The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [371]
The troupe of fifteen couples and two extra males trudged with wearying slowness around the edge of the dance floor. On a dais opposite Studs and Catherine a tuxedo-clad jazz orchestra idled. Below them, in a slide, Studs read from black cards: 366 HRS. A banner floated from the rafters in the center of the hall.
WORLD’S CHAMPIONSHIP
SUPER DANCE
MARATHON
A bell rang, the orchestra broke into a snappy song; and the contestants danced for three minutes. Again they trod slowly around the edge of the floor, solemn, silent, tired. The tall fellow of team number eight placed his head on his partner’s shoulder, a small blond girl in ruffled, untidy pink beach pyjamas, whose face was so caked with powder that Studs could notice it even from his distance. The fellow’s arms were ringed around her neck, and his face, stupid in sleep, was slung over her left shoulder. Walking backward, she dragged him around. Two other male contestants and one girl fell asleep and were also pulled and maneuvered around the floor. The music continued.
“Damn fools,” Studs muttered under his breath.
“What do you mean?”
“Those two wasting their energy dancing that way,” Studs said, motioning his head in the direction of team number sixteen, a sheiky fellow with sideburns and blue jersey and a tough-looking, thin, faded girl in scarlet beach pajamas who hot-stepped in a rapid, whirling dance.
Applause broke out from the half-filled bleachers, and coins were flung at them. Studs smiled knowingly. He glanced around at the crowd, fellows with regan haircuts, and the girls, hoods, fat Polack women, young broads who looked to be the kind that got crushes on movie stars, all kinds of people, a mixed audience no different from the kind that would be seen at a movie.
“When is something going to happen?” he asked, watching the contestants moving around and around.
“I don’t know. It’s funny, and I don’t think there’s anything interesting in it, either,” she said.
“Damn fools, wasting their health. Look at the blond trying to keep number eight on his feet.”
“I wouldn’t like to be her.”
“And I wouldn’t want to trade places with that guy, either. He can have his dance marathon.”
“Why do they do such foolish things?”
“I suppose because they can get people to come out and make damn fools of themselves, and then, too, there’s the dough.”
“Yes, the prize is something like a thousand dollars for the winners.”
“Well, they earn it,” Studs said, watching the blond girl of team number eight fight and strain to keep her partner from crashing to the floor.
“Look,” Catherine said excitedly.
The blond girl had tripped, and her partner smashed to the floor on his face. A buzz of conversation rose from the stands. Other dancers crowded around him. The judge emerged from his small box beside the orchestra dais, and two male attendants in soiled white clothing rushed forward.
“Oh, I hope poor Albert isn’t hurt,” the woman with the Slavic features in front of them sighed.
“Gee, he got a shiner,” Studs exclaimed, attentively watching the male attendants lift number eight.
Number eight shook his head in stupor and walked beside his partner. He received cheers, and coins were flung to him.
“What’s that?” Studs asked a fellow next to him when male and female attendants assisted number eight and three other couples from the floor, following the resounding of a siren.
“Rest period. They all get ten minutes every hour, and they go off the floor in batches.”
“What do they do, sleep?” Studs asked.
Three teams which had appeared unnoticed to Studs arose from benches along the side of the dance floor and joined the straggling procession, which wound around and around and around.
“How long will this go on?” Studs asked Catherine.
“They’ll still be here in another month. They all got guts and they can take it,” the fellow next to him said.
“It’s beyond me,” Studs said, puzzled.
“They do