All the Beautiful Girls

by Elizabeth J. Church

Ruby lit her face with a genuine smile, showing her perfectly aligned teeth and letting her eyes radiate both pleasure and interest in the men who held her future. She thought about all the times she’d put herself on display at Masterson’s grocery store, and she made sure she achieved eye contact with each man.

  “Where’re you from, Ruby Wilde?”

  “The Midwest,” she said, basing her answer on Vivid’s advice to keep things superficial, general.

  “And you’re a dancer?”

  “And a model—back home.” Vivid said they’d never check and that experience as a model would add to her allure, lead the men to think she could walk a runway, know how best to show off her features.

  They had her parade back and forth, but they didn’t ask her to dance. She was wearing her tiny red dancer’s shorts, a crisp white blouse tied beneath her breasts, and she’d made sure to do a nice job on her nails the night before—Revlon red. Vivid had lent her a pair of black, patent-leather stiletto heels.

  “Turn,” the lead man said, and Ruby stood with her back to them. She kept her shoulders back, lifted up through her abdomen, showing her full height. She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, and so she held them away from her hips, bent at the wrists, fingertips pointed slightly upward.

  “Good. Face us again, Miss Wilde.”

  Ruby made an elegant turn, eased into a smile once more. She took the fingertips of her right hand and slowly, gently, pushed her hair back from her temple in a purposeful, sensual gesture. Remembering how Vivid had used her hands to cool herself at the barbecue, Ruby closed her eyes briefly and let her hand drift down the length of her neck.

  “That’s fine.” The leader of the pack cleared his throat. “Now, if you don’t mind.” He nodded toward Ruby’s breasts. The request came as no surprise—Vivid had warned her that there was no other way for the men to evaluate Ruby’s true potential as a topless showgirl. Vivid had Ruby practice standing in front of a mirror, envisioning the men watching her. She’d stood naked, staring at herself until she could smile assuredly and know that what she had was worth displaying. Her body should be seen, appreciated, and enjoyed, she told herself. It was just an act.

  She was Ruby Wilde—performing.

  Despite all her preparation, Ruby’s hands shook slightly as she began unbuttoning her blouse. She knew she should maintain eye contact while she removed her top, and finally she did, at last untying the knot beneath her breasts without fumbling. Vivid had told her not to wear a bra—You want for them to see right away that you’re not prudish. She told herself she’d have to reveal her body to an entire audience, that this kind of scrutiny was only the beginning. But, in a way, an entire audience seemed easier, more anonymous. This was so intimate.

  Ruby pulled her blouse open and let the cloth drop from her shoulders.

  “Remove it entirely, please. And stand in profile.”

  Ruby held the blouse in one hand as if she were a model who’d just removed a jacket. She turned, keeping one leg slightly in front of the other, her knees relaxed, slightly bent. She could feel her heart pounding.

  “Other side.”

  She spun.

  “Nice,” the man said. “Very nice. Everyone?” the man asked, his voice now sounding less like a physician’s or auctioneer’s, more like that of someone who had warmed to her. None of the others spoke, and Ruby fought the temptation to sneak a look, to see if they communicated with each other by raised eyebrows, nods, or even shaking their heads no. “Face us once more, Ruby.”

  They were no longer bored.

  “Now I understand what Renoir was after,” the lead man said. “That soft, subtle coloring. Pinks, whites. Of course no one will see those perfect, quiet areolas. You have amazing skin,” he said. “But stay out of the sun.” He pointed his cigarette at her for emphasis.

  Ruby nodded, still smiling. “I will. I do.”

  “Good. You can get dressed now. See Miss Jenkins backstage. She’ll get you scheduled. And, Miss Wilde.” The lead man stood, gave a small bow. “Welcome to the Folies.”

  Ruby felt as if she’d just stepped off of a cliff. She stood outside in the hallway and tried to catch her breath. She could hear Aunt Tate’s infinite disapproval, almost thought she heard her aunt whisper, Be careful what you ask for. Good lord, Ruby thought—what on earth had she gone and done?

  * * *

  —

  SHE SIGNED HER first showgirl contract Ruby Wilde, a.k.a. “Lily Decker,” and dated it October 14, 1967. Then, there was a trip to the beauty parlor for a makeover with a Mick Jagger–thin man named Toby who had her stand in front of a full-length mirror while he narrowed his eyes, tilted his head first this way then that, pushed his chin in the air, and looked at her along the length of his nose. He was wearing a dark red shirt covered in huge white polka dots, a black leather vest, and tight, skinny-legged black pants.

  “SPLENDID color!” He snapped his fingers. “PERFECT mahogany hair, glorious skin,” he effused. “And yes, the Cleopatra look’s fine, but let’s try something different. Something FABULOUS. Sit sit sit.” He wet her hair, took his scissors in hand, and began to cut before Ruby had a chance to protest. Could she protest? She rather felt as if she’d been bought and paid for.

  “Your neck should be on display, and a short, layered cut will reduce some of the weight of your hair.” At times using a razor blade, Toby cut her hair so that her ears were exposed, and then he used the tips of the scissors to create what he called wispies around her face. “It’s a shag, honey. All the rage, and ideal with your features.” When he was finished, Ruby had to agree that her eyes somehow appeared bolder, bigger. “Just fluff it up with your fingers.” Toby demonstrated. “Easy peasy. No fuss.” He had delicate hands with calluses on his index finger and thumb and he wore a polished silver cuff bracelet on his left wrist.

  “You’ll need hairpieces, for variety.” He led her to another section of the salon and seated her once more. “First, a far-out, long piece.” He opened a drawer, and then with his hand still in the drawer, he looked up at her, thinking. “Black?” He held up a long fall, placed it next to her face. “Too dark,” he said, returning the hairpiece to the drawer. “Something wild, though. You want to make a statement.” He rummaged through what looked to be the remains of an entire zoo population. “Bright gold.” He decided at last. “I dream of Jeannie!”

  Ruby grimaced as if she’d smelled decay.

  “Just take it.” He dropped the hairpiece in her lap. “You’ll see. Toby! Is! Always! Right!” He smirked, and Ruby was won over.

  After piling six hairpieces of different colors and configurations in her lap, he sang, “Makeup!” and led her back to the salon chair where they’d begun. “After today, you’ll have to do your own.” He opened a chest of drawers that reminded her of Uncle Miles’ giant metal toolbox, except that it was hot pink. The drawers were filled with eye shadow, eyeliner and eyebrow pencils, foundation, mascara, blush, and powder.

  “Extend your eyeliner like this,” Toby said, expertly drawing the line up and out from the outer corner of her eye. “Go like this.” He opened his mouth into a huge O, and Ruby copied him while he flicked mascara onto her lashes. “The trick the girls use,” he said, opening a package of false eyelashes, “is three pairs. Three.”

  “But how does anyone see through that much eyelash?”

  “You get used to it. It’s the only way to have your eyes pop, even from a distance. And pile on the rouge. Like this.” He showed her how to apply the rouge below her cheekbone and to angle it steeply upward. “Use a darker color of rouge and lipstick than you normally would. Overdo everything. That’s my motto.” He laughed. “And girl, I do mean everything!” Ruby smiled back at him in the mirror. He’d transformed her. She felt like some rare tropical bird.

  “One more trick,” he said, handing her a roll of flesh-toned tape. “Know what this
is?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “It’s toupee tape. Okay—stop,” he cautioned, as Ruby began to giggle. “This is dead serious.” Still, he began laughing along with her. “So anyway,” he said, finally catching his breath. “You use this to hold your G-string in place. It can’t be seen, if you do it right—and shifts in the ol’ G-string can be—well…” He smiled lasciviously.

  “Plus, I need to do some serious hair removal,” Ruby said, feeling daring.

  “Daily.”

  Toby of the Bottomless Energy loaded her with a fully stocked makeup kit in colors that best suited her complexion and a set of soft-bristled brushes in an array of sizes and shapes, and then he passed her on to Gloria Jenkins, the Tropicana’s showgirl manager.

  “All the girls call me Mother J,” Gloria said, beckoning Ruby into her white Ford Falcon. “I take care of everything, and you can come to me anytime. An-y-time. For advice. Or whatever.”

  Gloria took Ruby shopping—for evening gowns, cocktail dresses, miniskirts, blouses, brightly colored tights and fishnet stockings, bell-bottom pants in audacious pinks and oranges as well as pale celery and aquamarine, and even lacy red and black lingerie. Uninvited, Mother J came into the fitting room with Ruby, narrowed her eyes and expertly tugged at bra straps, ordered clerks to bring different sizes. She had Ruby bend over to get her breasts firmly seated in the bra cups, and as Ruby dressed and undressed, Gloria took note of Ruby’s sizes in a little black spiral-bound notebook.

  “Shoes,” Gloria said, and they were off to Hi-Style Footwear, a store that catered to the casino crowd.

  “Miss Jenkins, Miss Jenkins. Enchanté,” a man with a thin mustache greeted them at the entrance. “This is the new girl you phoned about?” He bowed to Ruby and, like a maître d’ at a fine restaurant, ushered them toward a row of chairs. “We’ll take very good care of you,” he promised, snapping his fingers until a clerk appeared at his side.

  This clerk, too, took orders from Miss Jenkins. “One pair of flats. Plain, black. Some short black boots, moderate heel. Heeled sandals. The rest fashion heels. And the usual order of Capezios. Oh, what am I saying? You know,” she said, waving a hand.

  Mother J purchased ten pairs of shoes for Ruby. Ruby’s favorite was a tall pair of minimalist heels with a strap that circled her ankle. The silver shoes were open-sided, open-toed, and the only thing holding the shoe to her foot, other than the heel cup and ankle strap, was a narrow band of rhinestones in the shape of a loosely tied knot. They were supremely elegant Cinderella shoes, and it was all Ruby could do not to plead like a little girl to keep them on her feet, maybe even to sleep in them.

  “How’re you feeling?” Mother J asked when they got back into the Falcon. She rolled down her window, and Ruby did the same. Once the car was moving, there was enough of a breeze to begin to cool them.

  “I keep thinking I’ll hear a clock strike midnight and everything will disappear.”

  “I hope Toby remembered to give you some good facial moisturizers. This dry air is murder on the skin. The singers all complain about desert throat.”

  “I think he put some jars in the case,” Ruby said. “It’s a little hard to keep track of everything at this point.”

  Mother J flicked the lever for her turn signal and pushed in the cigarette lighter. “Go ahead. I don’t, but you go ahead. I know how you girls manage to keep those figures.”

  Ruby felt instantly calmer with the first lungful of tobacco smoke, and she settled back in the seat, looked at the blue mountain range lurking in the distance, across the desert flats.

  Mother J broke the brief silence. “Understand please, Ruby, what we bought today—these are your work clothes, your uniforms. You’re expected to entertain after the show. You keep the men gambling, buying drinks, food. Basically,” she said, turning to look at Ruby, “you keep them spending money, and you give them a good time. Let them brush up against glamour.”

  “I was talking with Vivid—” Ruby began.

  “Good. Good. She’s experienced, a good girl to go to for advice.” Mother J drove past the red lights of the Tropicana, on toward the Bombay Motor Court. “So Vivid probably told you you’re not expected to sleep with the men,” she said, taking a moment to be sure Ruby was paying attention. “Of course you can, if you want. But nothing requires that you do that.” Her tone was matter of fact, as if they were still discussing makeup or shoe sizes.

  Ruby thought about the church group ladies back in Kansas, how they’d describe a girl hopping in and out of bed with just anyone. A girl Aunt Tate would say was on the Path of Ruin and Despair. A slut. Whore. In Kansas, you held on to your virginity as if it were a pile of gold bars secreted away in the light-starved vaults of Fort Knox. You stayed intact. It was something that had always worried Ruby—the fact that someday she would have to explain to some man why she wasn’t a virgin. She’d always thought she’d use the horseback-riding excuse. Apparently, men bought it.

  Ruby remembered the girls from high school who gossiped about those slutty girls rumored to have let some boy get to first base. Second base. And—Lord above!—third. If you were a good girl, a marriageable girl, you remained wholly, blissfully ignorant until your wedding night.

  Really, Ruby thought, that was the way things were supposed to be everywhere. On television, That Girl didn’t have sex with Donald, and who knows how long they’d been together. How many times had she seen that in the movies—the sweet or clever virginal put-off, the good girl who reaps the rewards? And if you didn’t tell him no, then you got pregnant and paid the price.

  Maybe, Ruby thought, this was precisely why the hippies bothered everyone so much, with their freedom and love-ins. Their lack of shame. Hippies made love to each other and then went on to someone else, and someone else after that. Maybe even all in the same afternoon, if what she’d heard was true.

  And now, here was Mother J not only giving “yes” a blessing, but she did it as if Ruby and the other showgirls had a right to desire, to pleasure. She could take pleasure. She’d never thought about it like that—that she could be more than a gatekeeper; she could be an instigator, someone who chose. Someone who wanted to sleep with a man and made it happen.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Mother J said, pulling up to a stoplight.

  “Sorry,” Ruby said, shaking off her reverie. “You were saying we can—I can—go to bed with men or not. That it’s not required.”

  “More importantly, I was saying that you are to show the men a good time, to charm them.”

  “Making memories,” Ruby said, thinking that Mother J really did look like a mother—not a woman who created high-priced, almost call girls. She was rather dumpy, wore cat-eye-framed glasses, and her middle-aged neck was starting to lapse into a rubbery wattle. Gloria Jenkins could almost pass for a member of Aunt Tate’s Bible-study group. It made Ruby smile to think of Mother J sitting in a flock of Aunt Tate’s friends, sharing the finer points of seducing gamblers.

  “Memories. That’s it exactly,” Mother J said approvingly. “You give them memories. You give them tales to tell when they get back to Dubuque or Cincinnati or Tuscaloosa.”

  * * *

  —

  RUBY HAD LUNCH with Vivid and Rose the next day, watching them yawn their way through chef salads poolside at Caesars. At two dollars apiece, the salads were expensive, but Ruby had already received a paycheck from the Tropicana. She was flush, and she was buying.

  “You are far too bright and bushy-tailed at this time of day,” Vivid said, using an index finger to push up her sunglasses. “Please tell me you’re not one of those morning people.” She speared a piece of chicken.

  “Sort of. Yeah. And geez—it’s past noon.”

  “That attitude’ll change,” Rose said, taking a sip of her iced tea. She waved away the bikini-clad waitress who stopped to offer a refill. “Still,
your hair looks great.”

  “I’ll have you know that Toby said it was fabulous!” Ruby sang out. “And I have costume fittings this afternoon.” She tried not to sound as excited, as perky as she felt.

  “They’ll only put you in one or two numbers at first,” Vivid said. “Let you get your toes wet, see how you do, then work you up to a full production set.”

  “I’ve got butterflies,” Ruby confessed.

  “Sheesh.” Vivid sighed and looked at Rose. “She’s actually got enough energy to have butterflies!”

  “That’ll change,” Rose nearly moaned.

  “Oh yeah,” Vivid agreed.

  “You two—” Ruby began.

  “We’re a couple of killjoys,” Rose said.

  “Well, you’re trying to be. But there’s no way you can ruin this for me.” Ruby grinned.

  “And no way we’d want to.” Vivid touched Ruby’s forearm lightly. “No way on God’s green earth we’d take one moment of this from you.”

  Rose smiled. “You’ve earned this, kiddo. And, soon enough,” she warned with a grin, “you’ll learn that nothing in Vegas—nothing—happens before three, at the earliest. It’s called sleep.” She rubbed her forehead for emphasis.

  The next few weeks were demanding, full of frenzied learning for Ruby. Connie, a dresser, led Ruby through the Tropicana’s backstage rabbit warren, where she met a team of seamstresses who were constantly repairing, altering, wiring, and cleaning the costumes. Over fifty stagehands moved the elaborate sets in between numbers, pulling ropes and pushing wheeled set pieces into place. Inside a vault called the Bird Room were countless boas of every color imaginable. She saw waterfalls and fantails of feathers, costumes loaded with plumes from ostrich, quail, pheasant, and other species she couldn’t identify. Other backstage rooms held racks of jewelry—velvet cuffs with rhinestone cuff links, jeweled chokers. Bras that lacked cups or any form of support but instead merely served to outline breasts. Glitter and more glitter, outlandish hunks of paste jewelry. There were Carmen Miranda open skirts, long dresses with trains and cutaway swaths that revealed shapely legs. Cabinet drawers filled with satiny, jeweled G-strings. Elizabethan collars made of stiff black feathers. And Connie said these were just the costumes currently in use. The rest were in storage.