Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [106]
“What do you want to do first?” I asked Harry.
“Let’s check out some of the private clubs,” he said with a wink.
“Perfect,” I said, and ripped up the list. Rest and relaxation? No, we’d knock ourselves out.
The air hostess on our flight had mentioned the McFadden-Deauville Club, owned by Bernarr McFadden. He was a big fitness buff, my era’s Charles Atlas, who’d gotten rich after starting Physical Culture magazine and would go on to found True Story and True Romance. Time and Newsweek wrote about him, and at the sight of a press camera he would strip to his underwear to show off his muscles. He sometimes gave interviews standing on his head.
We had to climb the wall to sneak in. Luckily, we found the flight attendant in the lounge and the three of us sat at a table, surveying the room as if we had every right to be there. I had my eye on a flashy girl sitting at the end of the bar. When our hostess friend left to meet a date, Harry said, “Look at the dolls.”
“They look friendly,” I said, leaning back expansively. “You know, this is the life. Single, no responsibilities, free to pick and choose. Can you see being here with a wife?” Harry didn’t have to answer. “I once said I’d be a bachelor for the rest of my life,” I continued. “That goes double now. Variety, that’s…”
My sentiment suddenly hung in the air as my head turned and my voice trailed off. Harry followed my gaze.
“Did you see her, Harry?” I whispered.
“Which one?”
“The tall one with the long, golden hair and the face of an angel. She was here, now she’s gone.”
“Can’t say I did.” He shrugged, scanning the room for other prospects. But I could only think about the girl who had just glided through, head high, looking straight ahead. I consoled myself by deciding that she wasn’t the type to hang around a bar while a crew of eager beavers like us ogled her. Harry tried to revive the carefree-bachelor conversation, but I’d lost interest.
THE NEXT DAY we dressed for the beach and climbed the McFadden-Deauville wall again. Harry spotted two unaccompanied girls lying facedown on towels in the sand and spread our blankets as close to them as possible. I ignored our neighbors but Harry couldn’t resist. Soon I heard him telling the story of my athletic career, and I heard one of the girls say that although she was only eleven at the time she remembered seeing the newsreel of me winning the NCAA mile race. “How could I forget a runner sitting on a table with four large bandages on his leg?” she said.
I sat up to join the conversation and to my total shock found myself staring at the beautiful girl I’d seen the day before.
She smiled when our eyes met, and I all but froze. I could talk to anyone, but I’d never been that good at making the usual inane conversation meant to captivate and entrance women—especially with one who captivated and entranced me. But I meant to try. We said hello and introduced ourselves; her name was Cynthia Applewhite. When I stumbled and slipped, trying to keep breaking the ice, she took over.
“Where you from?”
Before I answered, this is what went through my head: I like skinny girls, and she’s skinny. She’s beautiful, looks intelligent. Nice personality. The kind of girl I always pictured meeting one day. My type, definitely.
Here’s what came out of my mouth. “Uh, Torrance…but staying in Hollywood.”
“I lived in Los Angeles once,” Cynthia said brightly, “right near Cathay Circle.” She went on about her life there as a young girl, and about living in St. Louis, New York, and finally Florida. Cynthia was nineteen, a debutante (also voted a Sweetheart of the Deauville), and the only daughter of a well-to-do family. She’d been educated at exclusive girls’ schools and even attended the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York. In other words, our life experiences couldn’t have been more different, but I found telling her about myself much easier than I could have hoped for. I wanted to keep talking, just to be near