Authors: Christine Fletcher
By ten o'clock I was dragging. Except for "Sing, Sing, Sing," the band had played hardly any hot numbers all night. It was all corny stuff from before I was born, groaners like "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" and "Cheerful Little Earful." Hardly a jitterbug in the bunch. Even so, if some of these clodhoppers could only dance, it might not have been so bad. But between the sappy tunes, and trying to keep up with all their galloping and bouncing and plodding, I was wearing thin.
I was in the middle of a strange kind of waltz with an old Italian man when, over by the bandstand, I spotted the man in a charcoal gray suit.
The man was dancing—I mean,
really
dancing—with the girl in the chocolate and blue gown. Her smile was plastered on, the way it gets when you're not sure of your feet but you don't want your partner to know. Only he will, every time. The man swiveled,
one-two\
He looked up and I caught his eye, and I smiled like blazes.
When the dance ended, I grabbed my tip from the Italian and dashed toward the bandstand. I had a hunch.
I was right.
His name was Art Dobbins. From Philadelphia. The band swung into "The Glory of Love," Art swung us into a snappy quickstep, and for the first time that night, I wasn't afraid for my toes.
Art was a salesman, traveling all over. He came to the Starlight whenever he was in Chicago. "Although I'll tell you, sister, I was about to give up this dump and move over to the New American. So many of these girls, dancing's their livelihood but darned if they have the first idea how! That last hobbledy-horse, I swear I sprained my wrist hauling her around."
The band ended—so soon! But Art didn't let go my hand. "Just let me get another ticket . . . there you are . . . what'd you say your name was? Ruby? Say, that's a fine little name. How long you been here? No kidding, your first night? Say, how lucky does that make
me?"
Art was old, but he wasn't some doddery granddad, like some of the men here. The only wrinkles he had were laugh lines around his eyes, and on a man, that just meant he was grown up, not a young pup who didn't know what was what. And could he dance!
"You're too good for this place," I told him. "You should be at the Aragon, hoofing it with all the swells." The Aragon was the biggest dance palace in Chicago; everybody who was anybody went there. Angie and me dreamed of going there ourselves someday. Burn up the floor, the swing kings falling at our feet.
"The Aragon, huh?" Art said. "And if I saw you there, would you dance with me?"
I tossed my hair back. "Sure I would," I said.
"Little liar. You know perfectly well I'd stand around all night, watching the young bucks get the dances. When I come here, see, I can take my pick." His arm tightened around my waist. "I think I'll stick with you, doll. Once I've found a good thing, I hate to let go."
After four dances, Art bought me an orangeade, and a coffee for himself, and we sat at one of the little tables in the lounge. He told a bunch of traveling-salesman stories he thought were funny, and I laughed and drank my pop and eased my heels out of my shoes. My toes ached and throbbed. Behind Art, I saw Peggy sit down with two Filipino men. She was laughing and joking around like they were regular fellows. And here I'd thought she was so savvy.
Art pushed his empty coffee cup to the middle of the table. "Shake a leg, sister?" he asked. I smiled and shoved my feet back into Angie's shoes, trying not to wince.
The dance was halfway over before I remembered what Del had told me about the lounge.
If a customer wants to spend time with you, he has to pay,
he'd said.
Time in the lounge is a ticket a dance, same as if you're on the floor. Keep track and make sure he antes up.
How many songs had we sat through? Four? Five? Art must not know about the rule. I thought about asking him for the money, but somehow it seemed rude. After all, he'd bought me a pop. And he was being awfully nice, sticking with me. Saved me a lot of work and trouble.
The next dance, though, Art didn't reach into his pocket. He held my hand, chattering about nothing in particular, and when the band started up, he swung me into a fox-trot.
"The ticket, Art," I said.
He looked surprised. "Don't I get this one on the house? Oh, say, I forgot. You're new. Well look here, Ruby, you like me, right? I like you."
"Sure, but . . ."
"Well, that's what the girls do, you see. Give out some free dances. Kind of a tradition. Not to just anybody, not all the time. But when they like a fellow . . ."
"But I . . . The thing is, I'm in kind of a jam. See, my mother's sick and she lost her jo—"
Art let go. Just like that, in the middle of the dance floor, so suddenly that I teetered on my heels. "Look, sister, I didn't come here to be panhandled," he said. "Next thing, you'll be telling me your poor sick mother needs an operation. You skirts, I swear you ought to think up some new lines."
I gaped at him. Fun-loving Art was gone—this man eyed me like his shoes stunk and I was the dog turd he'd stepped in.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean it that way, honest, it's just it's my first night and I'm—" Somebody bumped my shoulder. I jumped, startled, and turned to see Peggy quickstepping past with one of the Filipinos. She gave her head a tiny shake, then danced on by.
"Now you're cute enough," Art was saying, "and I thought we were square. I've got reservations at a fine steakhouse tonight—I'm a regular there, they treat me pretty much like royalty—and I was going to take you for a late supper, but . . ."
All around us, couples swirled and bobbed. Not ten feet away, Yvonne glided past, her arms around a heavy fellow who barely came up to her chin. She didn't seem to mind; she was smiling at him like he was the only man in the place worth looking at.
". . . plenty of girls would jump at the chance to step out with old Artie. I'd like it to be you, but . . . What do you say? Are we square?"
Supper at a club. Out on the town, just like one of the uptown swells. I'd never done anything like that in my life. "Sure, Art," I said. "Sure, we're square." The next dance, when Art tried to give me a ticket, I made him take it back. I wasn't any panhandler. I was a sport.
Ma would be mad, me getting in late. I'd tell her I missed the streetcar. Or that I'd been kept late for . . . for training. Yes, that was better.
After another couple of dances, Art said he needed to stop in the little boys' room. Fine by me. I needed to visit the Ladies' myself.
Peggy followed me in. "About time," she said. "I've been giving you the signal for ten minutes. You've been with that dried-up stick long enough, I figured you needed someone to throw you a lifesaver."
I glanced at myself in the full-length mirror by the door and made a face; my curls were flying every which way. I crossed to the sinks, wedged in between two other girls. "Art's no stick," I said over my shoulder. "He dances better than any other man here." I wet my fingers and smoothed down a corkscrew stray.
"Art,
that's it," Peggy said. "I was trying to remember. 'Kiddo, you're the only reason Art comes here . . . Say, honey, be a pal . . . how about a free dance for old Artie?'"
"You talking about that skinflint in the good suit?" the girl next to me butted in. "He took me in once—had me on a string all night, one night."
"Don't feel bad," Peggy said to me. "Guys like him, they like to pick on the new babies. Listen, I've got two fish on the hook out there, but if I'm gonna reel 'em in, I need another girl. Dump that bag of bones and get some real action. What do you say?"
I had no idea what she was talking about—
fish? real action?
—but I was no dummy. Dance with Filipinos? Not on your life. "Thanks very much, I'm sure," I said. "But Art's taking me to a fancy steakhouse."
They hooted at that.
Ooh, a fancy steakhouse. Thanks very much, I'm sure!
Rolling their eyes at my dress, elbowing each other. Jealous cats. When I was digging into my steak, later, I'd be the one laughing. I shook the water off my fingers and turned for the door, past Peggy's grin and her outstretched hand. "Hey, kid, wait," she said. I didn't even slow down.
Art wasn't where I'd left him. If some tart in sequins had pinched him from me, I'd tell her a thing or two . . . I walked up one side of the dance floor and down the other. I searched the lounge. It was past one o'clock, and the crowd of men had thinned out; less than a hundred left, and none of them Art. I waited where I could see the door of the men's room. Two dances rolled by. Five. Art didn't come out.
He couldn't have left. Could he? Surely not. He hadn't even tipped me yet. I had a dollar coming, at least.
I made another round of the hall, a sick feeling growing in my stomach.
He was gone.
I pressed my hands against my girdle. The sick feeling only got stronger. When Peggy went dancing by, I edged back into the shadows so she wouldn't see me standing alone.
Art's taking me to a fancy steakhouse.
No wonder they'd all laughed. Little Bo Peep. The baby. The stupid little fool.
I'd tell the other girls I'd gotten sick. That I'd had to give Art a rain check, that he'd been so disappointed he'd gone on home.
But hide until the night was done, and then what? If I slinked off, I might as well just walk out.
I'd wasted three hours with Art. I had one hour to make up for it.
I closed my eyes and took a breath. My stomach did a slow flop, front to back, but I ignored it. Started snapping my fingers. Walked into the swirling lights. Strolled down the sidelines as if the sweet, sappy tune the band was playing was the hottest swing in the jukebox. Angie's shoes chewing my toes like wild animals, and not a single fellow looking my way. The hall was emptying out. Only fifteen or twenty girls were still dancing. Yvonne—she'd had fellows lining up for her all night. Her big-eyed friend, Gabby, and the plump redhead who'd heckled me before. Stella. And Peggy. I didn't see her Filipino friends. Maybe she hadn't found another girl to reel them in, whatever that meant.
I picked up a ticket here and there, but it was hard slogging. The dance tunes had gotten downright skimpy. Everyone seemed tired. On the bandstand, the trumpeter looked bored enough to fall over dead.
The music scraped to a stop. The lights came up. Two o'clock, and I hadn't had a dance for the last twenty minutes. O'Malley, the bouncer, herded the men ahead of him toward the door. "That's it for tonight," he kept saying. "You want more company, come back tomorrow."
In the Ladies', I slipped off my dress and hung it up in my locker. Then scooped out the handful of tickets from the top of my stocking. Across the room, Yvonne propped her foot on a chair and flipped up the hem of her gown. The tickets crammed under her nylons looked like a blue tumor on the side of her leg. It took her both hands to get them all, and even then two or three fluttered to the floor.
Big deal. Give me time, and a swell dress, and I could do that, too.
We lined up in front of the ticket-seller's booth.
Yvonne—no surprise—was first. I ended up last, behind the girl in the chocolate and blue gown who'd given Art a sprained wrist. Alice, she said her name was. She wore her hair in big fat sausage curls, like Shirley Temple. I wondered if she knew even Shirley Temple didn't wear sausage curls anymore.
When I finally got to the booth, I laid down my handful of tickets. Little Bo Peep or not, I hadn't done too bad. Tomorrow I'd go down to Maxwell Street. See if I could find a bargain. Probably I wouldn't be able to afford rhinestones and sequins, but that could come later. Right now, I needed just good enough for Del to let me back in the door.
The ticket man counted fast, shoving the tickets aside, two by two. His hand crawled in a drawer, coins clinking. He pushed the money across the counter to me. I drifted to the door, adding it all up.
Three dollars sixty-five cents, including tips.
That couldn't be right. I stopped and counted again. Fifty, seventy-five, one, one-fifty . . .
"You, Jablonsky!" Del yelled from across the hall. "Either show up with a gown tomorrow, or don't show up!"
The sick feeling bloomed in my belly, worse than before. I hadn't even earned enough to buy two pairs of stockings. How many free dances had I given Art? How many had I wasted, waiting for him to come back? I couldn't remember. I couldn't think. The other girls clattered down the stairs and I trailed behind in a daze. He might as well have stolen from me. Reached into my pocketbook, taken my gown away from me. I rubbed my knuckles. The scabs like whips on my skin.
Where could I possibly get more money? Ma used to keep a few dollars saved in a sugar tin, but that had been spent months ago. Betty didn't have a nickel to her name. Angie? She loaned me a quarter sometimes. Nothing like what I needed.
Freezing outside, an icy wind whipping up the street. The door to the Starlight latched shut behind me. It was over. Just like that.
I headed for the streetcar stop. Ahead, a group of people laughed and chattered. Under the streetlights, the cigarette smoke around their heads was a bright haze; between that, and the shadows of their hats, I couldn't see their faces. But I'd recognize that tawny shimmer of fox fur anywhere. Yvonne. The thin-shouldered slouch next to her must be Gabby. Three men with them. From around the corner, behind them, a fourth man came walking. A tall, lean man.
Surprise jolted through me. Then relief, like cool water on a burn. I raised my hand and waved. "Art!"
It's Bo Peep,
I heard Gabby say. The men laughed. I didn't care. I started toward Art, but instead of walking to me, he stopped. A cab swerved up to the curb, and in the sweep of headlights, I saw my mistake.
It wasn't Art. It was the trumpet player from the band. He'd changed from his too-short tuxedo into regular clothes and a derby hat. A piece of paper gleamed white in his hands.
"What is she
doing?"
Gabby said, at the same time one of the men said, "That the kind of thing you girls go for at this place?"
I spun on my heel and walked away, my heart hammering hard. The wind bashed my face, stung my eyes.