Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [20]
I said, “I see.” And did.
She pointed to an older blonde, whose breasts hung heavy and uncovered.
“That's Rusty. She's Salome” (she pronounced it “salami”). “She does the Dance of the Seven Veils. That's Jody, she's the Merry Widow. See? Kate is the only one who's not somebody. She does acrobatics. You know? Flips and splits and things like that. So you gotta have a routine.”
None of the women looked up.
I said, “Well, I don't have one, so I'd better go home.”
She said, “Let me see your costume. Maybe we can make one up.”
I was unable to resist Babe's friendliness. Reluctantly I took the balled-up black leotard from my handbag.
“That's it?” Astonishment narrowed her voice into a shriek. The other women looked up for the second time since I'd entered the dressing room.
As usual when I was embarrassed, I responded with an angry stiffness. I said, “Well, I am a dancer. I might not have a fancy costume, and I may not have a routine but I can dance. So don't try to make me look small.” I looked around at each woman as I fought back mortification. The dancers resumed picking at their flesh privately, like cats licking their fur.
Babe said, “Wait a minute. Don't get your ass on your shoulders. They've never had a colored girl work here. Why don't you try it? I used to work at the Pirates Cave down the street and my best friend was Pat Thomas. She's colored, too.”
I thought I am expected to stand here embarrassed and listen to that old “colored best friend” lie again. I rolled my leotard and put it in my bag.
Babe said, “I got an idea. What size are you?”
I told her.
She said, “I've got a G-string and bra made out of rabbit fur. I'll let you wear it, just for the audition, and you can be Jungle Bunny.”
That was out, and I told her so emphatically.
She said, “Boy, you sure are sensitive. I didn't mean no harm.”
I said. “I didn't mean to scream at you.” After all, she had been kind.
“Well, let me think.” Her face worked as she looked at me. She shouted, “I know, I know.” She bent quickly and began fumbling in an open suitcase on the floor. She pulled out a blue satin set of panties and brassiere. Both pieces were studded with rhinestones and trimmed with blue-dyed feathers. “Try these on.”
I undressed while the other women finished their makeup, their faces averted from me. I looked closely at the seat of the panties, and although they seemed clean I didn't pull it too close.
Babe said, “Boy, you got yourself a pretty figure,” then she draped yards of blue tulle over me that floated and fell to the floor. “Now you're Alice Blue Gown. That's your routine. You know the song? It's a waltz.”
The first tuning-up notes of a rhythm band reached the dressing room and the dancers started like robots jerking to attention. They picked up their purses and rushed to the stairs. Babe trailed them.
She whispered, “They only want four girls and we are five. I hope you get the job. Be real sexy. And don't leave your purse in the dressing room.” She turned and raced for the stairs.
The figure in the mirror was strange to me. A long mostly straight brown body clothed in a cloud of blue gauze. I would never be able to dance with all that material playing around. I took it off, folded it and laid it on Babe's tote bag. I tried to bring the lyrics of “Alice Blue Gown” out of my memory. I couldn't remember and I knew I couldn't waltz without a partner. I went upstairs wearing the bra and G-string.
Four white men sat murmuring in the shadows in the back of the club and four black men were playing “Tea for Two” on the bandstand. Rusty moved across the square polished floor, ridding her body of veils and indifferent to the music. Finally, as the music stopped, she was still as a statue and almost as pale. No hint of sexuality touched her body. And no applause appreciated her performance. She left the stage.
The acrobat took over next as the band began