The Show Girl

by Nicola Harrison

  The stage-door johnnies started calling my name louder as we walked out the theater doors to set off for our evening’s adventures, and I reveled in it.

  “Olive, Olive,” they’d say. “Miss Shine, Miss Olive Shine … let me take you out, let me take you dancing. Olive Shine, let me show you what a gentleman I am.” Of course they were calling for the other girls, too, but all I could hear was my name.

  There was usually a group of us heading out for a night on the town—Gladys, Lara, Ruthie, Pauline, Lillian and me—sometimes more, sometimes fewer, depending on who had a date that night. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love every minute of it, the attention, the desperation in those boys’ voices, the applause as we walked out into the New York City night. If I didn’t have a date already, I might look around the crowd of gents and survey my options, then pick the handsomest fella of the group.

  “Come on then,” I’d say, pointing to one of them. “But if you want to show me a good time, you’ve got to show us all a good time.” And all of us girls would link arms, with the one lucky fella in the middle, and we’d walk down the street that way, or walk to his car, and sometimes I thought I noticed a look on his face that I’d just made his week.

  Now that I was in the Frolic, the gifts and bouquets of flowers that showed up in the dressing room doubled, tripled, quadrupled. At times it was absurd how many vases of roses stood on my dressing table. They’d always be accompanied by a note and an invitation to dinner; sometimes they came with a bracelet or earrings. I usually took these fellas up on their offers for dinner or dancing—not all of them, there weren’t enough days in the week, but I’d pick one and send a note back to him in the audience telling him I’d be bringing a friend and that he should, too.

  There were more formal introductions, too. One evening Ziegfeld introduced me to politician Fiorello La Guardia; he was shorter than me by a good three or four inches, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He invited me and Lara and Evelyn to sit at his table at the Frolic with a few of his friends once our show was over. They were big shots, no doubt about it; Fiorello had been elected to Congress and one gent was the mayor of Boston. But after a while I excused myself and told them I was needed backstage. Another time, while out at a club all the way up in Harlem, our group of five or six girls were approached on the dance floor and invited upstairs to a private room of what Ruthie told me were mobsters. I’ve never seen so much fur and so many diamonds in my life, on both the men and women.

  While we certainly got to meet a lot of gents this way, and we did plenty of flirting and a little smooching here and there, I was never really, truly drawn to any of them. Some started to bore me once the initial fun of meeting them wore off. They’d start telling me about what they did for work, where they were from, and every time we got to that point I’d start thinking about what the rest of the girls were doing, how I’d rather be out with them, listening to a live jazz band and dancing and laughing with my girls. But more often, after the formalities wore off and we’d had a few drinks, they’d start to get that look in their eye, or they’d put their hand where it wasn’t wanted, and I’d be up and out of there and on my way home. I don’t know if it was that awful, regretful night in Los Angeles that made me feel this way, so prickly and prude-like all of a sudden, when I was as provocative as could be onstage and when most of the girls were living up their freedoms any way they chose to, but I never went home with any of them.

  With our new earnings, Ruthie and I made our move to Fifth Avenue. We got the apartment of our dreams, with a window in every room. That, to me, felt like success—to pay my own way, not needing anyone to take care of me. We had our own apartment and we made our own rules and we liked to remind ourselves of that at all hours.

  “No one can tell us now that we haven’t made it in New York,” I’d proclaim while brushing my teeth, parading around the living room in nothing but my undergarments while Ruthie wrapped her red hair in a silk scarf and put on her pajamas.

  “That’s right, honey!” she’d say.

  And I’d kick off my shoes and climb into bed and feel so content that it was just me, no one grabbing or pawing or sweet-talking. I’d lay my head on the pillow, often still swirling from the dancing or the hooch, and many nights, in those few private moments after I closed my eyes, my mind would drift back to the baby. I’d feel the weight of her in my arms, her sweet little face, her cheeks, her eyes looking up at me. And I’d picture those dewy eyelids getting heavy, then closing as she drifted off to sleep—peaceful and trusting. She trusted me to hold her and keep her safe. And then I’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, aching.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ruthie had started spending time with a theater director named Lawrence, who was also a patent attorney. I didn’t find him to be an attractive man—he had a big forehead, with hair that swept over his crown from one ear to the other—but he was fun and Ruthie seemed to like him. She kept on pushing me to join him and one of his colleagues for a night out and promised we’d have a grand time, but I wasn’t so keen on getting set up. I knew I’d be stuck with his friend the whole night, since I was too much of a softy to hurt someone’s feelings if he didn’t rev my engine, and I’d end up dancing with the poor fellow all night anyway, talking his ear off so he wouldn’t have a chance to swoop in for a kiss—it would be too exhausting for words.

  “We’re going to a new spot Thursday after the show,” Ruthie said. “Come along with us, we’ll have the lobster.”

  “We’ve had lobster a thousand times,” I said. “I’m sick of lobster.”

  “Come on, Olive, his friend is dying to meet you. What does he have to do? Beg?”

  “Why don’t you have Lawrence take you to the Village?” I kept hearing about the downtown bohemians—a quirky mix of musicians and writers and sculptors and revolutionaries—and I was intrigued to see the scene for myself.

  Ruthie scrunched up her face. “I don’t know, Olive. They know us up here, we walk right in anywhere we go, the martinis are the real thing. We don’t want to drink some bathtub gin.”

  “I think too much of the same thing can make a girl dreary,” I said. “We are in New York City, we should explore every dark and dirty corner.” I grinned. “If Lawrence wants to do his friend a favor so bad, tell them we want a night out in the Village, that’s the only way you’re going to get me to take pity on this poor fella.”

  On Thursday night after the show, I walked out front with Ruthie and found not just one gentleman but two, waiting by the car.

  “Olive, this is Ernest Patterson,” Ruthie said, smiling excessively as if to make up for his slight frame, thick glasses and sweating palms as he nervously took my hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he said.

  “He works with Lawrence at the law office.”

  “Hi there, Ernest,” I said, trying to put him at ease.

  “You were a knockout in the show tonight, both of you,” he said. “The real McCoy.”

  “Thanks, honey,” I said. As we drove down Broadway, I looked out the window and didn’t feel like making small talk. Maybe she was right, maybe we should have just stayed uptown.

  “So what was your favorite part?” I said finally, filling in the awkward silence.

  “Pretty much any part you were in, really,” he said. “The pony—where you rode the horse on the stage singing that funny song, oh, that was a hoot, a real hoot.”

  “That’s one of my favorite parts, too,” I said, warming up to him a little. “I used to worry that horse was going to bolt when the applause came, and the heat from those lights gets pretty uncomfortable, but he’s such a good boy. I think they might give him a powder or two. I’ve never seen such a calm pony in all my life.”

  On MacDougal Street, Monte’s felt more like someone’s living quarters than a restaurant. My stomach growled—I hadn’t eaten since lunch and I’d performed the Follies and my act in the Frolic.

  “I’ll have the lasagna,” I said to the waiter
when he came by. “And a peach Melba.” I smiled. “For after.”

  Ruthie glared.

  “What?” I said. “I’m hungry.” I’d been dancing so much I could eat anything I wanted—in fact, if I didn’t, I’d start to see my ribs, and Ziegfeld didn’t like his girls too skinny.

  “The shrimp cocktail for me,” Ruthie said.

  “And a gin cocktail for me,” I added.

  “Sorry, madam, you’ll have to go elsewhere for that,” the waiter said.

  “Don’t worry, Olive.” Lawrence leaned across the table and spoke in a mock whisper. “As soon as you’ve had something to eat, Ernest and I will take you to one of downtown’s finest tearooms. You won’t go thirsty.”

  Ernest grinned. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

  “Have you been out in these parts before?” I asked him.

  “Not really. Lawrence is such a man about town, he’s been promising to take me out with him for a while. I usually have dinner at home,” he added. “With my mother.” I smiled and patted his hand, then devoured the lasagna and the peach Melba, bless him.

  It was hardly worth getting back in the car to drive just a few blocks to our next destination, but we did it anyway, pulling up to the Pirate’s Den, a teahouse on Gay Street. There was barely anyone inside; it was late and dark. One man sat writing feverishly in a corner booth, while on the other side of the room a couple smooched over tea and candles. Lawrence led us through the tearoom to a back door, up a flight of stairs and through another door, where we knocked and waited. I could hear music coming from the other side. A peephole slid open. “Lawrence Long and three guests,” he said. The door slipped open and we were in.

  Inside was a lively, raucous scene, darker, much grittier and less dazzling than the uptown clubs, but buoyant and magnetic somehow. Ruthie and I lingered at the entrance and took it all in while the gents headed straight to the bar. There were groups of people lounging around freely, some in deep conversation, others in deep intimacy. There was a freedom about the place that I sensed immediately, though I couldn’t quite grasp what was going on.

  Uptown it was dancing and drinking, dancing and drinking. You just kept going until you could no longer stand on your own two feet. Here there was a jazz band playing, but I could hear people talking, too. Some were dancing, others were lying horizontal on Moroccan beds and smoking from a tall metal instrument with pipes coming out of the side.

  “Cheers,” Ruthie said, handing me a china cup and saucer.

  “Where’d you get that from and what is it?”

  “Who cares? Come on, let’s have some fun.”

  Ruthie led the way, weaving us through the crowd toward the bar, where Ernest and Lawrence were already watching the band, but a stranger with big paws reached up and grabbed my hand, pulling me down into the banquette where he was sitting with a group of people.

  “I am for those who believe in loose delights—I share the midnight orgies of young men,” the man whispered into my ear, the smell of liquor thick on his breath.

  “Excuse me?” I said, pulling away. He pulled me back.

  “Give me the drench of my passions, give me life coarse and rank.”

  I looked at him as if he were crazy. He might’ve been—his hair was wild, and he had a sheen of perspiration across his face.

  “You must be a poet,” I said. “Or a madman.”

  “I am, indeed,” he said. “I’m Frank. I dance with the dancers, I drink with the drinkers.”

  “Like I said, a poet, a drunken one.”

  “And you must be a dancer.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I’m a performer, I sing and dance, yes. How did you know?”

  “I can tell a dancer’s body when I see one.”

  I rolled my eyes and a gentleman across the table poured a glass of water from a pitcher and placed it in front of his friend. “Drink this.” Then he turned to me. “Please ignore him, he’s out of his mind.”

  This gentleman was far more respectable looking than the first and devilishly handsome. His eyes were so dark they looked almost black in the dim light, with hair to match, dark brown and wavy, brushed back from his face but a little wild and unruly.

  “He’s quite the poet,” I said, looking back to the first guy, Frank, who now had his head leaning back and appeared to have fallen asleep.

  “Those are Walt Whitman’s words—he tries them every time.”

  “Words to live by, perhaps,” I said.

  He laughed. “I’m Archie,” he said. “I apologize for my friend’s behavior, but I can’t say I blame him for wanting to talk to you.”

  “I’m Olive,” I said, giving him my hand.

  “Lovely to make your acquaintance.” He kissed the back of my hand and a surge of excitement ran through me.

  “Please, join us and meet some of my more respectable friends.” He moved in and made space for me to sit down. “Emily, I’d like to introduce you to a new friend of mine.” He looked at me and grinned. “This is Olive.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” she said.

  “Emily’s a writer. You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Frank.” He gestured toward him. “He has a charming bookshop around the corner.”

  “And I publish chapbooks.” Frank suddenly came to life again, slurring like a sailor. “When this crowd wakes up tomorrow morning around noon, you’ll find them stumbling into my shop and taking shelter amongst words.”

  “Oh.” I looked around. I couldn’t imagine anyone in that room functioning in the daylight.

  “I take it you’re more of an uptown girl,” Archie said. “You’re used to a swankier establishment.”

  “I don’t like to get used to anything. I like a little variety in my days.”

  Someone came over and placed a tray full of teacups on the table. Archie handed one to me.

  “This is Emily’s husband, Lou.” Archie reached over and tapped the shoulder of the gentleman sitting on the other side of Frank. “Olive here sings.”

  “Wonderful, I’m a lyricist. Emily and I both write songs.”

  “You sing?” Emily asked. “You should come to our salon. It’s on Saturday nights at our place, you’d love it.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Everyone was so friendly. I was surprised at how intimate it all seemed, skin against skin as we pressed into the small booth together, our drinks pouring over into one another’s teacups as we said cheers. “I’d like that,” I said.

  She scribbled her address down on a scrap of paper and slid it across the table. I reached out to take it and Archie put his hand over it first.

  “You have to promise you’ll come, otherwise I might never see you again,” he said.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, sliding the paper out from under his hand and feeling a slight thrill again when his hand touched mine.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I said, standing up.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” Archie said. “But do you really have to leave so soon? The night is young.” He took my hand and I desperately wanted to stay. I glanced to the front of the room where Ruthie was dancing with Lawrence, and my date for the evening was standing alone at the bar.

  “It would be impolite of me to leave my friends,” I said, and I reluctantly walked away.

  * * *

  On Saturday I performed in the Follies and then the Midnight Frolic. It was two in the morning when I was done and I should have been exhausted, but I wasn’t ready to go home. All of us girls were in the habit of staying out all night and sleeping until noon or two in the afternoon if we didn’t have rehearsal the next day. Ruthie had already left to meet a new chap after the show, a banker who’d sent a bouquet of flowers and a diamond bracelet backstage to her dressing room the night before and asked her to dinner. I’d surprised myself that week—I’d been thinking about that Archie fella ever since I met him. Ruthie and the girls would say I was crazy lusting over a bohemian from the Village when I could have my pick of the wealthy businessmen who freque
nted the Frolic, but there was something about him that appealed to me. He was dashing in a slightly disheveled way, and the way he spoke, his confidence, was magnetic. But there was something else that I couldn’t let go of: he had a kindness in his eyes. I was itching to get downtown again.

  Mary, one of the principals in the show, had been given a car by an admirer, but she didn’t know how to drive, none of us did, so a few of us pitched in and hired a chauffeur named James to drive us around town. That night James was still parked out front when I left the theater, which meant all the other girls had dates. I handed him the slip of paper Emily had given me, which I had folded and refolded many times throughout the week. He dropped me off at 13 East Eighth Street, a block north of Washington Square Park.

  Piano music poured from the top-floor apartment. When I looked up, windows were open and people were leaning out, smoking, singing along. I hurried up the stairs and found the front door open, so I walked in—no one was going to hear me knock anyway. People crammed together on worn velvet couches, a couple sat cross-legged on the old Persian rug, a group crowded around a grand piano, and everyone had a drink in their hands. One woman danced with abandon, weaving in and out of people. She was older, pushing fifty, clad in sheaths of fabric sheer enough to reveal her nipples and her generous rolls of flesh. At first I thought she was crazy, skipping around like that barefoot, barely clothed, a few ballet steps, then some animalistic moves, kicking her legs out to the side at odd angles, her arms in the air, a frenetic, carefree energy about her. But after a few moments, I found myself mesmerized by her strange, free-flowing movements, her head thrown back as she danced, the trailing sheaths that followed behind her like the smoke of a cigarette. I looked around and saw others watching her, too. It was unlike any kind of dancing I’d seen onstage—always structured, rehearsed, crisp and perfect. I thought of the Ziegfeld walk, how it had to be uniform, each of us in perfect shape, in strict formation.