The Show Girl

by Nicola Harrison

  “Oh no,” I said, “I was just passing through, I’m not here to shop.”

  “Of course. Luncheon will be served on the tenth floor at eleven A.M. in the Wedgewood Room, and afternoon tea will be served at two P.M. in the Mandarin Room.”

  “I’m not here for that either, actually. I’m heading to Times Square,” I said, suddenly feeling the urgent need to get out of the store. She pointed me in the right direction, and I walked, faster now that I knew I was close to the New Amsterdam Theatre.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After my disappointing meeting with Mr. Ziegfeld, I left the theater, dashing out of the grand lobby, past the two enormous gold peacock sculptures, letting the doors slam behind me. The bright sunlight blinded me after having been inside, but I just started walking. After turning on Broadway, cars whizzing by, people dashing past with somewhere to go, I realized I had no idea where I was going. Advertisements for “Squibb’s Dental Cream” and “Coca-Cola—Delicious and Refreshing” and “Arrow Collars” all loomed above me. An immense image of a man smoking a cigarette looked down on me with the words “I’d Walk a Mile for a Camel,” but I couldn’t walk another block. I just needed to sit down for a minute—I felt deflated. Mr. Ziegfeld hadn’t picked me on purpose, just to knock me down a peg or two; I was sure of it.

  I moved away from the busy street, leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. I had to plan out my next move. I’d promised to meet my father and his driver at three o’clock and it was only eleven A.M. There were theaters and vaudeville houses all along Broadway and West Forty-second Street—some big-time charging $2 a show, some small-time charging ten cents and showing six times a day. The Ziegfeld Follies was $10 a ticket, making it a real special occasion to see.

  I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t considered the idea that I might not get cast; it hadn’t even been a possibility. I’d gotten through the previous eleven months by picturing the moment when I’d walk into Ziegfeld’s office and claim my spot on the stage. This was simply not how I’d imagined things. I walked back to Lord & Taylor glumly and spent the afternoon alone in the Mandarin Room.

  * * *

  The next day, I went back to the city and found myself in the dingy little office of theatrical agent Moses Sherman. I’d seen a tiny ad for him in a free paper I picked up outside the vaudeville houses. There wasn’t an open seat in the cramped waiting room packed with other young men and women, so I stood by the window surveying the crowd, waiting for someone to call my name. In the far corner was a tall, slim woman draped in an armchair, her limbs all right angles, her facial features masculine and sharp, yet she was striking in the most unusual way. She caught me staring, and an enormous smile grew across her cheeks. She looked amused, as if she could tell immediately that I was new in town. Oh, I might be new, I thought, but I’m as determined as they come, just you wait and see.

  A couple of men were seated by the door, dressed in identical pin-striped three-piece suits, bow ties and straw fedoras. There were dancer figures, and opera figures, and a few who looked as if they’d come in off a night on the street.

  Eventually Mr. Sherman called my name. He was short in stature and round everywhere: his head and chin formed one blob, his chest and belly formed another.

  “All right, Miss McCormick…” He looked up at me and wrinkled his nose. “You’re going to have to change that name if you want to be in showbiz.” He glanced at the paper I’d handed him that listed my performances and training. “So you can sing and dance?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Sherman.”

  He seemed in a hurry to be done with me.

  “Okay, head over to the Olympia Theatre this afternoon. It’s a thrice weekly variety show. One of the girls dropped out of a three-person act, got herself knocked up, or a sinus infection, or something.” I held my breath as he said it. “Anyway,” he continued, “she’s out, and they need someone who can learn fast, two days fast. Can you do that?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Just tell me where to go.”

  He scribbled down the address on the back of the paper. “Come back here after you’re done, and I’ll let you know if you’re in. We’ll sign contracts, and if it all works out you start in a couple of days.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

  He was already walking past me to his door. “Miss Leggington?” he called out.

  I quickly picked up my handbag, my coat and the paper with the address and hurried toward the door.

  “Oh, and Miss McCormick,” he called out. “Change the name—you need something with some pizzazz, something that sounds like a star, not some woman who should be at home cooking her husband a lamb chop.”

  I nodded, a little taken aback, and he shut the door.

  * * *

  I auditioned for the part while their rehearsal was in session. I met the two girls I’d be performing with, Eileen Ray and Doreen Williams, and watched them dance their number. They taught me a short part of the sequence, then I danced it with them right there and then.

  “You’re going to have to learn the rest of this choreography in a jiffy,” the director said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. It was a soft-shoe ballet number—thank God, because I wasn’t as confident on pointe—where three butterflies emerged from their cocoon to flit from one flower to another, a moment that, he explained, also signified their blossoming into women, until they fell asleep again on flower petals. The act was a bit ridiculous, really, but I just wanted to be onstage, to prove to myself that I could get cast right away, so I was willing to take anything I could get. “I could learn it today,” I said.

  “This is where the two other butterflies leave the stage and you’d sing your solo.” He handed me the sheet music. I listened to the orchestra play the first half, then I walked onstage and sang the second half. When I finished, the director and stage manager clapped their hands in approval.

  “Well, I think we’ve found our girl,” the director said. “The show goes on three times a week at seven P.M., with practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Be here tomorrow for your first rehearsal.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “We’ll just be running through the acts to get the orchestra familiar with the music and determine the order for the program.”

  “Great!”

  “What did you say your name was again?” He stood poised to scribble it down on his clipboard.

  “Olive,” I said. I wished I’d given it some thought before I charged in there an hour earlier. He glared impatiently. “It’s Olive,” I said. “Olive Shine.”

  * * *

  The first few rehearsals and performances were quite exciting, just like any new show. It started with a newsreel so that anyone arriving late wouldn’t miss out on the live acts, followed by a singing baseball pitcher, a short drama and a return engagement by Sally Holland, an older performer I’d never heard of, whom everyone seemed to love. The headliners were a tap dancer named Lou and a singer named Cliff. And then there was our dance, my solo, and then it was on to the next act, each one lasting about twelve minutes.

  I liked the girls in my act, but the show itself was disorganized and at times amateurish—a fact that we all seemed to know but no one acknowledged. It felt good, of course, to have somewhere to go, a purpose, a job, even though it paid next to nothing. But I certainly didn’t want my parents or my brothers to see it. The theater itself was shabby and the orchestra was often a few beats behind. It was on Broadway, just barely, but my father still wouldn’t approve. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want me performing for much longer, but even if I could persuade him, he’d see this mediocre performance as a reflection of his reputation. If only I could explain to him that this was just one step toward something better, if only I could convince him that it was worthy, though at times with this show, I wondered that myself.

  “Olive,” my mother said at dinner one evening, “your father and I want to have a word with you.”

 
I knew what was coming. “We’re happy that you’re settling in here, but you agreed that your last show in Minnesota would be your last. And now you’re telling us that you have a part in a new show.”

  “Yes, but it’s on Broadway, it’s not some little show from back home.”

  “Humph,” my father grumbled as he ate his meal.

  “Well, then we at least want to see it, don’t we, Ted?”

  “Ma, not yet. Honestly, the show will be fantastic—it really will—but we need a lot more practice. Give it another month or so and then come see me, all of you.” I looked to my brothers and then to my father to gauge his response to this, but he was intently cutting his pork chop, head down.

  “But Olive,” my mother pushed on, “why would the show go on already if it isn’t rehearsed enough?” I knew she was speaking on behalf of my father, that they’d probably had an argument about it and she’d promised to set it straight. Now she was trying to smooth everything over by asking the questions sweetly, while letting him know he’d been heard and that something would be done about it. “Are you sure it’s reputable? We are concerned that it’s beneath you.”

  “It’s not beneath me, Ma, it’s a wonderful theater and a stellar production. It’s the Olympia,” I said emphatically, knowing she had no idea if that was a top-notch theater or a hole-in-the-wall. “And the director is very well-known in the theater world, oh, he’s introducing me to all kinds of people.”

  My father scoffed.

  “What is it, Pa? Why are you so disgruntled by this?”

  “I don’t like it, Olive. Where’s it going to take you, huh? Sure, we let you do those dance classes and singing lessons because you were a little girl, but you’re twenty years old, Olive. It’s time to find yourself a nice man and settle down, have a family—what do you think, you’re going to do all that and be on that stage?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “You’re nuts.” He took a swig of his beer and set it down a little too hard. My mother and I both flinched. “We raised you well, you don’t need to be doing this, you don’t need the money. It’s crass—you off dancing at some place we’ve never even heard of.”

  “For goodness’ sakes, Pa, this is my first show on Broadway, no one knows me here yet. Give me a chance to prove myself, prove that I can do this and do it well.” I tried not to let things get too heated, recalling the sting of his hand across my face the last time I tried to defend my performances. I considered telling him about the meeting with Mr. Ziegfeld and that my goal was to work my way up to one of his shows, or the Shuberts, but I didn’t know if that would make him see things any differently. “Just give me a few months, please.”

  He shook his head, but I sensed he was easing up a little. “I promise,” I said, placing my hand on his arm. “I promise I’ll make you proud.”

  * * *

  What I realized, soon after I started at the Olympia, was that there were thousands of girls like me in Manhattan. I saw them everywhere. Clean faced and perky, walking in groups of three or four to early morning rehearsals. I saw others a little puffy, eye pencil residue left from the night before, as they ran up the stairs of the subway station late, a hint of hooch in their wake. I had my own nine A.M. call time, but I couldn’t help wondering about their shows, imagining that they were bigger, more polished, their audiences more important.

  As the show went on, it became very apparent that ours was a third-rate affair. On more than one occasion, Sally Holland showed up drunk but went on to perform anyway. Twice in one week we performed to a crowd of about five people and the director flew into a rage about it after the show, blaming the cast and their uninspired performances. My parents had been right to voice their concerns. I would definitely be tarnishing their reputations if anyone my father knew heard about his daughter performing in this dingy show. I knew I should walk away, but I didn’t know how. I could hardly go back to Moses Sherman and tell him I wanted to quit the first gig he’d helped me land, so I kept showing up.

  Then one night, after a month of performing, a tall, slim man approached as I was going out the stage door. “Miss McCormick?” he asked. “Or is it Miss Shine?”

  “It’s Shine now,” I said, looking around. There were crowds of people leaving the theaters half a block away on Broadway, but West Forty-fourth Street was relatively quiet.

  “I’m sorry to startle you.” He put his hand out to shake mine. “Mr. Brock. Nice to meet you in person. I meant to arrive earlier and deliver a message to your dressing room, but I was needed at the theater.”

  I perked up. “The theater?”

  “The New Amsterdam.” He held out a small envelope and paused. “A message from Mr. Ziegfeld.” It took everything in my power not to snatch it out of his hands and rip it open right there and then. “He’d like you there early tomorrow morning, so I’ve taken the liberty of having our driver take you home if that’s acceptable to you.” He nodded to a parked car at the sidewalk, and the driver tipped his hat.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the note from his hands a little too eagerly. “Does this mean he wants me in the show after all?”

  “I believe so. There’s a note inside,” he said, tapping the envelope in my hand and opening the car door for me. “He’s spoken with your agent and relieved you of your contract. Best of luck to you.”

  I kept my composure until the car pulled away and Mr. Brock waved and walked toward Broadway, then I ripped the envelope open.

  Dear Miss Shine,

  I simply can’t allow you to waste your talent in that terrible show. If you’re still interested, a space has opened up in the Follies. Please arrive promptly at 9 A.M. tomorrow morning for rehearsal. Allow me to make you a star.

  Very best,

  Florenz Ziegfeld

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was the finale of act one, the theater was dark, and an edgy, serious air pervaded the empty orchestra pit where only the lighted glow of a cigar betrayed Mr. Ziegfeld’s presence. We’d been going for almost fifteen hours, repeating the numbers again and again, and we were finally nearing the end.

  The lights went up and the curtains parted to reveal “the Ingénues,” a nineteen-member all-female orchestra. They played center stage while two men and twelve women played pianos perched on the steps of a dramatic double staircase. You’d think I would be used to it by now, after eight weeks of rehearsals every single morning, followed by more dance lessons in the afternoon at Stage Dance Studios—apparently Ziegfeld thought my pirouettes and piqués needed some fine-tuning—but this was the first time we’d done the full dress rehearsal, onstage, all the way through.

  The costume and set designers hadn’t let us get a glimpse of the full feathered costumes until that day, saying the plumes could get ruined with too much use. But here we were, the chorus, wearing nothing but cream silk leotards the color of our skin and enormous white ostrich feather fans strapped to our arms.

  When the principal dancers came onstage in white costumes, with gold fringe and gold feather hats and headdresses, for the final few moments there were more than eighty people onstage. I couldn’t believe I was one of them.

  Ziegfeld came into the light and removed his coat.

  “When he takes off his coat, he means serious show business,” one of the girls whispered next to me.

  “Blue foots up on a dimmer at the start of the overture,” he called out to the electricians in the wings as he walked up the stairs to the stage. “White and amber foots up on dimmer at the end.” We all froze in our final position, still smiling, hoping we wouldn’t have to run through the whole thing again. “Next scene, all lamps floor until finish, then dim down to blue and white one-quarter up and palm curtains open.”

  It was all Greek to me. He walked across the front of the stage and surveyed us. “The final act dragged,” he said to no one in particular. “It has to be perfect. Howie?”

  Howie, the choreographer, appeared by his side. “Bring the principals on earlier, I wan
t a full ensemble, everyone onstage for longer than just the last few moments.”

  He walked over to my row of girls in feathers and stared at us as if we were dolls he was surveying in a toy store window. My pulse raced. What was he going to say about us, what was he going to do with us?

  “I want this row up front,” he said. I nodded to show I was willing. “Now,” he barked.

  We shuffled forward as best we could without rubbing our ostrich feathers against one another. Eighty people on a stage felt hot and crowded.

  “Final moments before the lights go dark, you open your arms to reveal your figures.” He demonstrated, and we copied him. He didn’t look satisfied. “Wallace?” he called out. “Where’s Wallace?”

  Within seconds the costume designer was onstage. “I want these outfits remade into two pieces, top”—he gestured to the bosom of one of the girls—“and bottom. I’d like to see more of their figures.” One of the girls gasped, but Ziegfeld, if he heard, chose to ignore it. I thought the costume change was a wise choice, a more dramatic reveal.

  “Yes, Mr. Ziegfeld.” Wallace nodded, his slim fingers scribbling down notes in a well-used, scruffy notepad.

  “But not vulgar, you know how our competitors offend my artistic sensibility with their vulgarity and nudity. I want elegance, class and artistic integrity when we undrape our women.”

  Draped or undraped, I didn’t care. The splendor of it all—the lavish costumes, the scenery and props, the sheer intensity and passion he had for his show and the determination of every one of the girls around me to make it big—was electrifying. But looking out into the empty house gave me the biggest thrill. I’d been told tickets for opening night were selling for $200 a pop and all seats would be filled. I couldn’t wait for it all to begin.

  * * *