by Monte Schulz
Sitting up in the sweltering grandstand high above the orchestra, Alvin had a good view of the entire auditorium, dancers and spectators alike. He watched Joe Norton come out of a dressing room hallway late from the break with Patsy on his arm and looked at the scoreboard and counted thirteen couples and noticed that all the other dancers were paired up and Dorothy wasn’t on the floor. That plumber sonofabitch got rid of her, Alvin imagined as his heart sank. She was probably too good-looking for him. He considered leaving, but didn’t have the pep for much more walking tonight. Besides, where would he go?
The radio program changed to a cheerful waltz. Most of the dancers were too hot and exhausted to pick up the new rhythm. A floor judge in a referee’s pinstripe shirt clapped his hands to speed them up. Behind the loge seats on the far end of the floor, a large hillbilly family stood up to leave, carrying picnic baskets and milk bottles.
Alvin slid down the plank row behind a pair of fat Chevrolet salesmen eating cold fried chicken out of a metal lunch bucket. They smelled like grease. Alvin watched intently as the master of ceremonies, dressed in black top hat and tails, strode onto the orchestra platform and grabbed the microphone. He had a pencil-thin moustache and slicked-backed hair. His assistant, a slinky blonde dressed up in a cowboy hat and spangles, switched off the radio. Behind the emcee, Jimmy Turkel’s five-piece orchestra, back from supper break, filed onto the stage. The drummer performed a brief introduction as the lethargic dancers slowed to a shuffle. Applause erupted from the grandstand. Alvin glared at Joe Norton and worried that maybe Dorothy had been injured or taken seriously ill during the week he’d been away at the farm. Why had she chosen that dumbbell Norton in the first place?
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! HOW ABOUT A BREAK FOR THESE COURAGEOUS KIDS! AREN’T THEY SWELL?”
The audience cheered loudly.
An elderly man tossed a handful of coins onto the floor from the side railing. A young dance pair dressed in matching blue sailor suits scrambled over to collect it all up while a crowd of college-age fellows gave them a boisterous hip-hip-hurrah.
More people cheered.
The emcee waved his arms to get everyone’s attention again. At the rear of the stage stood Arthur Cheney, the derby promoter from Omaha Alvin had seen on the back porch, still puffing on a fat cigar. Why hadn’t Petey taken a poke at him, Alvin wondered, digging again into his bag of popcorn. A fellow who blows smoke in your face is just asking for a good crack in the jaw.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
The thirteen dance couples milled about together in the middle of the floor, hardly moving now. The farm boy watched one of the collegiate fellows giving advice over the railing to a blonde in worn-out slippers whose hollow-eyed partner was sagging off her torso.
The emcee tapped the microphone with his fist. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THESE KIDS ARE SO COURAGEOUS, AREN’T THEY? HEROES, EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM! RIGHT OUT OF THE TOP DRAWER! AND THEY AREN’T DONE YET, ARE THEY? YOU BET THEY AREN’T! NO SIRREE! THEY KNOW HOW HARD YOU’RE PULLING FOR THEM AND THEY’LL DO THEIR BEST TO SEE THEY DON’T LET YOU DOWN! YOU CAN COUNT ON IT!”
Spectators in the grandstand rose to give the dancers a big ovation, several of whom appeared bewildered by the cheering. Since Dorothy was gone, Alvin hardly clapped at all. He didn’t much care who won now.
The emcee grinned brightly as he spoke into the microphone again. “WHY, THEY’VE SURE GOT A LOT OF GUTS, ALL RIGHT, THESE KIDS OF OURS, DON’T THEY?”
Alvin felt the wooden planks rumble under his feet from the roar that swept the auditorium as the orchestra struck up a boisterous “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The emcee raised his voice. “BUT HONESTLY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, HOW LONG CAN THEY LAST? I ASK YOU, HOW-LONG-CAN-THEY-LAST?”
Across the floor, a knot of people in the loge seats began clapping. More coins showered the sluggish dancers. Alvin watched a homely nurse come out from the dressing room with a bottle of smelling salts. The orchestra played a couple bars of “Dixie.”
“NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE PROMISED YOU THESE KIDS WOULD DO THEIR BEST ON THE FLOOR, AND BELIEVE YOU ME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THEY HAVE. OH, YOU BET THEY HAVE! NINE DAYS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, NINE DAYS, THEY’VE BATTLED NOT ONLY EACH OTHER, BUT FATHER TIME HIMSELF TO KEEP GOING BECAUSE, WHY, THEY JUST KNOW YOU’RE ALL BEHIND THEM! SURE, THEY’VE GOT BUNIONS AND BLISTERS, BUT OH, THEY’VE GOT MORE THAN ENOUGH GUTS, TOO, TO STICK IT OUT TO THE VERY END AND WIN THIS GREAT DANCE DERBY FAIR AND SQUARE FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REALLY CARE TO SEE ’EM DO IT! WHAT DO YOU SAY ABOUT THAT?”
The farm boy almost toppled over as the old bleachers shook under the ovation.
“WELL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT’S TIME TO TURN ON THE HEAT AGAIN, SO PICK OUT YOUR FAVORITE COUPLE AND GIVE ’EM A BREAK BECAUSE THEY’LL NEED ALL THE BOOST THEY CAN GET!”
The emcee motioned to another heat judge waiting just off the platform. More people were crowding into the next row above, shoving along toward the center of the bleachers. Alvin felt like a sardine in his own row and considered switching seats to somewhere higher up.
“MISTER CLARK, ARE YOU READY?”
The bald heat judge nodded.
A buzz swept through the audience.
The emcee drew the microphone close while raising his right hand into the smoky air. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ARE YOU READY?”
A further deafening cheer shook the building. Alvin craned his neck to see through the pack in front of him. A stout woman to his left jammed her elbow into his ribs to make room. He pushed back as the emcee announced to the auditorium spectators, “WELL, THEN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LET’S SEE HOW LONG THESE BRAVE KIDS CAN LAST! MISTER CLARK, HOW ABOUT A SPRINT?” He turned to Turkel. “MAESTRO, GET READY TO GIVE!”
The heat judge walked into the middle of the dance floor where a painted oval marked off a racetrack for the competitors. Alvin felt someone shove roughly into the row beside him.
“Sorry, kid,” the fellow said, as he wedged down between Alvin and the stout woman. He was wearing a felt fedora and a smart blue cassimere suit. “Some local yokel kept stepping on my foot up there.”
He smelled like whiskey and hair tonic.
“Ain’t a lot of room here, neither,” Alvin muttered, watching the dance couples tie together for the sprint. He hated getting shoved, particularly when he didn’t feel well.
“You got a favorite?”
“Huh?”
“This derby’s hired some real cutie pies, don’t you agree?”
Alvin shrugged. “I seen a doll last week, but she ain’t here no more.” He watched Joe Norton fasten a belt onto Patsy’s waist for the sprint and give her a kiss on the cheek. Alvin hoped they’d both trip and break their necks.
“Maybe some fellow bought her off the floor and married her afterward. What was her name?”
“I don’t know,” he lied, figuring this fellow probably didn’t care, anyhow. Besides, he thought of Dorothy as his girl and that wasn’t anybody’s business but his own.
The dancers were packed together behind a white ribbon at the starting line, jostling for position. Another trio of floor judges came out from behind the grandstand. All three looked like sourpusses. Some people booed and hissed when these judges took their places on the dance floor.
After the emcee backed away from the microphone, Turkel’s orchestra struck up a rousing “Stars and Stripes Forever” as the audience stood to watch the sprint. Joe Norton and Patsy were tucked so far back now Alvin could hardly see them, but in front of the pack were a sweetheart couple from Ohio lots of people seemed to be boosting and a slick pair of Mexican dancers nobody much cared for at all.
The fellow spoke into the farm boy’s ear, “I got a sawbuck says I can predict which couple’s out after this sprint.”
“Oh yeah?” said Alvin, his attention fixed on the heat judge whose arm was raised at the starting line. If Dorothy’d been in this sprint, he thought, she’d be out front where everyone could see how swell she looked.
&n
bsp; The fellow dropped his voice. “Don’t you know most of these marathons are a slice of tripe? Why, oiling one of the floor judges’ll give you the dope on who wins and who gets the air any night of the week.”
“Says who?” Alvin growled. He wanted the sprint to start so he could watch Joe Norton and Patsy fail miserably before the whole auditorium. Maybe somebody would even throw a tomato at ’em.
“Says I.”
“Yeah, how do you know?”
The fellow laughed. “Well, for starters, I’ve seen a million of them, that’s how. Why, marathon dances were standing them up in Chicago all last summer.”
The heat judge’s whistle shrieked and the sprint began, thirteen dance couples galloping through the ribbon like the start of a horse race. Spectators howled with excitement. Six couples hit the first turn in a thick pack, scrambling for the lead. Turkel’s orchestra played a fast and spirited “California, Here I Come,” while the audience down by the floor urged their favorite couples to greater speed. Tied together with a belt, whichever partner had the most pluck and fortitude after nine days of dancing dragged the other around the oval, panicked and invigorated by the knowledge that the team finishing last would be cut out of the derby. All about the auditorium, people screamed and shouted for their favorite contestants to go faster and faster, and razzing those they didn’t like. Couples stumbled and fought to regain balance. Those who fell hurried to get back on their feet again. Round and round they went, faces horrid with agony. Alvin rooted for Patsy to take a spill or Joe Norton to drop dead. One athletic-looking boy got wobbly-knee’d on the far turn and his partner, a tiny brunette, jammed her shoulder underneath his arm and began dragging him onward, screaming in his ear while the spectators roared for them to keep up. The parquet dance floor became slick with sweat. Desperate couples skidded and slipped. Turkel’s orchestra played a fast Peabody and the emcee grabbed the microphone and exhorted the beleaguered dancers to “HURRY! HURRY! HURRY! TIME’S RUNNING OUT, KIDS! DON’T FALL BEHIND! DON’T FALL BEHIND!”
Alvin felt an elbow nudge him in the ribs. His new friend leaned over close to his ear and said, “See those two in the blue sailor suits?”
The farm boy nodded. Those were the Italians from Indiana. “What of it?”
The emcee announced with undisguised glee, “THREE MINUTES TO GO, KIDS! THREE MINUTES! HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!”
“Well, they’re getting the air.”
“Says who?”
“One of Cheney’s stooges caught ’em having a lay under the bleachers. I hear the birdie had a flask of gin in her skirt. Some dick from town wanted to prefer charges.”
“That’s a good laugh,” Alvin said, as Joe Norton and Patsy lunged past a couple wearing athletic shirts and shorts soaked in sweat. The dance floor was a frenzy of roughhousing competitors pushing and shoving, male and female alike, battling frantically for position on the final few laps of the sprint. All the spectators were standing now and Alvin found the clamor deafening. He was getting a headache.
The fellow beside him raised his voice above the racket. “You just watch and see if I’m not right.”
“Sure I will.”
The buoyant emcee cried into the microphone, “ONE MINUTE TO GO, KIDS! ONLY ONE MORE MINUTE! HOLD ON! DON’T QUIT NOW! HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!”
Around the track went all thirteen dance couples, struggling to keep upright, racing desperately for the finish. Joe and Patsy were in the middle of the pack just behind the sweetheart couple, but Alvin didn’t know how many laps they’d taken. That’s what mattered. Whichever team did the most laps won. Fewest laps meant disqualification. Falls earned deductions, too. Joe and Patsy’d had two, but some of the other couples had more than that. All were badly played out. “THIRTY SECONDS, KIDS! ONLY THIRTY SECONDS! HURRY NOW! HURRY!”
Alvin looked for the Italian dance pair wearing sailor suits and saw they were far ahead of Joe and Patsy, just three couples off the lead and heading around the near turn. The oily Mexican pair were dead last and fading, but nobody had sponsored them, anyhow. From where Alvin was standing, it seemed that the sweetheart couple were set to win if they didn’t trip up.
Turkel’s orchestra finished playing just as the heat judge blew his whistle, ending the sprint. Half of the couples on the dance floor collapsed. Spectators cheered wildly with appreciation while a crew of trainers in white hospital dress rushed out of the dressing rooms, dragging several iron cots for those competitors most badly stricken with exhaustion. Alvin saw Patsy and Joe sitting on the railing near the orchestra platform. Patsy hung her head on Joe’s sweaty shoulder. The skinny plumber’s eyes were shut. A smartly-dressed Negro sitting just behind them in the loge seats was patting Joe on the back. Alvin guessed he didn’t know about Dorothy.
A crowd was gathering near the microphone. The bald heat judge had climbed up from the dance floor and met Cheney and the emcee. Turkel watched for his cue to begin the music that would announce the winners of the sprint.
“Now you’ll see,” said the fellow beside Alvin. He snuck a silver hipflask from his jacket and enjoyed a quick nip. Then he chuckled and hid it away again. “Why, I doubt any of these marathons are on the up-and-up.”
Alvin frowned. “Go on, tell me some more.”
“Fact is, the dance derby’s just another dirty goldbrick game.”
“Oh yeah?”
The fellow took out his bag of peanuts. “I tell you, it’s crooked as all hell.”
“Says you,” Alvin growled. He hated hearing bunk like this. Uncle Henry knocked the derby himself all through dinner last Sunday and he’d never been to one in his life.
The fellow grinned. “You think I’m a joykiller, huh?”
“You said it.” Why didn’t this fellow go take a hike?
“Well,” the fellow replied, eating a handful of peanuts, “it wouldn’t bust me up to be wrong, but if I am, I’ll eat your hat.” The emcee took the microphone in hand. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
A big cheer went up from the grandstand.
He raised a hand to quiet the audience. Cheney stood in close behind him with the contingent of derby sponsors flanking both men.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! PLEASE!”
Alvin saw Joe Norton shaking hands with the Negro at the loge seats. Patsy was moving forward to the orchestra platform. Joe Nor ton followed her past the iron cots. Elrod Tarwater, a policemen Alvin knew from downtown, stood at the corner of the orchestra next to that stout fellow Gus who’d punched Petey in the mouth out back.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, AREN’T THESE KIDS WONDERFUL?”
Another big cheer jolted the auditorium.
“YOU BET THEY ARE! AND WE’RE NOT FINISHED YET! NO SIRREE! NOT BY A LONG SHOT! THESE KIDS HAVE PLEDGED TO KEEP ON GOING SO LONG AS YOU COME OUT AND PULL FOR ’EM JUST AS HARD AS YOU’VE BEEN DOING ALL THIS WEEK! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THAT?”
The audience thundered their approval.
“NOW, OUR FINE TEAM OF FLOOR JUDGES…”
A flurry of boos cascaded down from the upper bleachers.
“… HAVE TABULATED THE OFFICIAL LAP RESULTS OF THIS EVENING’S SPRINT AND I MUST TELL YOU I’VE NEVER WITNESSED A TRUER EXAMPLE OF COURAGE AND PERSEVERANCE! THESE KIDS CERTAINLY PUT IT OVER FOR US, AND I TAKE NO JOY IN HAVING TO ELIMINATE ONE OF THESE BRAVE TEAMS, BUT, LADIES AND GENTLE MEN, RULES ARE RULES. THEREFORE…” The emcee reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a small white card. “FOLKS, LET’S GIVE A HEARTY FAREWELL TO OUR LOVELY FRIENDS FROM THE GREAT STATE OF INDIANA… BUDDY AND EILEEN ROMERO!”
Alvin sucked in his breath as a spotlight from the rafters high above the platform flashed down through the smoky haze to illuminate two contestants wearing blue navy sailor suits.
“Ha!” Alvin’s friend cried. Wadding up his empty peanut bag, he began clapping with the rest of the auditorium. “Well, kid, can you feature that?”
Buddy and Eileen Romero looked shocked, tears falling now.
“Aw, what do you kn
ow?” Alvin mumbled, both angry and mystified. Who got this wiseacre told the derby wasn’t on the level?
From the platform, the emcee called down to them. “COME ON UP HERE, KIDS! TAKE A BOW FOR ALL YOUR FRIENDS!”
Buddy Romero barked at a floor judge who quickly turned his back. Eileen Romero stumbled into one of the iron cots. Loud applause from the grandstand persisted. Both were showered with silver from the best-dressed people in the loge seats. Neither seemed to notice and continued forward without stopping to retrieve the coins.
Still clapping, the fellow told Alvin, “See, it really gets me how these sapheads won’t play the game fair and square.”
Gus came to the front of the platform with another pair of trainers and helped Buddy and Eileen Romero up from the dance floor. A spray of coins greeted them there. The emcee waved to Turkel whose orchestra struck up a lively few bars of “Blue Skies.”
Alvin saw Buddy Romero receive a certificate and a handshake from Cheney while Eileen Romero wept. Gus escorted them to the back of the platform to a loud ovation. Then the emcee signaled Turkel for a drum roll. Cheney lit up a fat cigar. Those dance couples not passed out on iron cots milled about looking flummoxed and wan.
“Sorry, kid,” said the fellow beside Alvin, dumping the empty peanut bag under his bench seat. “I told you, it ain’t copacetic.”
“Aw, phooey on you, too.” He was feeling sick again. His head hurt and his stomach was queasy.
Now the emcee spoke into the microphone with a big grin on his face. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
Alvin saw Petey in a crouch next to the platform bunting. What was he doing there?
“WELL, WE’VE HAD A REAL SURPRISE TONIGHT! THAT SPRINT WAS QUITE A GRIND, WASN’T IT?”
Joe Norton and Patsy were on the far side of the platform now. Alvin watched a photographer take a flash picture of them with one of the businessmen from downtown.
“YOU SEE, ALL OF OUR KIDS PROVED THEY’VE GOT THE PLUCK TO EARN A PRIZE IN THIS DERBY, BUT LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, TONIGHT ONE TEAM REALLY SHOWED THEIR TRUE COLORS WHEN WE TURNED ON THE HEAT!”