, she looked at Deacon and hoped he’d see her skill level, that he’d realize that once she learned a routine she could perform it.

  “I need dancers who follow instructions.” He gestured for Ruby to go, his arm like a broom removing dirt. “Dancers who pay attention,” he added sternly. Mortified, Ruby avoided looking at the other girls and made her way off stage.

  “Next,” she heard Deacon say, followed by his quick double-clap, a sound she knew she’d hate forever.

  Blushing with humiliation, Ruby returned to the dressing area and rapidly pulled on her skirt. She shoved her heels in her bag, covered her face in the enormous sunglasses she’d found in the church thrift store, and slunk out of the casino.

  * * *

  —

  BACK AT ROOM 4 of the Bombay Motor Court, Ruby stripped off her sweaty, bad-vibe clothes and pulled a fresh razor blade from the package. On the bus ride back to the motel, the pressure had grown immense, almost unendurable. She leaned her hip against the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink and sliced across her mons pubis slowly, four times, keeping the cuts short and spaced closely together to minimize what she’d have to hide beneath a dance costume or bikini.

  As soon as she saw the blood, relief put its hands to her heart, kneaded and pushed and pulled and relaxed her, eased out the toxins of shame and loss. She breathed deeply, set the blade on the glass shelf above the sink, and gently placed a gauze square over the fresh wounds. She gripped the edge of the sink and looked at her face in the mirror.

  Don’t panic, she told herself. It’s only the first audition. Now you know how it works. At four o’clock, you will go to the Dunes, and you will pick a spot in the line where you’ll have more time to learn the routine by watching the others. Then, you will perform flawlessly, you will show them. You can do this. You’re not going to quit at the first little hiccup, are you? You’re no weakling. C’mon, Scallywag.

  Ruby turned on the room fan and lay back on her bed. She read Madame Bovary in the nude until it was time to go, using a ballpoint pen to underline Flaubert’s juiciest morsels.

  * * *

  —

  EXOTIC, DEEP PINK flowers elbowed each other in flower beds shaded by three thick palm trees. Like an omnipotent god, the Dunes’ huge sultan stood above it all, hands on his hips, chest thrust out, simultaneously welcoming and challenging all visitors. Presumably, he owned the entire desert, maybe even the distant blue-gray mountains that rose so swiftly from the desert floor like an apparition. Ruby could hear splashing and shouting coming from the Dunes’ pool, and on the asphalt beside the sharply pointed, space-age-looking valet parking hut she saw sparrows squabbling over pieces of someone’s leftover hamburger bun. The marquee bragged of the Casino de Paris show, and another sign touted the Persian Theatre’s production of Vive Les Girls! That was where she was headed for the open-call audition.

  This time, there were close to twenty girls. Ruby slipped on her heels and didn’t once try to smile or ingratiate herself with the others. She caught a glimpse of herself from behind in a full-length mirror, saw ho
w perfectly her shorts hugged her curves. They zipped up the back and were as tiny and flattering as Ann-Margret’s famous white shorts in Viva Las Vegas. Ruby eased into her splits against the wall, and she tied the tails of her white blouse so that her flat—if not chiseled—abdomen was evident, enticing. She buttoned only a single button, let her cleavage show. No other girl had breasts that even began to compare with hers, and this time she fully intended to use them.

  But the other girls had impressive stamina and quick-fire muscles that let them snap crisp turns and skillfully execute the choreographer’s combinations. Ruby got through most of the routine they’d been shown by yet another bored-looking choreographer’s assistant, who never bothered to mention his name. She executed one of her best stag leaps and finished the final few turns, stopping directly in front of the table where the men sat jiggling the ice in their drinks.

  “Not quite, honey.” It was the older one—the one who didn’t dance but likely financed the show, Ruby guessed. Still, he gave her the first real smile of her day. “But get your stuff and c’mon down here, Red. Don’t leave without talking to me.”

  Ruby permitted herself a small smile as she walked offstage, feeling the sensation of her competitors’ eyes boring into her back. It’s not over, she told herself as she pulled her bag from beneath the bench, returned to her street attire, buckled her sandals. He’s not saying no, and this is only my second audition. She used her powder compact to blot the sheen from her face before heading for the men’s table.

  “Robert—Bob—Christianson,” the older man said, standing and extending his hand. “I manage the Persian and the Casino de Paris showroom.”

  “Ruby Wilde.” She gripped his hand strongly, smiled.

  “Sit down.” Bob pulled out a chair, glanced quickly at the stage where another dancer was being sent home. “Drink?”

  “Iced tea?”

  He signaled to a waiter Ruby hadn’t noticed standing in the shadows, and soon she had a fat-bellied aluminum pitcher of tea sitting before her, along with a sugar bowl and a saucer of lemon slices.

  “Here’s the thing, Ruby,” Bob began after waiting for her to finish drinking deeply. “And I’m going to be brutally honest.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where’re you from, honey?”

  “Kansas.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.” For reasons she couldn’t identify, she felt she would be able to laugh with this man—maybe even laugh at herself.

  “You know the perfect Vegas showgirl body?” He waited a moment and then continued. “Five foot nine, 129 pounds—but not too thin. 36-24-37.” Bob winked at Ruby and watched the choreographer’s assistant narrow the applicants to five. “Get my drift?”

  Ruby shook her head.

  “You’re perfect showgirl material.”

  “Oh, no….” Ruby picked up her glass, began examining the melting ice cubes as if they were unexplored mountain crags. “I’m not….”

  “Have you seen a show? How long you been in Vegas?”

  “This is my first week, my first few days.” Ruby tried to still the sudden shaking in her hand as she picked up the heavy pitcher and poured herself another glass of tea. “This is only my second audition.”

  “Which leads me to the brutally honest part, sweetheart.” Bob was lean, somewhere in his forties, with curling chest hair and a gold necklace. On his left hand he wore a pinky ring with a deep, blood-red stone surrounded by a thick gold bezel. He smelled of an expensive aftershave—not the Hai Karate of Kansas boys but something more like what the Aviator wore. Between his fingers, Bob flipped a one-hundred-dollar Dunes house chip with a drawing of the sultan, muscular arms crossed. Ruby thought about how many groceries, how many nights at the Bombay Motor Court, that one chip would buy. To Bob, it was a plaything.

  Ruby set down her glass. “Go ahead.” She tried to add a teasing tone to her voice. “Let me have it.”

  “You’re not up to snuff.” He set the chip on the tablecloth. “You won’t get a job on the Strip as a troupe dancer. It’s not what you’re suited for, and it’s not what anyone who is doing auditions will see when you walk onstage.”

  “But—”

  “Doesn’t matter if you were the reigning dance queen of Kansas or champeen of the greater Midwest tractor-pull show, honey. Doesn’t matter if you got rave reviews for your starring role in your hometown production of Mancini’s Pink Panther revue. This is the big time.” He leveled his gaze at her, and she made herself look back. “I’m saving you time. Tears. Disappointment. You cannot make the big time. Not as a troupe dancer. Shift gears, Ruby Wilde.”

  Onstage, the auditions had progressed to individual dance performances. The girls appeared to be performing prepared pieces, without benefit of music. So, this was what would come next, if Ruby could climb out of the first round.

  “You’re saying that to make a living as a dancer I have to take my clothes off,” she said, still staring at the stage, trying to avoid Bob’s directness.

  “I’m saying you are the perfect topless showgirl. You have sufficient dance ability. You’re strong enough to wear the costumes. Primarily”—Bob put his hand on top of hers—“you are drop-dead gorgeous. You could make a killing.”

  She fought the impulse to remove her hand from beneath his and looked at him. “Nude.”

  “Topless. Classy topless.”

  “Baring my tits,” Ruby said.

  “Ass, too.” He smiled. “Take that girl.” He nodded toward the stage. “Yes, she can dance. She’s a regular ol’ whirling dervish. But”—he paused, tapped the poker chip with his index finger—“she doesn’t look like you. She will never look like you. She will never make a showgirl-level income, which is at least five times what a troupe girl can bring in. Sure, she can do the footwork, but that’s not what men come to Vegas to see. She’s part of a dying breed, the Debbie Reynolds gal. I’m telling you,” he said, taking a deep breath, “you have a future. Just not the one you pictured.”

  Ruby let an ice cube into her mouth, cracked it between her molars, and chewed. She watched the girl on the stage, her chassé steps and impressive isolation abilities. She was awfully good—better than anyone Ruby had ever seen in real life.

  “The washboard abs are impressive,” Bob said, also watching the girl perform. “But she’s not the stuff of men’s fantasies. Not sexy. You, Ruby Wilde, are out-of-the-ballpark sexy. You look like a woman,” he said, leaning in and lowering his voice. “That, you can sell.” He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and wrote a short note on the back. “Here,” he said, passing it to her. “Bring a friend. On me. See what the show’s like. I guarantee it’ll prove your assumptions wrong. This isn’t some sleazy porn theater. It’s a celebration of women, of beauty.” He smiled broadly.

  Ruby took the card but stared at the tabletop, focused on the ironed folds in the linen. She hadn’t come this far to give up so soon, especially to cry uncle by taking her clothes off for money. Dancing topless couldn’t be that far above whoring herself out beneath a streetlamp.

  She stood, reached out her hand to shake Bob’s. “Thank you,” she said. “Sincerely. For the tea. For your advice.”

  “I want you on my stage, Ruby Wilde. You could be great. A real star.”

  “I’ll keep your card,” she promised.

  Bob stood, put his hand on her shoulder. “You have the skin. The body. The looks.” He shook his head. “Don’t close the door before you see what’s behind it. It’s a limited window of opportunity.”

  “I’ll think about it. Really. Thank you.”

  “You should be draped in pearls. Feathers brushing that lovely cheek.” He touched her face with the back of his hand, familiar but unthreatening. “I’ll look for you,” he said, finally releasing her.

  Ruby left the room, aware of Bob C
hristianson’s eyes on her ass. On her way out through the padded doors, she turned, waved her fingertips in his direction, and thought about how wrong—how truly, utterly wrong—he was about her and her future.

  * * *

  —

  SHE HADN’T EATEN since breakfast and was ravenous. Ruby looked at the lights of the Aladdin across the way and told herself to go back to the site of her first rejection, get back on that particular horse of failure before she began superstitiously avoiding the place. Face it down, she told herself, and, dance bag slung over her shoulder, she walked to the casino.

  Ruby sat at the bar, and after eyeing the various colored bottles behind the bartender, she ordered the only drink that came to mind—a daiquiri, her first. The fifty-nine-cent happy-hour price was right, and the bartender kindly refrained from nabbing her as underage. The drink was deliciously cool, sweet like a dessert, and she felt its relaxing effects immediately. Ruby ordered a second.

  The man on the barstool next to her instructed the bartender to put her drinks on his tab. Ruby turned, saw a mouse-brown toupee and a weak, practically nonexistent chin. The man introduced himself and said something about his huge johnson. Ruby leaned away from his stale breath, signaled to the bartender. “I’ll pay for my own drinks, all right?”

  “Gotcha,” he said.

  The man slurred his words. “Immafedraljudgeshaknow,” he said, clearly expecting her to be impressed. All Ruby managed to dissect from his gibberish was judge. “Unnidedstatesdistructuvnewmeshico.”