Ruthie had started spending time with a theater director named Lawrence, who was also a patent attorney. I didn’t find him to be an attractive man—he had a big forehead, with hair that swept over his crown from one ear to the other—but he was fun and Ruthie seemed to like him. She kept on pushing me to join him and one of his colleagues for a night out and promised we’d have a grand time, but I wasn’t so keen on getting set up. I knew I’d be stuck with his friend the whole night, since I was too much of a softy to hurt someone’s feelings if he didn’t rev my engine, and I’d end up dancing with the poor fellow all night anyway, talking his ear off so he wouldn’t have a chance to swoop in for a kiss—it would be too exhausting for words.
“We’re going to a new spot Thursday after the show,” Ruthie said. “Come along with us, we’ll have the lobster.”
“We’ve had lobster a thousand times,” I said. “I’m sick of lobster.”
“Come on, Olive, his friend is dying to meet you. What does he have to do? Beg?”
“Why don’t you have Lawrence take you to the Village?” I kept hearing about the downtown bohemians—a quirky mix of musicians and writers and sculptors and revolutionaries—and I was intrigued to see the scene for myself.
Ruthie scrunched up her face. “I don’t know, Olive. They know us up here, we walk right in anywhere we go, the martinis are the real thing. We don’t want to drink some bathtub gin.”
“I think too much of the same thing can make a girl dreary,” I said. “We are in New York City, we should explore every dark and dirty corner.” I grinned. “If Lawrence wants to do his friend a favor so bad, tell them we want a night out in the Village, that’s the only way you’re going to get me to take pity on this poor fella.”
On Thursday night after the show, I walked out front with Ruthie and found not just one gentleman but two, waiting by the car.
“Olive, this is Ernest Patterson,” Ruthie said, smiling excessively as if to make up for his slight frame, thick glasses and sweating palms as he nervously took my hand.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said.
“He works with Lawrence at the law office.”
“Hi there, Ernest,” I said, trying to put him at ease.
“You were a knockout in the show tonight, both of you,” he said. “The real McCoy.”
“Thanks, honey,” I said. As we drove down Broadway, I looked out the window and didn’t feel like making small talk. Maybe she was right, maybe we should have just stayed uptown.
“So what was your favorite part?” I said finally, filling in the awkward silence.
“Pretty much any part you were in, really,” he said. “The pony—where you rode the horse on the stage singing that funny song, oh, that was a hoot, a real hoot.”
“That’s one of my favorite parts, too,” I said, warming up to him a little. “I used to worry that horse was going to bolt when the applause came, and the heat from those lights gets pretty uncomfortable, but he’s such a good boy. I think they might give him a powder or two. I’ve never seen such a calm pony in all my life.”
On MacDougal Street, Monte’s felt more like someone’s living quarters than a restaurant. My stomach growled—I hadn’t eaten since lunch and I’d performed the Follies and my act in the Frolic.
“I’ll have the lasagna,” I said to the waiter when he came by. “And a peach Melba.” I smiled. “For after.”
Ruthie glared.
“What?” I said. “I’m hungry.” I’d been dancing so much I could eat anything I wanted—in fact, if I didn’t, I’d start to see my ribs, and Ziegfeld didn’t like his girls too skinny.
“The shrimp cocktail for me,” Ruthie said.
“And a gin cocktail for me,” I added.
“Sorry, madam, you’ll have to go elsewhere for that,” the waiter said.
“Don’t worry, Olive.” Lawrence leaned across the table and spoke in a mock whisper. “As soon as you’ve had something to eat, Ernest and I will take you to one of downtown’s finest tearooms. You won’t go thirsty.”
Ernest grinned. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
“Have you been out in these parts before?” I asked him.
“Not really. Lawrence is such a man about town, he’s been promising to take me out with him for a while. I usually have dinner at home,” he added. “With my mother.” I smiled and patted his hand, then devoured the lasagna and the peach Melba, bless him.
It was hardly worth getting back in the car to drive just a few blocks to our next destination, but we did it anyway, pulling up to the Pirate’s Den, a teahouse on Gay Street. There was barely anyone inside; it was late and dark. One man sat writing feverishly in a corner booth, while on the other side of the room a couple smooched over tea and candles. Lawrence led us through the tearoom to a back door, up a flight of stairs and through another door, where we knocked and waited. I could hear music coming from the other side. A peephole slid open. “Lawrence Long and three guests,” he said. The door slipped open and we were in.
Inside was a lively, raucous scene, darker, much grittier and less dazzling than the uptown clubs, but buoyant and magnetic somehow. Ruthie and I lingered at the entrance and took it all in while the gents headed straight to the bar. There were groups of people lounging around freely, some in deep conversation, others in deep intimacy. There was a freedom about the place that I sensed immediately, though I couldn’t quite grasp what was going on.
Uptown it was dancing and drinking, dancing and drinking. You just kept going until you could no longer stand on your own two feet. Here there was a jazz band playing, but I could hear people talking, too. Some were dancing, others were lying horizontal on Moroccan beds and smoking from a tall metal instrument with pipes coming out of the side.
“Cheers,” Ruthie said, handing me a china cup and saucer.
“Where’d you get that from and what is it?”
“Who cares? Come on, let’s have some fun.”
Ruthie led the way, weaving us through the crowd toward the bar, where Ernest and Lawrence were already watching the band, but a stranger with big paws reached up and grabbed my hand, pulling me down into the banquette where he was sitting with a group of people.
“I am for those who believe in loose delights—I share the midnight orgies of young men,” the man whispered into my ear, the smell of liquor thick on his breath.
“Excuse me?” I said, pulling away. He pulled me back.
“Give me the drench of my passions, give me life coarse and rank.”
I looked at him as if he were crazy. He might’ve been—his hair was wild, and he had a sheen of perspiration across his face.
“You must be a poet,” I said. “Or a madman.”
“I am, indeed,” he said. “I’m Frank. I dance with the dancers, I drink with the drinkers.”
“Like I said, a poet, a drunken one.”
“And you must be a dancer.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I’m a performer, I sing and dance, yes. How did you know?”
“I can tell a dancer’s body when I see one.”
I rolled my eyes and a gentleman across the table poured a glass of water from a pitcher and placed it in front of his friend. “Drink this.” Then he turned to me. “Please ignore him, he’s out of his mind.”
This gentleman was far more respectable looking than the first and devilishly handsome. His eyes were so dark they looked almost black in the dim light, with hair to match, dark brown and wavy, brushed back from his face but a little wild and unruly.
“He’s quite the poet,” I said, looking back to the first guy, Frank, who now had his head leaning back and appeared to have fallen asleep.
“Those are Walt Whitman’s words—he tries them every time.”
“Words to live by, perhaps,” I said.
He laughed. “I’m Archie,” he said. “I apologize for my friend’s behavior, but I can’t say I blame him for wanting to talk to you.”
“I’m Olive,” I said, giving him my hand.
“Lovely to make your acquaintance.” He kissed the back of my hand and a surge of excitement ran through me.
“Please, join us and meet some of my more respectable friends.” He moved in and made space for me to sit down. “Emily, I’d like to introduce you to a new friend of mine.” He looked at me and grinned. “This is Olive.”
“Lovely to meet you,” she said.
“Emily’s a writer. You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Frank.” He gestured toward him. “He has a charming bookshop around the corner.”
“And I publish chapbooks.” Frank suddenly came to life again, slurring like a sailor. “When this crowd wakes up tomorrow morning around noon, you’ll find them stumbling into my shop and taking shelter amongst words.”
“Oh.” I looked around. I couldn’t imagine anyone in that room functioning in the daylight.
“I take it you’re more of an uptown girl,” Archie said. “You’re used to a swankier establishment.”
“I don’t like to get used to anything. I like a little variety in my days.”
Someone came over and placed a tray full of teacups on the table. Archie handed one to me.
“This is Emily’s husband, Lou.” Archie reached over and tapped the shoulder of the gentleman sitting on the other side of Frank. “Olive here sings.”
“Wonderful, I’m a lyricist. Emily and I both write songs.”
“You sing?” Emily asked. “You should come to our salon. It’s on Saturday nights at our place, you’d love it.”
“Thank you,” I said. Everyone was so friendly. I was surprised at how intimate it all seemed, skin against skin as we pressed into the small booth together, our drinks pouring over into one another’s teacups as we said cheers. “I’d like that,” I said.
She scribbled her address down on a scrap of paper and slid it across the table. I reached out to take it and Archie put his hand over it first.
“You have to promise you’ll come, otherwise I might never see you again,” he said.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, sliding the paper out from under his hand and feeling a slight thrill again when his hand touched mine.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said, standing up.
“The pleasure was all mine,” Archie said. “But do you really have to leave so soon? The night is young.” He took my hand and I desperately wanted to stay. I glanced to the front of the room where Ruthie was dancing with Lawrence, and my date for the evening was standing alone at the bar.
“It would be impolite of me to leave my friends,” I said, and I reluctantly walked away.
On Saturday I performed in the Follies and then the Midnight Frolic. It was two in the morning when I was done and I should have been exhausted, but I wasn’t ready to go home. All of us girls were in the habit of staying out all night and sleeping until noon or two in the afternoon if we didn’t have rehearsal the next day. Ruthie had already left to meet a new chap after the show, a banker who’d sent a bouquet of flowers and a diamond bracelet backstage to her dressing room the night before and asked her to dinner. I’d surprised myself that week—I’d been thinking about that Archie fella ever since I met him. Ruthie and the girls would say I was crazy lusting over a bohemian from the Village when I could have my pick of the wealthy businessmen who frequented the Frolic, but there was something about him that appealed to me. He was dashing in a slightly disheveled way, and the way he spoke, his confidence, was magnetic. But there was something else that I couldn’t let go of: he had a kindness in his eyes. I was itching to get downtown again.
Mary, one of the principals in the show, had been given a car by an admirer, but she didn’t know how to drive, none of us did, so a few of us pitched in and hired a chauffeur named James to drive us around town. That night James was still parked out front when I left the theater, which meant all the other girls had dates. I handed him the slip of paper Emily had given me, which I had folded and refolded many times throughout the week. He dropped me off at 13 East Eighth Street, a block north of Washington Square Park.
Piano music poured from the top-floor apartment. When I looked up, windows were open and people were leaning out, smoking, singing along. I hurried up the stairs and found the front door open, so I walked in—no one was going to hear me knock anyway. People crammed together on worn velvet couches, a couple sat cross-legged on the old Persian rug, a group crowded around a grand piano, and everyone had a drink in their hands. One woman danced with abandon, weaving in and out of people. She was older, pushing fifty, clad in sheaths of fabric sheer enough to reveal her nipples and her generous rolls of flesh. At first I thought she was crazy, skipping around like that barefoot, barely clothed, a few ballet steps, then some animalistic moves, kicking her legs out to the side at odd angles, her arms in the air, a frenetic, carefree energy about her. But after a few moments, I found myself mesmerized by her strange, free-flowing movements, her head thrown back as she danced, the trailing sheaths that followed behind her like the smoke of a cigarette. I looked around and saw others watching her, too. It was unlike any kind of dancing I’d seen onstage—always structured, rehearsed, crisp and perfect. I thought of the Ziegfeld walk, how it had to be uniform, each of us in perfect shape, in strict formation.
The music stopped and the room filled with applause. The pianist stood and took a small bow, then sat down at the stool, ready to begin again. The dancer wiped the sweat from her brow, took a deep curtsy and fell into the lap of a boy … well, a man, I suppose, not more than twenty-one. She was twice his size and age, and yet he looked at her adoringly, then kissed her with more passion than seemed appropriate in a crowded room, even for the Village.
I looked around for a face I might recognize from the Pirate’s Den a few days before. I looked around for Archie. It had been a mistake to come all the way downtown, showing up alone at this hour, I thought.
At the bar I saw Frank, the bookstore owner, but I doubted he’d remember me.
“Olive?” I felt a tap on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you made it.” It was Emily, the writer. She led me to the bar. “What can we get you? You remember Frank?” He looked at me as if trying to focus, then as if something registered. “Ah yes, the uptown girl.”
“I’m actually not an uptown girl,” I said.
“Here, let’s pull up a chair.” Emily squeezed two stools in between Frank and a couple at the bar, and we sat down.
“Don’t mind these two.” She motioned to a gentleman with a full beard and a woman with a short black bob. “They just got married, they like to be close. This is Anne-Marie and Willis.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I said.
“They were just talking about their utter disgust for bourgeois philistines, so you’d better keep your uptown tales under your hat,” Frank chimed in.
“I told you I’m not an uptown girl; my family lives in Flatbush, Brooklyn. I’ll take a gin martini if you’re offering,” I said, turning to the others. “Anyway, congratulations on your marriage.”
“We asked our friends to pay for the marriage license,” Anne-Marie said. “Two pennies each from a hundred friends, we were not going to let the government put a price on our love. Or let society dictate how we celebrate it. Pennies, I tell you, pennies.”
Emily laughed. “Willis here is a brilliant illustrator and the publisher of the Greenwich Village Saturday Night. He just wants a good publicity stunt to sell his paper.”
“Hardly,” he said, taking a swig of his drink.
“Oh, come on, you love to cause a big fuss, both of you. Olive here is a performer, she might sing for us later if we’re lucky. Will you?” she asked excitedly. “I have some new lyrics.”
“Perhaps,” I said. I always loved a chance to perform, but I was distracted. “Say, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Archie around? I promised him I’d make an appearance.”
“I haven’t seen him yet,” she said with a shrug. “He travels a lot. But it looks like Frankie’s got his eye on you.” She laughed. “He’s an absolute degenerate, but he’s a lot of fun.”
I was disappointed. I’d really hoped to see Archie again. I didn’t even know his last name.
The older dancer approached the bar.
“I was transfixed by your dancing earlier,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” As I spoke, I still didn’t think I liked her style much, it was just different and so was she.
“How so?” she said.
“Your style is so…” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say beautiful. “Quite unusual and breathtaking.”
“My art is just an effort to express the truth of my being in gesture and movement. It has taken me long years to find even one absolute true movement.” She stared at me for a moment as if asking me to question my own moves.
I smiled. “I could just imagine my boss, Mr. Ziegfeld, hearing this. He insists our bodies must be still as we descend the staircase onstage with fifteen-or twenty-pound headdresses on our heads.” I laughed. “We have to smile and look alluring, as if it’s the easiest thing we’ve ever done, as if the four-foot-high crystal crown is nothing but whipped air.” Even after performing in two back-to-back shows that night, I was giddy when I described to her my typical night on the stage. But she wasn’t taken with it the way I was.
“You’re a Ziegfeld girl?” she asked, looking repulsed. “It sounds ghastly.”
“Not at all, I love every minute.”
Later that evening, Emily persuaded me to sing a number from the show.
The pianist accompanied me while I sang one of Eddie Cantor’s songs, “You Don’t Need the Wine to Have a Wonderful Time (While They Still Make Those Wonderful Girls).” This one was always a big hit when people were boozing, and partygoing crowds really loved it. I was having fun, but my eyes kept darting to the door, wondering if Archie might make an appearance. He never did.
Determined to get home before the sun came up, I looked around for Emily to ask her to pass a message on to Archie, but she was nowhere to be found, so I slipped out the door, and James drove me back to the apartment.