by Michelle Cox
“Oh, Mr. Hennessey, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to; you know that, right? Maybe if things pick up, I could come back . . . ”
Mr. Hennessey sadly laughed. “To be honest, I don’t know if that’s ever going to happen, girl, but you’re always welcome.” He wiped the bar with his towel, thinking. “Don’t know what you’re gonna tell your ma, though. Thought about that?”
“Over and over,” she said glumly, rubbing the ridges on the bar’s surface where the varnish had cracked. “I know she’d never approve of me being a taxi dancer; it was bad enough when she found out I was a twenty-six girl,” she said, looking up at him now. “If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Hradek blabbing her mouth off to her, she never would have known.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
Henrietta looked at him sheepishly, “Tell her that I got a job at the electrics? Night shift?”
Mr. Hennessey looked at her skeptically. “Think that’s really gonna work?”
“Well, what choice do I have? Polly says the hours are very late at the Promenade, later than I get off from here, plus the time it takes me to get back on the trolley or the motorbus, depends on what’s running that time of night. It’ll also explain the extra money I’ll be bringing in. Hopefully,” she added with a smile.
“Don’t you think she’ll find out? I’m sure she knows people who work there.”
“Not the night shift. That’s mostly men . . . Oh, I don’t know! I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. It’s the only thing I can think of right now!”
“Well, good luck to you, girl.” Mr. Hennessey had come out from behind the bar and kissed her on the top of the head. “You’ve always got a place here, remember.”
Henrietta couldn’t help but wrap her arms around his stout body, trying hard not to cry. “Maybe I could stop by sometimes . . . ”
“Sure you can. Hope you do,” he said, smiling sadly at her. “Go on, then! Better be off! Don’t want to be late on your first day!” he said, attempting to be cheerful.
Henrietta patted his arm. “Thanks, Mr. Hennessey. For everything,” she said quietly and walked slowly to the door.
“Good luck,” he said with a sad smile, and held up his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding winter light, reflected off the snow piled up outside, that shone in as Henrietta opened the door and slipped out. The door thudded closed behind her, and the interior of Poor Pete’s seemed all the darker to Mr. Hennessey as his eyes readjusted. He sighed, then, and went back to wiping the bar.
It had been strange at first—dancing with men for money—but Henrietta found she rather enjoyed it, actually. She didn’t know what she had been worried about; it was terribly fun if she didn’t think about it for too long. She had taught herself to see it as Polly did— simply as getting paid for an evening of dancing. It was better than demonstrating curlers or even keeping score for twenty-six, and she made loads more money. She still felt guilty about lying to her mother, though, especially when Ma had been so proud of her when she had told her she had gotten a job at the electrics. Ma had even baked a small cake to mark the occasion, to the great delight of the whole family, except Eugene, of course, who was very grudging in his congratulations, having failed so many times himself to secure work there.
Henrietta left the house at about four in the afternoon now and didn’t usually get home until after two in the morning. It was a long day and night, but Henrietta was used to being on her feet. The problem was her clothes. She couldn’t very well leave the house all dolled up for a night of dancing when Ma believed her to be working in a factory, soldering radios. After a bit of thought, she had come up with a way to get around it by wearing an old pair of boots and an old flannel shirt and overalls of Eugene’s when she left for work and changing into a dress and high heels in one of the back rooms of the Promenade once she got there. Polly had taken her shopping after a couple of weeks of earning some money, and she was able to find three dresses on sale at Kaufmann’s that she kept and rotated through at the Promenade, using the sink in the bathroom to occasionally wash them. No one seemed to care that she hung them out to dry in the back storage room or that she kept some of her belongings there. In fact, it rather seemed to amuse Mama Leone.
“Hidin’ out are ya? Like a gypsy, aren’t ya?” she would wheeze in place of a chuckle whenever she saw Henrietta’s laundry hanging there.
Henrietta tried to ignore her. Though Polly seemed able to brush off her rough comments, Henrietta found this more difficult to do. Try as she might to figure her out, Mama Leone remained an enigma. When she hired her, Mama Leone had warned Henrietta that there was to be no “hanky-panky,” and yet Henrietta had never seen her enforce this policy, seeming instead to turn a blind eye most of the time. Consequently, Henrietta had been shocked on her first few nights by some of the goings on and on one occasion had slapped a man’s hand away from caressing her breasts, his hot breath in her ear, causing him to grumble loudly enough for Mama Leone to overhear. Mama Leone had waited for him to move on to a different dancer before taking Henrietta by the wrist and leading her to the side of the dance floor.
“What the hell do ya think you’re doin’?” she’d hissed at Henrietta. “He’s a regular, ya know!”
“What do you mean? He . . . he tried to rub my . . . rub me! Didn’t you say . . . ?”
“Listen, sister. Get this straight. A little feel here and there ain’t gonna hurt nobody, see? We’ve got to keep ‘em coming back . . . make ‘em feel special . . . understand?”
“But I thought you said no ‘hanky-panky’ . . . ,” Henrietta felt silly saying those words.
Mama Leone had wheezed out a laugh. “That’s not hanky-panky, you stupid girl! I thought fer sure you’d know more than that by the looks of you.”
Henrietta wasn’t sure she knew what she meant, but she felt she should apologize. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . ”
“Well, now you know. Now get back out there,” she said, dropping Henrietta’s wrist in disgust. “Some girls is never grateful for a job.”
Henrietta had then looked across the room in an attempt to find Polly, rubbing her wrist as she did so. She finally spotted her standing over by the bar, her favorite place to loiter when she wasn’t dancing. Henrietta was pretty sure she was sweet on Mickey, the bartender. He was a rough Italian character whose hard edge behind the bar was certainly different from Mr. Hennessey’s friendly style. He seemed to like Polly, too, but then again, he seemed to like a lot of the girls.
When Henrietta approached, Polly was whispering something to Mickey, but stopped when Mickey nodded his head toward Henrietta. Still smiling from what Mickey had just said to her, Polly turned to face Henrietta as she came up.
“No partner?” she asked, surprised. Henrietta was very rarely without one.
“I’ve just been chastised,” Henrietta answered, furtively looking back at Mama Leone, who was already settled back at her table with a novel. “For slapping some idiot’s hand for taking advantage. It turns out I’m the one that got reprimanded, though!” she said with disgust.
Mickey laughed, and Polly merely smiled.
“I thought she said no hanky-panky,” Henrietta said in an accusatory way.
“She always says that to the new girls. It’s some kind of front. But a feel here or there or maybe a quick kiss in a dark corner isn’t really what she means,” Polly explained. “In fact, she encourages it, as you’ve found out. She means no going all the way with some chap in the back, for instance.”
“What?!”
“Well, as it happens, it has been known to occur,” she said, giving Mickey a look.
“Does Mama Leone know?”
Mickey laughed again.
“Of course she knows,” Polly explained patiently. “She’s willing to allow it, but she gets a cut, if you know what I mean.”
“But that’s . . . that’s like prostitution, isn’t it?”
“Some might call it that, but some
might say they’re simply providing an extra-long dance, if you know what I mean,” she grinned. Henrietta felt herself blush and looked over at Mickey.
Smiling to himself, he moved to the other end of the bar, where customers were waiting for drinks.
“Have . . . have you?” asked Henrietta tentatively, just above a whisper.
Polly shook her head. “Naw, it’s not for me. Sometimes, though, girls don’t have a choice.” Her face had looked sad as she said it. “Come on, let’s get back on the floor before the ol’ bulldog chases us.”
Mortified by the knowledge that some of the girls were having relations in the back with the customers, Henrietta reluctantly allowed herself to be led by Polly back onto the floor, but was unable to shake the feeling that she was somehow tainted, too, now, just by association, and felt jumpy the rest of the night.
Henrietta quickly learned the ropes from that point on, and at Polly’s suggesting, found her own ways of dealing with “gropers,” as the girls were wont to call them. In truth, Henrietta had never minded a little wink or a touch at Poor Pete’s when Mr. Hennessey wasn’t looking. In fact, she found she liked the attention from men, even craved it sometimes, but now that she found herself here, without Mr. Hennessey to watch over her, and where attentions were indeed encouraged, she worried that things might get out of hand, and very quickly at that. She did not want to find herself backstage one night becoming in truth the woman of loose morals her mother seemed to suspect her of already being. It was difficult sometimes, though, if the band was playing something romantic and the man she was dancing with was even the least bit handsome, to not give in to more than innocent flirtatiousness, but Henrietta had only to remind herself, then, of her father to reaffirm her desire to remain virtuous.
To that end, she had already discovered certain strategies that helped. For one thing, she made sure that she always stationed herself at a place on the floor farthest from where the bulldog sat perched behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. If a man’s hands did start to roam while they danced, Henrietta made sure to “accidentally” step on his toes and then make a big fuss and apologize loudly for doing so, which usually resulted in embarrassing the culprit in her arms enough to stop any more surreptitious attempts. After that, if they were regulars, they usually went for someone else more obliging. The girls made up nicknames for some of the more arduous— Chatterbox, Ticky, Chummy, Rough Hands, and Casanova were just a few. Henrietta avoided them like the plague.
Polly had been amused by her tactics.
“Well, I don’t care what the ol’ bulldog says, I’m not letting any man grab at me!” Henrietta had responded.
“Good luck, doll!” Polly merely answered. “But I don’t know why you’re saving yourself.”
Henrietta chose to ignore this. “Aren’t there any men that come here just to dance?”
“A few. The shy ones, mostly. Can’t get a date or are practicing for their sweetheart. Most of them are just farm boys up from the sticks looking for work. Lonely, I suppose.”
“I’ll be on the lookout for those,” Henrietta said, observing the room with her hands on her hips.
“I prefer the married ones,” Polly said absently, patting her hair in place as she observed herself in her compact mirror.
“Married? Why would married men come here?”
Polly had laughed at her naiveté. “Oh, Hen, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
“Places, girls!” Mama Leone was now shouting out.
Henrietta adjusted the little pouch she wore around her wrist to collect tickets in. The band was just finishing their warm-ups as the lights dimmed, and the first men of the afternoon would soon make their way into the Promenade Club, tickets purchased for a dime each jostling in their pockets. Henrietta had been here for almost two months now, though it felt much longer. She smiled as she heard the band begin. This was her favorite time, just at the beginning, when the night was still full of potential.
As Polly had promised, the music was an added benefit to the job. She loved hearing all the bands, but the Rhythm Section was by far her favorite. As Mama Leone now signaled the two doormen lazily hanging about to open the main doors, Henrietta glanced over at the band, hoping to catch the eye of Artie, the clarinet player. Sometimes when the Rhythm Section stopped for a break, Artie would make his way over to her and buy her a soda. He was always trying to get her to drink something stronger, but Henrietta usually refused, knowing she had to keep her wits about her. She liked the attention, though, and had even let him kiss her once or twice when he had led her backstage. Breathing hard, he had tried to press her for more, shockingly pulling her to him so that she had felt his hardened, excited state through his blue serge pants, but, flustered, she had gently pushed him away. He had been irritated with her then and had angrily sulked until she reminded him that the next set was starting soon, and he had reluctantly slunk back to the stage, lighting a cigarette as he strode off, puffing so deeply that his cheeks hollowed. Still, she was crazy for him, despite his rough kisses and injured sensitivity. She adored watching him play.
“Casanova’s here,” Polly whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “And he’s headed this way.”
Henrietta groaned and turned to avoid looking in his direction, only to find Mama Leone staring at them.
“The bulldog’s watching,” Henrietta whispered back, and both girls falsely smiled at the approaching Casanova as if on cue.
Grinning sardonically, Casanova held up his ticket with an air of superiority as he neared. He was actually a fairly good dancer, but his forehead was overly large, making his eyes look small and too close together by comparison. His hair was always greased back, and he sported a pencil-thin mustache, which Polly felt sure he drew on each night. Besides his strange appearance, however, he likewise had an uncomfortable way of grasping his partners too tightly, making it difficult to move, as if he were about to devour them at any moment.
He was making his way over to them now, looking right at Henrietta, but before he could reach her, a younger man, almost a boy, really, raced in front of him, his ticket haphazardly in hand as he rushed up to her and held it out.
“First dance?” he panted, looking triumphantly behind him at Casanova, who scowled momentarily before instead turning his attentions to Polly.
Henrietta sighed. “Oh, Stan,” she said putting his ticket in her pouch. “I told you not to waste your money this way. I’ll dance with you at home if you like.”
“Not a chance,” he said as he bashfully held out his arms. “And have all the fellas see? Nah! Not on your life.”
As they awkwardly made their way onto the dance floor amidst the other couples, the band imitating Bing Crosby’s “You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me” in the background, Henrietta spoke again. “You really don’t have to do this, Stan. I can look out for myself, you know.”
“I’m not so sure about that! Oh, Hen, why do ya have to work here? Why couldn’t you just keep your job at Poor Pete’s? That was bad enough, but this?”
Stanley Dubowski was her neighbor one street over, whom she had met one evening coming home on the streetcar after a long day at the World’s Fair. She had still been dressed in her Dutch Girl costume, too tired to change, with its wide, blue skirt puffed out from the layers of petticoat underneath, and beautiful patterns embroidered on it in rich reds and yellows. On top of the dress, she was required to wear a starched, old-fashioned white apron trimmed with eyelet lace, and her braided hair was pinned up underneath a starched white cap. Stanley had almost fallen off his seat when he saw her, pinching himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming that a fairy-tale character had come alive, especially when they both got off at Armitage and Kedzie. He couldn’t believe his good fortune that they shared the same stop, wondering how he hadn’t noticed this divine vision before, and mustered all of his courage to approach this beautiful creature, insisting that he walk her home, lest she fall prey to some unseen dragon that perhaps had come into existence along wit
h her. Amused by his offer, Henrietta, with a quick flash of her dimples, had nonetheless told him “no thanks,” and attempted to go on her way. It was obvious to her that he was several years her junior, and, upon first glance, annoyingly resembled an excited puppy, with his short brown hair accentuating the rather large ears that stuck out from under his cap, as he dogged her home, not taking no for an answer. Though she said very little to him on the walk home, by the end of it he had fallen hopelessly in love with her, a fact which he revealed to her every other week or so. Henrietta, of course, took no notice of him, except when he made a nuisance of himself, which, unfortunately, was often. He had a bothersome habit of popping up out of nowhere as if to protect her from whatever dangers he imagined lay all around her, and she suspected him of secretly following her home from Poor Pete’s from time to time. Ironically, he was employed at the electrics in the warehouse on the day shift, and often used his precious evenings off to follow her.
“I’ve told you before, Stan, I need more money,” Henrietta said as she twirled him past the stage, glancing up to see if Artie was watching her. “Well, I don’t exactly, but Ma does. And, anyway, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“That’s another thing. Your ma would die if she knew you were here.”
Stanley was now familiar with all of Henrietta’s family, having introduced himself to her mother and all of her various siblings in an attempt to endear himself to them as a way of strengthening the bond, however imaginary on his part, between him and Henrietta. He was quite the family favorite now, bringing sweets for the little ones and offering to run errands for Mrs. Von Harmon. Suspicious at first, Mrs. Von Harmon had eventually warmed to him and had even begun to invite him in for a cup of coffee from time to time, during which she had, uncomfortably for Stanley, asked all about Henrietta’s progress at the electrics. Stanley, not wanting to let his girl down, had been as evasive as he could at first, but then decided to jump over the cliff of morality for his love, and out-and-out lied to Mrs. Von Harmon, telling her how well everyone thought of her Henrietta down at the electrics. He could have left it at that, but, caught up now in the deception he was weaving, he related with a sigh of pleasure that Henrietta had just been named the “top solderer”—a position he had just invented on the spot—and had been personally congratulated by the owner of the electrics himself, one Mr. Arthur Cartwright. Mrs. Von Harmon had consequently beamed with pride.