Filthy sugar, p.20
Filthy Sugar, page 20
“I hope you don’t mind, honey, but my own clothes were soaked through.”
“You look swell in my pajamas, Lili Belle,” I say, stretching out beside her. I rest my head on her shoulder and we sit like that as the minutes pass by, not saying a word. She doesn’t ask me about Evelyn and when we begin to eat we speak only of subway trains and eighty-one cent pounds of coffee and the weather. Sometimes, I think, small talk can be so tender.
We wash our dishes in the bathroom sink and I realize, with a sense of contentment, that I’ve never had so many plates to clean.
“Queenie’s back in town,” Lili Belle says as we stack the dishes sideways in my bathtub to dry. “That ol’ sugar daddy she ran off with up and croaked. No wives, no kids. Lucky Queenie, though, he left her with some heavy sugar.”
“Oh yeah? Then how come she’s coming back here?”
“She’s going to open a burlesque theatre.”
“All by herself?” I ask incredulously.
“No, honey,” Lili Belle answers, shaking her head. “You and me are going to help her. Listen, sweetie,” she continues as I gape at her in shock. “If a dame can fly across the Atlantic Ocean, three hoofers can certainly run a peeler palace. Say, look at Texas Guinan—she was rolling in dough! At least we’d be on the level.”
“Holy cats, Lili Belle! You’re making it sound so easy.”
“Cats!” Lili Belle snaps her fingers. “That’s brilliant, Wanda. Queenie was trying to come up with a name for the joint. Something to do with ‘cats’ would be swell.”
“I can’t,” I say uncertainly. “I don’t know how to run a business.”
“Nobody knows how to do anything until they do it.” Lili Belle sits down on the edge of the bathtub and gives me an inquisitive look. “But maybe you’re still waiting around for Brock.”
“I am not!”
“I think that’s the real reason why you don’t want to do it,” she says, raising her eyebrow at me. “You’re still pining away for that Underwood banger. You’re waiting for him to sweep you off to some big ol’ house in the country so’s you can grow old and have his babies…”
“Button up, Lili Belle!”
“What would he say,” Lili Belle smiles, clearly relishing my annoyance. “What would he say if he found out about us?”
Without waiting for an answer, she takes me by the hand and puts me over her knee. “I don’t think he’d like it much,” she says. She pushes my skirt up around my waist and pulls my panties down. “Do you, sweetie?”
I squirm with delight as she delivers a sharp slap to my bare bottom.
“Do you think he’d like this, honey?” Lili Belle reaches under my sweater and gently tugs on my left nipple. I cry out and she spanks me harder. “Answer me, Wanda!”
“No, Lili Belle,” I moan. “He wouldn’t like this.” I look up at her, parting my lips as she bends to kiss me. “And I don’t want babies, anyway!”
34. CHILI AND CADS: THEY BOTH COME BACK
ORPHAN LEAVES DRESS UP THE CITY in shades of yellow, orange, and red. I’m careful not to slip on the wet sidewalk in my strappy high heels, my arms laden with paper bags full of groceries. I can’t cook and my hotel room doesn’t have an oven anyway, but I like eating at home with Lili Belle. Lili Belle. I smile. My friend. My protector. My lover.
“Is this wrong?” I asked her this morning, our bodies tangled in the sweaty bed sheets, my head resting upon her naked belly.
“Does it feel wrong, sweetie?” she answered.
No, it doesn’t feel wrong.
A milk truck passes by, the driver yanking his bell at me. November. Today is the first day of November and all at once my grief feels as fresh as yesterday. A man’s shadow falls upon me and I stumble backwards as my bags are stolen from my grasp.
“Hello, Miss Wanda,” Brock winks at me. “No need for a pretty lady to carry her own bags.”
“Brock!” I exclaim. “Wha-where have you been? Give those back to me!”
“Why, Miss Wanda!” Brock ducks as I swing out at him with my fists. “What the devil is the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me?” I cry out incredulously. I attempt to deck him again but he catches my fist in midair. “You ask me to marry you and then you disappear. You print lies about my sister and the Red Squad runs her out of the city. You sell me out to Mr. Potter for a few bucks and a barrelful of ink—that’s ‘what’s the matter with me’!” I spit in his face, this time making my mark.
“Oh, darling,” Brock sighs. He wipes at his cheek with a polka-dotted handkerchief. “You certainly are a woman. And you get angry just like a woman. And you misunderstand, just like a woman.”
He steers me forward, his hand on my right elbow. “I haven’t disappeared, Miss Wanda, and I still hope to marry you. I just got very busy with work. And as for your sister, I never called the Red Squad on her, but she is a communist—you admitted so yourself.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Of course you did.” Brock nods with exasperated pity. “You told me over dinner the night we went to the Stone’s Throw. You said your own mother knew Evelyn was a Red. You said she liked to read books with strange ideas,”
“I never said that!”
“Perhaps you don’t remember saying it but you shouldn’t be angry with me, Miss Wanda, for your insufficient memory.”
I reach out to slap him but he takes hold of my hand and kisses it.
“I forgive you, Miss Wanda. I forgive your anger and I even forgive your cruel accusations. I still love you. Very much.”
“Give me back my bags, Brock,” I say, extracting my hand from his grasp. “I’m going home.”
He follows me to the lobby door of the Grand Palace. “At least let me talk to you, Miss Wanda.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, we do.” Brock spins me around, his hands on my shoulders. “Look at you, Miss Wanda. Your coat is matted and dirty, your shoes are all scuffed and your hair looks as though it hasn’t been done in months. You need some dough, don’t you honey?”
“Of course I need some dough!” I reply indignantly. “Who doesn’t?”
“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I have a swell proposal for you. Let me come up to your room and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“You gave me a proposal once,” I say. “But it turned out not to be so swell.”
“Oh, Miss Wanda,” Brock sighs. “You really need to let go of this anger of yours. Now let me come up, won’t you dear?”
“No.”
“Because you’re sore at me?”
“Yes.” That, I think, and the fact that I have a naked Lili Belle waiting for me in my bed.
“Well then let’s talk in here.”
Irving’s head snaps up as Brock opens the lobby door and ushers me toward the ancient sofa beside the telephone box. Clouds of dust emerge from the sofa cushions as Brock takes a seat beside me.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll listen to your proposal, but make it snappy.” I gesture at my wristwatch. “You’ve got five minutes.”
“Oh-kay.” Brock nervously glances at Irving, who has just turned down the volume on his radio. “Is that mug listening to us?”
“’Course he is,” I answer nonchalantly. “Say, Irving!” I shout over my shoulder. “Let me know if you need us to speak up. We wouldn’t want you to miss anything!”
Irving scowls at me and turns up his radio again. The lobby fills with the sounds of Tin Pan Alley.
I tap my watch face. “You’ve got four minutes and fifteen seconds now,” I say to Brock.
“Oh-kay. I’ll cut to the chase,” Brock says, taking a deep, dramatic breath. “Does the name Peg Entwistle mean anything to you?”
“No, not really. Well, maybe. Come to think of it, the name sounds kind of familiar. Is she an actress?”
“She was a stage actress. She moved to Hollywood with dreams of making it in the pictures. She was sweet, naïve, and innocent, the way you…” he pauses, “the way you used to be. The same way the Apple Bottom took your dreams and spewed them back out in dirty, masticated chunks, Hollywood crushed hers. One night, she climbed up to the Hollywoodland sign and jumped off the top of the H.”
“Did she … did she die?”
“Yes, she died. Hollywood killed her, just like it killed her dreams.”
“That’s terrible. Why, I wonder how I never heard about this.”
“It was a few years ago,” Brock says. “But it was very big news at the time. Her tragic death shone a spotlight on the predatory nature of the movie business and how they lure young girls in with promises of silver and glitter, only to pervert those dreams into a reality of sleaze, desperation, and exploitation.”
“That’s a very sad story, but what does it have to do with me?”
“I want you to threaten to jump off the roof of the Apple Bottom.”
“What?”
“Hear me out, Miss Wanda,” Brock says, excitement colouring his face. “You won’t actually jump. I’ll talk you down. But your suicide attempt will be big news and a call to arms to the public to rid our streets of peeler palaces and burlesque halls. Mr. Potter thought your story was getting stale but when I pitched him this idea, he went nuts. He said it’s one of the best story ideas he’s ever heard! He called it historical.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Not even for one thousand dollars?”
“O-one thousand dollars?” I stammer.
Brock nods, a knowing smile on his lips. “That’s what Potter says we’ll pay you. Have you ever had that much money in your life, Miss Wanda?”
“No,” I admit. “I’ve never had money like that. Gosh, I’ve never even dreamed of having money like that.”
“It’s some heavy sugar, Miss Wanda.”
“No, Brock,” I correct him. “It’s some filthy sugar.”
35. THE GREAT WANDA WIGGLES
Brock said it would be okay to dress like a harlot today. I’m wearing a coin-silver grey gown with wide kimono sleeves under my fox fur coat, along with the silk stockings that Eddie gave me for Christmas: bright red seams to match my thickly applied lipstick.
Standing on the rooftop of the Apple Bottom theatre, with the November winds thrashing at my pin curls, I feel ridiculously fearless, as though if I did jump, I really would fly. The small crowd of men below pop their eyes at me and throw back their heads, mouths open like baby birds hungry for worms.
Brock had wanted my suicide attempt to take place during the day but I insisted on sunset. A girl like me can’t perform without stage lights and the street lamps, I explained to Brock, would work just as well. Besides, I wouldn’t want to compete with the sun.
I throw up my arms and the crowd emits a collective gasp as I teeter precariously on the rooftop’s edge. I spot Brock in his brown Trilby hat and beaver coat. He surreptitiously salutes me and nudges Gallagher, who raises his camera in preparation.
“It’s a dirty business!” I cry, reciting the lines that Brock had written out for me. “You stole my innocence—do you want my blood, too?”
The front door to the Apple Bottom swings open and Mr. Manchester joins the gaping masses below. He glares up at me, his face a clenched fist.
“It’s a dirty city,” I say, now improvising as I slip off my fur coat, twirling it in the air like a lasso. “And I’m a dirty girl!” With one final swing, the coat flies out of my hand. It falls on Mr. Manchester’s head.
Two female police officers climb a ladder propped against the side of the theatre. Pumping their whistles, they rush to either side of me, employing me in a game of tug-of-war as they violently pull at the sleeves of my flimsy gown.
Brock brings a hand to his mouth in genuine surprise. He had an agreement with the chief of police who, satisfied with Brock’s generous bribe, had promised to instruct the flatfoots to turn a blind eye to our stunt. Double-crossed and impotent with shock, Brock sways side to side in the middle of the jostling crowd, like a defective Jack-in-the-Box.
“Book her, baby!”
“Can I come up and see ya, honey?”
“Arrest me, baby! Arrest me!”
The mob whoops with lurid delight as the coppers tear my dress in half.
BA-DA-BA-DA-BOOM! Eddie’s drumroll rises forth, behind the horde of horny men.
“Got some handcuffs, honey?”
“Whatta woman! Oh boy, whatta woman!”
I cross my arms over my bare bosom and shake my G-string clad bottom at the frenzied crowd as Queenie and Lili Belle shimmy out of their faux police uniforms.
BOOM-BA-DA-BOOM!
Queenie and Lili Belle unfurl a giant banner:
THE CAT’S MEOW:
DANCER-OWNED AND RUN BURLESQUE HALL
OPENING SOON!
I spin around, raising my arms to the sky as the girls drop the flag. Cold winds whip my nipples into tight red berries. The pop of Gallagher’s flashbulb joins the cacophony of cheers, whistles, and Eddie’s drums. Brock, his baby-doll cheeks scarlet with rage, tries to wrestle the camera from his paper’s photographer. He looks up at me, ungodly curses floating out of his angel-boy mouth like grimy soap bubbles.
“What have you got to say for yourself, Wanda?” A reporter from a rival newspaper shouts.
“The Great Gatsby believed in the green light,” I answer, with a swing of my hips. “Wanda Wiggles believes in the footlights.”
NOTES
CHAPTER 1
Gold Stars: During WWI, families who had lost a son, brother or father in service would hang a gold star in their window to commemorate their loved one.
CHAPTER 2
Dames is a 1934 Warner Brothers musical comedy directed by Busby Berkeley and Ray Enright. Released about a month and a half after the amended Production Code “to govern the making of motion and talking pictures” took effect, Dames pokes a great deal of fun at censorship.
Dick Powell: “I wonder what it’s like to be kissed by Dick Powell!” Martha Merrill swoons in the Warner Brothers featurette, And She Learned about Dames. The cutie-pie crooner, Dick Powell, was the heartthrob of the Warner Brothers Busby Berkeley musicals of the 1930s. He was most often paired onscreen with the equally adorable Ruby Keeler and the two shared so much on-screen chemistry that when Powell married actress Joan Blondell in 1936, fans angrily accused Blondell of “stealing” Powell away from Keeler! Never mind that in real life Keeler was married to entertainer, Al Jolson.
Ruby Keeler: As cuddly as a kitten and twice as sweet, Ruby Keeler admittedly wasn’t much of a singer, and sure, sometimes she looked at her feet when she tap danced, but who cares? Depression-era audiences certainly did not; they fell head over heels in love with the wide-eyed, leggy sweetheart of the Busby musicals. With her natural charm, winning smile, and knack for playing naïve yet plucky innocents, Keeler boosted the morale of the movie-going public during the darkest days of the Depression.
Toby Wing: Though usually unbilled, Toby Wing stood out from the numerous Busby chorus girls with her bobbed blonde hair and sassy smile. She is most memorable as the “young and healthy snooty cutie” whom Dick Powell serenades in the Warner Brothers 1933 musical, 42nd Street.
CHAPTER 3
42nd Street: Wanda and Brock’s meet-cute is an homage to a scene in the 1933 musical blockbuster, in which Ruby Keeler mistakenly walks in on Dick Powell in his BVDs. Oh, if only Brock had turned out to be half as swell as Dick Powell!
Bessie Love: Sexy tomboy, Bessie Love, made seventy-seven silent films from 1916-1928. She successfully transitioned to talkies in 1929 and earned a nomination for Best Actress at the Academy Awards for her turn as Hank, the hard luck older sister in MGM’s, The Broadway Melody. Watch the film for Love’s performance: unlike many of her peers, who had a difficult time adjusting to the new format, Love took to sound like a fish to water. Her snappy wisecracks remain a highlight of the film.
The Broadway Melody: MGM’s first “All Talking! All Singing! All Dancing!” 1929 musical was the first sound film to win the Academy Award for Best Picture. It was the top grossing film of 1929 and created a firestorm of show biz-themed musical films. The trend for Hollywood musicals reached its peak in 1930 when over one hundred of such films were released. The public soon grew sick of the formula, until Busby Berkeley revitalized the genre in 1933 with 42nd Street.
Cab Calloway: Put on one of his records and it’s impossible to stay still, but nobody can move like Cab Calloway. The jazz singer, songwriter, performer, and bandleader introduced the world to Minnie the Moocher, the Jumpin’ Jive, and the Jitterbug. Innovative and always one step ahead of the times, his music helped define the 1930s and 1940s. He collaborated with Fleischer Studios for three “Talkartoon” short animated films starring Calloway and Betty Boop: Minnie the Moocher, Snow-White and The Old Man of the Mountain. These films set the tone for modern day music videos.
Jean Harlow: Sexpot. Bombshell. Clown. Thespian. The original “platinum blonde,” Jean Harlow was many things, but most of all she was a fighter. Perhaps it was her unusual mixture of chutzpah and vulnerability that—even more so than her hourglass figure and platinum blonde hair—made the actress a star and endeared her to Depression-era audiences. She made ’em swoon in Hell’s Angels, laugh in Red-Headed Woman, and cry in Red Dust. Harlow proved to the disapproving (mostly male) critics that she was much more than just “a swell looking dish.” Sadly, the woman who inarguably had the greatest influence on the style and beauty trends of the 1930s would not live to see the decade’s end: she died on June 7, 1937, at the age of twenty-six, from acute kidney failure.
CHAPTER 7
Prohibition: From 1920 to 1933, the United States banned the production, importation, transportation, and sale of alcoholic beverages. Daniel Okrent’s 2010 book, Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition, is a must-read on this topic: a detailed, engaging, entertaining, and informative read.
