Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [6]
My father, who eventually found a job he liked as a butcher in a Safeway store, played ostrich when my mother imposed tight new regulations on us. There was to be no dancing, no movies, no makeup, no jewelry, and definitely no boys. Strict curfews were set. Needless to say, by the time I was fifteen, my life seemed hopelessly drab. I’d had more fun in Bosworth. This wasn’t the freedom Mother had promised when we left Missouri. She and I had terrible fights, which usually ended in us not speaking to each other for days. Feeling increasingly trapped, I knew that I had to escape—just as she had taught me.
Out in the world, war was raging. Pearl Harbor had been bombed, and President Roosevelt sent troops to Europe. People were living each day as if it might be their last. Movies and big band music had never been more popular. Prohibition was over (although Kansas remained a dry state), and nightclubs and dance halls were packed. The newspapers tempered tales of faraway conflict with stories from Hollywood, such as the premiere of the movie Casablanca, the death of Clark Gable’s wife Carole Lombard in a plane crash, or the latest in the on-off marriage of the singing sensation Frank Sinatra.
Determined to follow the latest fashions despite the fact that I was skinny, tall, and plain, I lost my twang, acquired a cashmere “hubba-bubba” sweater, and donned a poodle skirt. I persuaded my aunts, who were both hairdressers, to dye my hair “Rita Red.” With my new Miss Hayworth look, I sneaked to the drive-in after school with my friends Claudine Ramsay and Winnie Markley; a jukebox in the corner of the soda parlor played the latest tunes. We’d drink Coke and watch others dance. In the privacy of my bedroom, I’d learned how to jitterbug, but it was ages before I’d dare try it in public.
It was sitting in the local drive-in as a bored fifteen-year-old that I first heard the singer everyone was talking about. Sinatra-mania had gripped the country, and I’d seen Sinatra’s photograph in countless teen and movie magazines. The number I first heard him sing was a romantic ballad called “I’ll Walk Alone,” and I shivered to the toes of my bobby sox. He sang so effortlessly it seemed. Oh, how we sighed. Bing Crosby may have been the most popular vocalist of the day, but Frank was younger and far more handsome, with his sharp cheekbones and megawatt smile. Unlike Bing, he had a full head of hair with a lick that fell down endearingly over his face.
So what if some of the gossip columnists made out he was a rogue and a womanizer? That skinny kid with the big ears, who wasn’t the tallest or most handsome of men, had every woman in Hollywood after him; of course it was going to turn his head. All I knew was that there was a real yearning and romanticism to his voice that touched me deeply. From that day on, I was hooked.
The advertisement in the Wichita Eagle caught my eye. “Pretty Models Wanted. No Experience Necessary.” Taking a pair of scissors, I snipped it out and folded it into my purse. Ever since I’d pored over my mother’s Harper’s Bazaar magazines, I’d been struck by the fact that most models were tall like me. I wasn’t sure that I qualified as pretty, but I did have good skin with my pale complexion and fine mousy-brown hair. Maybe modeling was my chance for escape? I decided to go along and find out.
The auditions were at the Leyton Hotel on Union Street, opposite the Emporium Department Store, where I’d been taken on as a salesgirl at the blouse counter. Deciding not to tell anyone, I dressed with special care and took the bus downtown, arriving an hour before my shift. The manager of my store was on the same bus, but he didn’t spot me, so not wanting to draw attention