* * *
When I walked into the dressing room later that afternoon with my shopping bags and a jolt of confidence from the bourbon, the girls stared, then looked away—that was until Ruthie caught sight of me.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said, barging through the others to get to my mirror.
“What do you mean? A little shopping, that’s all.”
“You’re going to get yourself cut if you act up like that! And you smell like hooch.”
“I already got cut, so I can do what I damn well please in my free time. But I need to get ready for my Frolic rehearsal because that’s the one thing I’ve got left right now, so if you’ll excuse me…” I felt defensive. Ruthie, though she was my closest friend, seemed like someone on the other side now. She was with the girls who had everything, I was hanging on to what I had for dear life.
Sure, I’d put down a few bourbons, I had to take the edge off, but I’d knocked back a few black coffees, too. After I finally got Ruthie to leave me alone, and the morning girls cleared out of the dressing room, I lay down on the couch and closed my eyes. By rehearsal time, I felt terrible.
Howie peeked his head in the door. “I heard you went out and drowned your sorrows.”
“I didn’t have many options,” I said.
“We’re not going to rehearse like this,” he said, his face stern. “Come back tomorrow, same time, in better shape. I won’t mention it to Ziegfeld if you promise this will never happen again.”
I nodded solemnly.
CHAPTER NINE
I was already warming up when Howie walked in the next morning, and he looked a little surprised. I had a one-hour rehearsal for my solo in the Frolic and then the chorus girls would arrive for us to go through the numbers together.
Ziegfeld liked to keep the routines fresh, adding new elements every few days to surprise the repeat patrons. And there were many repeats—gents who came in night after night despite the hefty five-dollar door fee on top of the ticket price. For most, the idea of riding the elevator from the theater lobby up to the rooftop garden, where the doors would open to a party of dancing and the sound of champagne being uncorked, was far more appealing than venturing out into the busy streets of Times Square and making their way to another nightclub across town. So once they were on the guest list and they proved they could afford the front-row seats, steak dinners, Beluga caviar and the absurdity of $2.75 for a miniature bottle of champagne (about the cost of eight one-pound steaks at the butcher’s shop), they were welcomed back night after night.
“I was thinking about the ribbon number,” I said to Howie as I sat on the floor and stretched forward to touch my toes. “How about we jazz it up this time?”
“Sure,” he said. “Everyone loves it, I don’t know what else you could do. What did you have in mind?”
The ribbon number was the final act before the first twenty-minute intermission and already something of a crescendo. As I sang my solo, five other girls, each holding the end of a ribbon, crisscrossed the stage, wrapping me up like a beautifully decorated maypole. Since I was already wearing nothing but silk and a thin chiffon negligee, the ribbons wrapped around me like a full-length corset. I sang about being tied down to some old, good-for-nothing dewdropper and yearning to be free from him. At the end, after the girls left the stage, I began to spin on a small circular disk that rose a foot or so from the stage. Slowly at first, the ribbons unraveled as I turned. In the original act, a fan blew from backstage, so that as my solo came to an end the long ribbons flew off my body in long, beautiful, colorful strands out into the audience, where everyone jumped up to grab one. When the curtain dropped, the stage rolled back to reveal a dance floor, and the patrons, already on their feet, began to dance.
“What if one of the ribbons is attached to me?” I said. “And when they all catch a ribbon, one patron will realize he’s got the one with me on the end of it. Kind of like fishing, then he can pull me to the dance floor, where I’ll dance with him until the next act. Wouldn’t that be fun? And it gives every gent a shot, no matter who they are or if they were just here the night before.”
I had decided, after emerging from my afternoon bourbon haze the previous day, that I wasn’t going to be defeated by Ziegfeld or by getting kicked out of the Follies. Instead, I was going to excel in the Midnight Frolic more than anyone could imagine, and I was going to steal the show. Each night, audience members were asked to vote for the girl they considered most beautiful and state why on cards handed out by the usher, and the girl with the most votes during that run of the Frolic had her salary doubled. I wanted that girl to be me, but it wasn’t just about the money. I felt more determined than ever to win at this. I’d prove to Ziegfeld that he needed me in his show, but I’d also prove to my father that I wasn’t going to make a wreck of my life just as he expected me to. I’d show my mother, too, that I could do anything I put my mind to, that there was more to life than just bowing down to your husband’s wishes. But most of all, I needed to prove to myself that the things I’d done in my not-too-distant past were done for a reason. I would succeed, I told myself, I had to.
Howie loved the idea of ribbon fishing. He rubbed his hands together. “What if we put you in the flying harness?”
“What, that contraption that Terry K straps into for her act—is that thing safe?”
“Perfectly, very secure. We’d put it under your attire, of course, so when the lucky fella pulls you toward him we’d lift you off the stage, and he can fly you to him over the audience, and we’ll deliver you right to him on the dance floor.”
“It’s darb! I love it!” I said, jumping up. “And then I’ll unclip myself from the harness and we’ll have a good fifteen to twenty minutes to dance while the stage set changes.”
“But wait a second,” he said. “You’re in the next act, too, you’ll need a few minutes to change and rest and have something to drink.”
“It will take me two minutes to slip into my next outfit. Don’t worry about me. I can go straight through.”
Howie looked as if he’d known I was going to say that. “It will be marvelous and Ziegfeld will think so, too.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “Hey, I’m going to call around and see if we can get some press in here tonight. All the opening nights are history now, maybe they need something fresh to cover.”
The idea thrilled me. We began practice right away.
* * *
That night the ribbon act went off without a hitch. The adrenaline that ran through me leading up to that final moment of being lifted off the stage made me sing even better than I had before, with more passion and seduction and determination. When the fans turned on behind me, the ribbons flew forward and I was dazzled by the floating colors. I don’t know how it must’ve looked from the audience’s perspective, but from where I stood, it was as if I were in a storm of rainbow confetti. I stood, arms in the air, smiling, catching my breath, not even able to see the audience out front for the mass of dancing ribbons blurring my view. I felt a slight tug on my waist from the harness, and I began to lift off the stage. It wasn’t until that moment that I began to feel a pang of trepidation. Had I thought this through? It was one thing to sing and dance in front of all these audience members, couples cheering, gentlemen leering, some perfectly delightful, I’m sure, but I had no idea who would be at the end of this ribbon. What if he was a drunk, hideous? What if he groped me? I tried to push my sudden reluctance out of my mind and positioned myself in an elegant midair drape as if it were the most comfortable thing in the world. The harness cut into my flesh, and my muscles ached as I maintained the seemingly easeful pose, but I could suffer it a few moments longer. I flew above the ribbons, which had mostly landed now, over the end of the stage and toward the middle of the packed dance floor. The audience roared and the room vibrated with the sound of wooden mallets pounding against tables—Ziegfeld’s gimmick for aiding applause-weary guests was put to good use that night.
I saw a well-dresse
d gentleman smiling broadly as he pulled me toward him with the ribbon in hand. In the glare of lights from above, I was relieved that he looked respectable and had a good silhouette, tall with broad shoulders. For there was no turning back—I was making my descent, and patrons on the dance floor formed a circle around us, clapping frantically. My toes touched down and I unclipped myself from the harness.
And when I stood there in front of him, I realized it was Archie, Archie from the Village! But impeccably dressed and far more polished than I remembered.
“It’s you!” I said, delighted at the sight of him.
“How lovely to see you again,” he said, smiling.
I suddenly realized I hadn’t given enough thought to my attire. Onstage it was appropriate, a barely there negligee at an untouchable distance, yet here I was, wearing next to nothing, in the arms of an almost stranger. As if he had read my mind, he slipped off his jacket and put it around my shoulders. I knew it would fall off the second we started dancing, so I put my arms through the sleeves and rolled them up.
“What a gentleman,” I said, and we immediately began to dance. Men and women filled in the floor around us.
When the music slowed down enough for us to talk, he pulled me in a little closer, but not too close, and I didn’t mind one bit.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Looking for a beautiful young lady I met a few weeks back at the Pirate’s Den.”
“Any luck?”
“Oh, I got lucky all right.”
He’d just had a shave that day, I could smell the clean scent of shaving foam when his cheek touched mine.
The music picked up again and we danced a fast one-step, and boy, this man really knew how to dance. He held me in a close embrace and took the lead around the dance floor. I laughed—he was as much a performer as I was. As we picked up the pace, the dance floor cleared out again, making room for us. The trumpet blared, the percussion sped up, and he spun me around the circumference of the floor. By the time he was done, I had to catch my breath. The audience applauded again, and we both took a bow. That was my cue—I had to be onstage for the next act—but I was reluctant to leave.
“Thank you for this wonderful moment,” he said. “May I see you again?”
“I hope so,” I said, surprising myself, then I dashed backstage.
* * *
The next morning, Ruthie ran into my room and leapt onto my bed.
“Wake up, Olive, wake up!”
“What is it?” I peeled the silk sleep mask from my eyes and had to shield them from the sunlight streaming in the windows as Ruthie swept back the curtain. “What are you doing, you crazy girl, I need to sleep.”
“Sleep later! You’re in The New York Times. They adored you!”
“The New York Times?” I grabbed the paper from her hands and stared at it in amazement. There I was in black and white, gliding through the air, the stage lit up behind me, reaching one arm out to a silhouetted man on the dance floor with a ribbon in his hand. The title read, “Olive Shines! Ziegfeld’s Beauty Reaches New Heights.”
“The latest edition of Florenz Ziegfeld’s ‘Midnight Frolic,’ which had its twenty-fourth presentation of the season on Tuesday at midnight, before an audience that embraced all who live and move and have their being in Broadway, out-Ziegfelds all its predecessors. Like the others only more so, it is a show of beautiful women, frocks and tableaux designed for the businessman who is too tired to go home after the play.… Miss Olive Shine shone indeed last night with a dazzling solo followed by a flight to the dance floor as she surprised one lucky audience member with a dance, Mr. Archibald Carmichael, a businessman with interests in New York and Cincinnati.… One might search the world and not find anything quite as unique or lavish as this midnight revue.”
Ruthie and I threw our arms around each other and jumped on the bed. “I’m in The New York Times!” I screamed with excitement.
“You really showed Ziegfeld,” Ruthie said.
“Ziegfeld? I showed everyone in New York!”
“You’re a true star now, Olive.”
I squealed with delight.
* * *
The following evening, as the ribbons flew out to the audience, I wished I’d remembered to ask a stagehand to bring me something to wear over my outfit. I’d been lucky the night before with Archie, but there was no telling if tonight’s “fisherman” would have the same manners or charm. I closed my eyes, waiting to be lifted offstage, and hoped for an instant that it would be him again, but then I felt the tug on the harness, a rough jerk, eager and greedy. It propelled me forward, waist first, and I almost fell off my elevated platform before the stagehand above quickly hoisted me upwards. For a few seconds I was awkwardly suspended in midair until the audience member began to pull me out toward him. I tried to rearrange myself more gracefully, but it was much more challenging, having gotten off to a wobbly start. When I landed, it was into the arms of a lanky gentleman grinning hungrily, with oily hair slicked back from his face in a harsh middle part. Grand, I thought sardonically, but then his date appeared by his side, clapping with excitement, and relief washed over me.
“A ménage à trois! How daring!” I said as I backed away from the man and into a more collegial formation. The girl was a charm, sweet and excited to dance. She looked lovely, too, in a long pale pink chemise with an ornate silver-beaded V in the front. We held hands and began to dance, and when the music got going, she called some friends over. They were far more fun than her date, but I encouraged her to bring him back into the circle and make a fuss. I was their dancing coach, positioning the two of them just so, then sandwiching him in the middle and nudging his feet to the right beat. Then I switched to her side, my hands on her hips, swaying them not too much, just the right amount. When I was sure they were all having a good time, I slipped away, scanning the room for Archie with no success.
I went backstage and dressed for the next act.
My feet were up for less than thirty seconds when there was a knock on my dressing room door.
“Flowers, Olive,” the stage manager called. I opened the door to a huge bouquet of long-stemmed red roses along with a flat rectangular box. “Two minutes to call time.”
On top of the box there was a note:
Dear Miss Shine,
Your performance and your company last night have rendered me an unproductive man. I’ve been thinking of you all day. Please accept this gift as a thank-you for spending your precious time dancing with me. I hope it will make your flying escapades more comfortable.
In awe and gratitude,
Archibald Carmichael
The box contained a gorgeous champagne-colored beaded and sequined evening cape. I placed it around my shoulders and looked in the mirror. It was absolutely stunning, the perfect fit on my narrow shoulders, falling just to my elbows. What a beautiful and extravagant gesture. Who was this man? I wondered. He’d seemed so down-to-earth when I met him at the speak in the Village, but The New York Times referred to him as a businessman, and this cape definitely had the touch of uptown luxury.
Another knock on my door. “One minute.”
I spun around, looking at the beautiful craftsmanship from all angles in the mirror, excited now to think that he must be in the audience. Then I placed it carefully back in the box, next to my new red dress and heels that I’d brought for that evening in hopes of receiving an invitation.
But I didn’t receive an invitation from him that night, or the next night, or any night that week.
* * *
Within a week I was getting sick of the ribbon routine. Maybe because the first time had been such a thrill and the ensuing moments so dull in comparison. I’d worn my new red dress twice after the shows that week in anticipation of an invite to dinner, and both times it had gone to waste. The whole thing had put me in a sour mood. Archie had beamed when we danced together, he’d sent me a beautiful gift, and yet he apparently had no desire to spend any actual time with m
e. Does he think all I value in life is a pretty beaded cape? I found myself questioning. Doesn’t he want to know anything about me, who I am?
“What’s going on with you, Olive?” Ruthie said as I slowly put away my costumes for the evening. She was already changed and ready for a night out. “Are you still on the lookout for Mr. Handsome?”
“No.”
“Maybe he’s an out-of-towner or something.”
I rolled my eyes. He knew too many people to be an out-of-towner, though Emily had warned me that he traveled a lot.
“He’s probably married,” she said. “Come on, let’s find you someone else to have fun with.”
I’d been fooled before and thought I was better at sizing up men now, but maybe I was wrong. I just couldn’t understand his silence.
“I’m not looking for him, I’m just exhausted, Ruthie, and my feet are pounding.”
The truth was I did feel disappointed. We’d danced only a few numbers and talked briefly, but there was something about him that excited me. There was an element of mystery about him, and the thought of him had kept me awake at night. I knew nothing about this man, and yet I was compelled to find some snippet of information, to spend another evening with him in the booth at the Pirate’s Den, except this time I wouldn’t have to leave.
“You do look tired. I hope you’re not coming down with something.” She put her hand to my forehead. My sweet Ruthie.
“You go on and have fun,” I said. “I’ll meet you back at the apartment, I just need to get some rest.”
* * *
We moved the ribbon act to the first half of the show because we added a new number in the second half—a celebration of the new Ford Model A. Rumors swirled about how Ziegfeld got the car up on the roof (some say it was a crane in the middle of the night), but he had managed to park that vehicle right in the middle of the rooftop stage. Rehearsals that week were an absolute blast and quickly got me out of my mood.
The Show Girl Page 9