Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [19]
Gradually we rebuilt our friendship.
As that emotional worry diminished, a practical one assumed importance. My pride had not allowed me to ask Tosh for money, but he had left me the small bank account and it was dwindling fast. I had to get a job and one that paid enough so I could afford a baby-sitter. I started looking.
• • •
Four dingy strip joints squatted cheek by jowl in San Francisco's International Settlement. The exteriors of the Garden of Allah and the Casbah were adorned with amateur drawings of veiled women, their dark eyes sultry with promise and their navels crammed with gems. The Pirates Cave and Captain's Table advertised lusty wenches and busy serving girls with hitched-up skirts and crowded cleavages, all sketched by the same wishful artist.
I stood on the pavement across from the Garden of Allah. A papier-mâché sultan with a lecherous grin winked atop the one-floor building. Around the doorway old photographs of near-nude women curled under a dirty glass façade. Large letters proclaimed BEAUTIFUL GIRLS! CONTINUOUS ENTERTAINMENT! The advertisement had read: “Female Dancers Wanted. Good take-home pay.”
The interior was dimly lighted and smelled of beer and disinfectant. A large man behind the bar asked if I had come to audition. Most of his attention was centered on checking the bottles.
I said, “Yes.”
He said, “Dressing rooms downstairs. Go that way.”
I followed the path of his arm and descended a narrow stairwell. Women's voices floated up to meet me.
“Eddie's a nice Joe. I used to work here before.”
“Yeah. He don't hassle the girls.”
“Hey, Babe, who made that costume?”
“Francis.”
“Frances?”
“Nah, Francis. He male, but he's more twat than you.”
I allowed the light and sound from on open doorway to direct me. A floor-to-ceiling mirror made the four women seem like forty. They were older than I expected and all white. They were taken aback by my presence. I said hello and received hi's and hello's and then a heavy silence.
They busied themselves professionally gluing on eyelashes and adjusting wigs and attaching little sequined cones to their nipples. Their costumes were exotic, complicated and expensive. Rhinestones twinkled, sequins shone, nets and feathers and chiffon wafted at each movement. I had brought a full leotard, which left only my hands, head and feet exposed. Obviously I couldn't compete with these voluptuous women in their glamorous clothes. I turned to go. Wrong place, wrong time.
“Hey, where ya going? This is the only dressing room.”
I turned back to see a short redhead looking at me.
She said, “My name's Babe, what's yours?”
I stammered. I ran through all my names, Marguerite, Maya, Ritie, Sugar, Rita. The first three were too personal and the others too pretentious, but since I felt least like Rita, I said “Rita.”
Babe said, “You'd better get changed. The band will start soon. What's your routine?”
I had no routine. When I read the ad I had expected to audition for a revue and thought a choreographer would give me steps to do, rather like a teacher asking questions in an examination. I said defiantly, “I do modern, rhythm, tap and flash.”
Babe looked at me as if I had answered in Latin.
“I mean what's your routine? I'm little Red Riding Hood, see?” She posed, offering her costume for my observation. She wore a red gathered see-through net skirt with folds of the same material draped across her shoulders. Clearly visible beneath the yards of cloth were a red brassiere and a red sequined belt low on her hips;