The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [375]
“That’s putting it on thick,” Studs whispered.
“Since the time for this broadcast is getting short, we’ll only have time to put one more of our contestants on the mike, and I’ll now call on Katy Jones of team number two. Katy is another girl who has thrilled marathon fans out here at the World Championship Super Dance Marathon now in progress at the Silver Eagle Ballroom. You know, a week ago it looked like we were going to lose our Katy. She had already taken some bad tumbles, and then one night an abscessed tooth began to trouble her. If most of us had as painful a toothache as Katy’s, we would have howled all night in bed. But not Katy. Holding ice packs to her swollen face, she stuck it out through the dog hours of the night, and took the pain philosophically. I remember how she said to me, `The tooth makes it easier for me to stay awake.’ And the next morning she refused to leave the floor, even to have it pulled, and then she marched gamely forward. Was that a thrill! Seeing this brave little girl join the marathon dancers here a few moments after that painful extraction of that abscessed tooth. Was it a thrill... Now, here’s Katy Jones, and she’ll sing one of her favorite songs.”
Katy Jones, built to barrel-like proportions, stepped forward in a short brown dress and sweater, her legs stockingless, her ripe-sized breasts bobbling. Her thick black bobbed hair was uncombed, and her face, white with powder, almost resembled a clown’s mask. She sang Rose of Picardy, her voice whiny and monotonous in its even accenting.
“Now, folks, I am closing our regular evening broadcast for the World’s Championship Super Dance Marathon at the Silver Eagle Ballroom which is now in its three hundred and sixty-seventh hour with eighteen couples and two solos still in the running. And let me say, in farewell, to all you radio ears, that the Silver Eagle Ballroom is one place these days that is always open, always interesting, always exciting, with thrills and humor and pathos galore. Make it a place to meet your friends and have your parties, the place to come when you want to see something new and exciting in the way of sport and entertainment. This dance marathon of ours and the contestants are the talk of the town, and if you haven’t yet seen Squirmy Stevens, Takiss Filios, the Greek boy who sings Yes, We Have No Bananas in his native tongue, Harold Morgan, Katy Jones, Georgia Ginger, and all the other thirty-eight headliners competing in the World’s Championship Super Dance Marathon at the Silver Eagle Ballroom, you’ve got something, and I mean something, in store for you. Thank you, and good evening.”
IV
“Folks, we now have one final surprise for you by way of entertainment before I call it a night,” the announcer addressed the spectators through the microphone. “Some of the boys have been practicing here on a little playlet called The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, so please give them your kind attention. And oh, yes, the author of this skit is Squirmy Stevens.”
Applauded, Squirmy Stevens bowed, grinned clownishly, and stepped to the microphone.
“I suppose you bozos didn’t know that I wrote plays. Well, I does.”
Studs looked on curiously while Squirmy stationed Katy Johes at a corner in the arena. Facing the same direction as Studs, he scratched and shook his head, studying the unselected girls on the floor. Katy Jones joined them and he drew a laugh returning her to the spot he had placed her.
“Oh,” he loudly exclaimed, pointing to a tall brunette who wore a green sweater.
He led her by the arm toward a corner of the floor below and to the right of Studs. Her partner suddenly grabbed the girl’s free wrist.’
“Le’ go,” he called at Squirmy. Squirmy held to the other hand and both pulled, the girl’s head and shoulders bobbing first in one way, then in the other.
“Seems like Ted Delaney of team twenty-two doesn’t trust Doris Davis with Squirmy. I don’t blame you, either, Ted,” the announcer said through the microphone, the crowd licking it all in.
“Look, Squirmy,”