Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [21]
Jody walked onto the stage to the strains of “Besame Mucho.” She wore black tulle, corseted to her body by a sparkling black waist cincher. Her black-stockinged legs and black patent shoes raced across the floor. She rushed from one side to the other, throwing wicked come-hither looks and tossing her wisps of clothes into the audience. When she finished, clad only in a black G-string and bra, she turned her back, pooched her behind up and looked over her shoulder with a pout. The music had ended, but she waited to her own drummer, then went around collecting the discarded clothing and went downstairs.
When Babe walked onto the stage, the four men fell silent. She nodded to the musicians, put one hand on her hip and held her basket aloft with the other.
The band played “All of Me” and the woman became a sexy, taunting twelve-year-old. She pranced about the stage offering illicit sex. She stuck out her tongue in a juvenile tease, then changed the purpose by sliding it around her lips insinuatingly, curling it over the corners. Her eyes were hard and wise and her body ample and rounded. Her breasts jiggled and her hips quivered with promise. She stripped to the red G-string and cones which covered her nipples.
When the music stopped, she stood still, looking out toward the men. Her face wrinkled in a strange smile. She had been sexually exciting and knew it. Within seconds, they began their murmuring again, and Babe collected her discarded clothes and waved at the musicians, who grinned in response. She passed me saying nothing.
I waited in the dark, not quite knowing if I should introduce myself or just go up and start dancing, or be sensible, race downstairs, put my clothes on and go home.
A voice shouted, “Where's the colored girl?”
I nearly answered “Present.” I said, “Here.”
“Well, let's go,” the voice ordered.
I walked onto the stage and the musicians stared their surprise. The drummer beckoned to me.
“Hi, honey. What's your routine?”
Certainly not “Alice Blue Gown.”
I said, “I don't know.” And added, “I can dance, but I need something fast to dance to.”
He nodded. “How about ‘Caravan’?”
“That's fine.”
He spoke to the other players, counted down four and the music began. I started dancing, rushing into movement, making up steps and changing direction. There was no story, no plan; I simply put every dance I had ever seen or known into my body and onto the stage. A little rhumba, tango, jitter bug, Susy-Q, trucking, snake hips, conga, Charles ton and cha-cha-cha. When the music was finished I had exhausted my repertoire and myself. Only after the low talking resumed in the rear did I realize the men had stopped to watch me and that the other women had dressed and were sitting at a small table in the dark.
The drummer said, “Baby, you didn't lie, you can dance.” All the brown and black faces smiled in agreement.
I thanked them and went downstairs with pride to change clothes. Babe passed me on the stairs, carrying her bag.
She asked, “How did it go?”
I said, “O.K. What about these things?” meaning her G-string and bra.
She said, “Bring them up with you. I'll just put them in my purse.” They would have fit comfortably in a cigarette package.
I said, “O.K. In a minute.”
The big bartender stood over the table after I joined the other dancers.
He said, “Rusty, you, and Jody and Kate and—” He turned to me. “What's your name?”
I said, “Rita.”
“—and Rita. Start tomorrow.” He looked at Babe. “Babe, try again. We had you here last year. The customers like new faces.”
He went back to the bar. The three women got up silently and walked over to him. I was embarrassed for Babe, and when I handed