September 1956
W hen I first had my dream and knew what I would do, I was filled with a bold desire and a vague idea; when all I had was my dream, everything seemed possible and totally simple. An easy path to walk. But now as I took the bus to 52nd Street, anxiety shook me to my bones. I wanted to cry out, “What am I doing? I don’t have enough money left in the Haven budget from last season to put up this kinda show. Calm down, Al, you can do it.
How?
You’ll just do it. That’s how you do everything.
Uh, oh, Al, you’re starting to believe in your own press, that you can do anything. You more than anyone knows that’s not true. How the hell —and yes, I said hell —will you ever make any kinda show out of a bunch of dried-up old queens?
There’s no need to be so crass. Or mean. And that was downright mean calling them that. I expect better from you.
I roused myself from my endless monologue in time to pull the string for the bus to stop. I gripped my brief case and stood; I exited through the center door, heading down the block toward The Haven.
Not only would I have the queens that Lady Day promised to get me for the audition, but now I was gonna have one hundred fifty-two singing waitresses to audition. One hundred-fifty-two! How did this happen? There was thirty-two yelling, singing, pushing potential singing waiters at the Bag. How did that number grow to one hundred fifty-two? I’m not even ready to do the casting. I need to find money and designers and redo the dining room and build a better green room, hire a PR person, make new contacts. And that’s just the beginning. I’ve gotta get out of this. Call the whole thing off. I can’t do this. It’s too big. I’ve never done anything this big. I’m gonna fail.
I stood at the bottom of the six steps that led into to the Haven, surrounded by old brownstones. I can’t get out of it. The queens and Max and our livelihoods are counting on me and the Mob is waiting to swoop down and… What have I done?
I walked past broken buildings, and broken bottles laying in jagged pieces on the sidewalk. I carried my brief case while balancing on patent leather stilettos stepping around potholes struggling not to fall in them. I loved this type of shoe on Juliana, but they’d never be right for me. She managed them with such grace, but me—oh, dear.
On the other side of The Street, I passed Club Ha Ha, the Harem and the Moulin Rouge—all strip clubs now. Once these clubs had huge signs on the front announcing, “Charlie Parker,” “Dizzy Gillespie,” “Margie Hyams,” “Billie Holiday.”
Jimmy Ryan’s was the only jazz club that remained. The Haven was the only mixed music club still standing among all those peelers. As I drew near to the Haven, the sun hanging low, I came upon the Club Samoa. Once a renowned jazz club and now… There was a big sign on its front announcing Lili St. Cyr. She was a pretty classy stripper of the same caliber of Gypsy Rose Lee; her act wasn’t the usual fare. She didn’t take her clothes off; she put them on. I went to one of her performances awhile back. I got Max to take me. Lili appeared naked in a bathtub. The act was watching her slowly, sensuously put her clothes on. Creative approach.
Back in the beginning I used to pass famous jazz clubs like the 3 Deuces and The Onyx. Now, The Deuces was gone, and The Onyx was a strip club.
It was evening. The dark was imminent, just beyond those clouds, but not quite approaching us yet. Miss Mercer wouldn’t show until eleven. I had wanted to be here just as night was about to settle over The Street. I wanted to see it happen so I could look at it. Really look at it. I wanted to watch the neon slowly pop into view on club after club even if they were only strip joints.
The Haven wasn’t much to look at from the outside; none of the clubs ever was. I recalled how excited Max and I had been the first day we opened. There were jazz clubs everywhere on The Street back then; one right after another. Music leaked outta the clubs into the air all night long till the early morning hours.
It was cold that first night we opened. March. Lumpy piles of snow lined the streets from the previous day’s snow plowing. That didn’t stop the famous from Hollywood, Broadway and government life from showing up for our opening. They all were there. It was a glamorous, memorable evening.
As I stood in front of the steps, I watched traffic buzz along Sixth Avenue, passing me by. In a few hours, there’d be honking and screeching as customers fought to park near their favorite club. Men in suits and ties, women in cotton dresses would soon be hurrying to The Hickory House, or Jimmy Ryan’s or Leon and Eddie’s. They were still here, but I’d heard rumors that Hickory and Leon and Eddie’s would be packing it in soon. That would leave only Jimmy Ryan’s and us.
I walked up a couple steps. Stopped. Looked around to see if Janet was hurrying to catch up. I didn’t see her, but… Leaning on the wall a few feet from the door were three hoodlums smoking cigarettes and grinning at me. Their hair was combed into pompadours with DAs at the backs of their necks. They kinda looked like me when I was dressed as my butch self. But they wore leather jackets and looked at me with ugly expressions on their faces. A chill ran through me remembering those other kids on Christopher Street. Damn rules. Here I was walking around in the near-dark in a pencil skirt, blouse, heels, my hair combed into a page boy. I was about as unthreatening as you could possibly get. I’d rather have looked like a tough sun of a gun as I faced those kids. I didn’t wanna unlock the door in case they came at me. They could push me in and…”
They just stared. For a moment I considered addressing them, trying to befriend them. Some kinda Father Flanagan thing, but then I saw…
Standing a coupla feet behind the hoodlums: Sam Wilferini—the mobster who wanted my club as a present for his kid. He stood on the corner in his expensive three-piece suit and gray fedora, lighting a cigarette, his eyes completely focused on me. He breathed in the smoke and threw the match into the gutter without ever taking his eyes off me. The smoke oozed outta his mouth. A smile formed around his cigarette. He threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his foot, nodded and walked off. Was that a message? A threat? Sell him The Haven or else. Or else what?
I hurried inside The Haven and leaned my back against the paisley wallpapered wall of the foyer. I listened to myself breathe as I stood in the dark. After a moment I felt around for the light cord hanging from the ceiling and pulled. The foyer light came up full. I can’t let any of them get to me. I have a job to do and I’m gonna do it.
* * *
Our club interior was larger and grander than the small basement jazz clubs that surrounded us, but smaller than the Mt. Olympus Dining Room. The whole floor was covered with a lushly deep pile maroon rug. I had a frequent urge to throw off my shoes and walk across it in my stocking feet. The creamy white bar sat on the rug offering a sharp contrast to the maroon. The stage was large; it could probably accommodate a small cast Broadway musical production.
I sat at one of the round oakwood tables and leaned my briefcase against the table leg. No tablecloths yet. Too early. The waiters would appear in a few hours to get the pre-show dining room ready for Midnight with Mabel Mercer . I took a memo pad and pen from my purse. My eyes roamed over our large stage. Small balconies were situated at various levels on the wall above and around the stage. Wealthy patrons could pay double and triple to see the show from one of those, but even more importantly, sitting in one of those guaranteed they would be seen.
But the time of fancy splashes and diamonds was passing. I wondered what I should change that would suit the new more casual audience, our TV—devoted watchers, who mowed the lawn on Saturday afternoons.
Some people have more money than ever these days. They’re buying houses and cars, washers and dryers and, of course, TVs, one for every room. Newscasters have started calling us the consumer generation. So, our audience is consuming. But what are they consuming? Mostly TV? Not good for us. We have to give them something worth leaving that box for. Those balconies might come in handy. If we present them in a slightly different light.
How would we combine the opulence of those balconies with the creation of dining room that was smaller, more intimate? Cozy. That’s the kind of room we should have. Cozy. A place where the audience will feel like they’re home. Home watching their TV. Yes! That’s it!
I jotted down some notes. We’ll move the bar to the center and supply lots of TV snacks, along with soft drinks and beer. We’ll redo the stage. I paused in my thinking trying to see it and… Yes! We won’t fight this change; we’ll join it. The whole front of the stage should look like a giant television set. The program will look like a TV Guide. We’ll get rid of the rug and place comfy couches and throw rugs about. We’ll sell floor space at a cheaper price to those who can’t afford the couches. What else? I shook my pen in the air. I was alive with ideas to tell the designer.
There was a knock at the door. No doubt Janet. I wished once in a while she could arrive on time and stop plowing through the middle of my train of thought. I got up, unlocked the door and hurried back to the table without saying anything. I didn’t want to lose that train …
“I guess I’m a little late,” she said as she sat at the table. “Sor…”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t mess with my concentration. Please . I think I have an…” I sat back down in the chair. “Ya know, Janet, professionals always arrive early.”
She put her head down on the table, “I’m sorry.”
“Those balconies,” I continued. “around the stage…”
“Yeah, their kinda…”
“Shh. I need to think out loud, that doesn’t mean…. Those balconies. I wonder if we can lure hungry consuming tourists to The Haven with them.”
“Oh, I don’t think …”
“Shh! I’m not talking to you.”
“Oh.”
“They’re all made for two people. There are eight of them. We could have two of them made larger for a family of four. Wouldn’t the kids love being all the way up there watching a show?” I waited for Janet to respond. Nothing. “Well?”
“Huh? Me?”
“Of course. Do you see anyone else around?”
“Oh. But you said… I think kids would love being up there, but I don’t think their parents will bring them to the show you planned.”
“You don’t? Why?”
“Al, really.”
“I don’t have kids. I don’t know a thing about them. Tell me why.”
“I have two nieces and a nephew. There’s no way Dorie would bring her kids to this show.”
“Why? We’re not gonna use dirty words.”
“Men dressing as women?”
“Oh. Too shocking for kids? I s’pose that shoots down that idea.”
“But I bet young people in their twenties would like to be up there. Four friends. It’d be like an amusement park for them. Any they’d probably get a laugh from the gender stuff.”
“Okay. We take down two of them, make two into seating for four and keep two as seating for two—uh, for celebrating romantic anniversaries. Whachya think?”
“Why take down two? If they’re popular…”
“To increase desirability. People always want what they can’t have. From what I’ve read our generation is more like that than any other that has ever come before us.”
“Oh. Then that’s good.”
“Yes, it is. And we increase the price. That also increases desirability.”
“Oh.”
“We need to hire someone, a dignified man, a little gray around the temples, looks good in a black tuxedo.”
“To do what? We don’t need a maître’d. We’re not serving food, are we?”
“No. Just soft drinks and beer. But the maître d would be for those balconies. Make them even more exclusive. Only people who purchase those seats, those really expensive seats, get their own maître d.”
“Won’t that be expensive for us?”
“Well, yeah, in the beginning, but once people start fighting to get those seats, the service will pay for itself.”
“Oh,” Janet stared up at the balconies.
“Now we have this other dilemma to work out. The Smoking Room.”
“Why would people pay extra just to sit up there?” She kept staring at the balconies.
“I told you. So, they’ll feel special. So, everyone can see them being special. They’ll have something no one else has. That’s worth money.”
“I guess, but they won’t be able to see the show. They’ll be behind where the actors….”
“Can we move on now?”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Why would anyone pay extra money to sit in seats where they can’t see the show? They’ll miss the whole thing and they’re paying more than anybody. It doesn’t make sense?”
She sounded really upset as if she knew the people who’d be sitting there.
‘Let’s go in my office,” I said, bending to pick up my briefcase. “We need to do some figuring.”
“Okay.” She pulled herself away from looking at the balconies and followed me. “I’m not so good at arithmetic,” she said as we entered my office.
“Me either,” I sat down in my chair and placed my briefcase on the floor under my desk. “That’s why they invented adding machines.” I sat down and leaned over to turn on the lamp. I kept meaning to replace that red and brown, pleated, old-fashioned lampshade. I pulled my adding machine away from the phone and toward me.
“You have your own adding machine! I’ve never known anyone who owned their very own.”
“We’ll get to the adding machine in a bit. First—there’s a Smoking Room upstairs.”
“A whole room for just smoking?”
“It was Max’s idea. It’s a place for men to go to discuss intellectual and political ideas with each other over a drink and a smoke. I hadn’t objected to it when Max first presented the idea, but as I got older and I thought about things, it began to bother me quite a lot. So, one day I told him, ‘Women have intellectual and political ideas too.’’
“So, what’d he say?”
“Nothing. He only smiled that smile men smile when they know you don’t know what you’re talking about but, they think you’re adorable for thinking you do. That smile infuriates me. We gotta get rid of that room. And I was thinking, well, we’ll need a green room for our impersonators. The room downstairs is a mess. There’s one section’s that’s still functional. That’s what our performers have been using these days. We’ve only had single or duo performers for the last coupla years so the small one has been fine, and we haven’t had to spend money on redoing the other section. But now with all the cast we’re gonna have we need to use that big room. But it’s collapsing. The make-up tables are coming loose from their foundations, the mirrors are cracked. The floor slopes downward. Remember Hurricane Connie? Poured a lot of water into out basement and it flooded it. What a mess! We cleaned it up the best we could, but we never fixed the damage. It was gonna be kinda expensive and we didn’t really need it, but now… I don’t think I have enough money to cover it now, but later I will. I mean later. Once I get some investors on board. But now—no. So, I was thinking maybe we could use the Smoking Room as the green room. It’s nice up there.”
“It’s really far away from the stage,” Janet said. “Would that work?”
“The queens would have to make their entrances and exits through the house so…”
“Rent it!” burst out of Janet.
“What?”
“Rent the room upstairs!”
“But we can’t have somebody living up there while we’re having a show. Coming down to complain that we’re making noise.”
“No, listen. Rent to an actor or an artist or some creative type that would think living on Swing Street in a nightclub would be cool, something to tell the grandkids when it’s time.”
“That’s not bad. Neither is having a little extra income. That place up there is cool. It has a bedroom, bathroom, a room that could be made into a living room. Leather furniture.”
Then you could use the rent money to get the basement fixed up as a green room for the cast.”
“Janet, that’s brilliant.”
“You really think so?”
“I do.”
I pulled out my brief case from under my desk and threw it on top. I snapped it open and pulled out four steno pads I’d purchased at Woolworth’s. I opened one of the steno pads.
“Okay, I want us to make a list of all we have to do and when we have to do it and how much it’ll cost. At this stage we don’t hold anything back. We just fill up these pages with ideas. We don’t censor anything right now. That comes later.” I wrote as I spoke, “Get rid of baguettes.”
“You can’t.” Janet said. “They look so pretty in the dining room.”
“I know. I love them. Did you touch them yet? You should before we get rid of them. That leather is the softest. Stop it! What am I doing? The baguettes are part of the past. Remember that, Janet. They’re old. The past. The elegant past. We’re bringing in something new. Fresh. Modern. We need to get modern couches.”
“Then, I’m going to go touch them now,” Janet said, getting up.
“Yes. And memorize the feel and the touch so you’ll always have them with you.”
She ran out.
I stared out the window, passed the brown and yellow accordion-folded curtain. Man were those curtains ugly. Money! We need money. I should work on that first. trying to picture it like Norman Vincent Peale says. I got up and opened the window a few inches. How did such a beautiful street get so ugly? From my window I saw a pile of rubble that used to be a building. A woman, scantily dressed, apparently drunk from the way her legs twisted as she walked met a man in a suit going in the opposite direction. They had a few words, she pointed, and he followed her to the corner. It was obvious what that was about.
“Al? Al?” I heard Janet’s voice slipping in through the folds of my awareness, piece by piece getting through. “Al?”
“Huh?” I turned to face her. “What?”
“You seemed far away.”
“Not very.” I wondered when she’d gotten back.
I sat back down in my chair, turned to a clean page in my steno pad and wrote:
Personnel:
Producer: Al Huffman
Assistant: Janet Yablonski
“Can I see that?” Janet asked.
I faced the memo pad toward her. She smiled and read, “Assistant: Janet Yablonski.
I took the pad back and continued writing,
Stage Director
Musical Director
Set Designer
Props
“I wonder who I should get to direct it. Boy, those guys cost a lot. Where will I…?”
“You do it,” Janet said.
“Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve never directed a whole show by myself. I’ve only directed
small scenes for the clients I manage, but never a whole show.”
“I bet you could do it and that would save you a lot of money.”
“Maybe, but there are many things to consider and so much on the line. This show has to be done professionally.”
“But you could save a lot of money if you did it yourself. And you can do anything.”
“Uh, Janet, it’s nice of you to have that kinda faith in me, but it’s not true. I can’t do anything, I mean, everything.”
The phone rang and I picked it up. I didn’t want to continue with that discussion, anyway.
“Hello? Yes, Lucille? Why are you crying? He’s doing what? Put him on.”
“Well, where’d he go?”
“Al?” Max said, leaning on the door sill of my office.
I stared at him while Lucille was still crying in my ear. “He didn’t say where he was going,” she said between sobs, “but you gotta stop him. He hasn’t done it yet. He wants me to help. I can’t, Al. I can’t…”
“I’ll talk to him.” I hung up the phone. “Janet. I need to speak with Max, uh, would you mind…?
“Oh! No, of course not.” She ran outta the room as if being chased by a tiger.
“You’re firing Edward and Ping?” I scooped up my idea papers and stuffed them into my top drawer.
“Do you mind if I sit down before you interrogate me? It’s been a rough day.” He sat in the chair next to the desk and pulled out a pack of Parliaments from his inside pocket. He laid them on my desk and held onto the lapels of his gray suit jacket. “Do you mind?”
“No.”
“It is rather warm for September.” He squiggled outta his jacket.
“Edward has been with us since the beginning,” I said. “We have to have a maître d at
The Mt. Olympus and dammit Max people expect to see him when they come to a show.”
“If they come to a show.” He slid a Parliament from the pack and lit it. “Thursday’s show had less than half the usual house. I’m still waiting for your idea. Our whole business is waiting with bated breath wondering if we’re going to be in business next week.
“I’ve got it. My idea. Right here. In these papers.” I pointed to the empty steno pads. “I came in early to work on it.”
“And when were you going to tell me .”
“What happened to your Extravaganza?”
“I’m working on it. We’re running the smaller shows on Thursday, Friday and Saturday at 8 and 10 and Sunday at 3pm.”
“Can we make it on that?”
“With The Haven’s help.”
“Why Ping? You know he’ll never find another job in a nightclub. Nightclubs don’t serve Chinese food anymore and Chinese Restaurants won’t take him ‘cause he knows nothing about being Chinese. He was born in the Bronx, dammit. What’s he s’posed to do?”
“Hey! Language, young lady.”
“Oh, please, the world is changing.”
“Exactly. That’s why we need to be ready to change with it or become extinct, but it does not mean we can suddenly become slovenly or boorish.”
“Edward will probably get something else. Eventually. I’ll give him a good reference. But what is Ping s’posed to do. Where is he s’posed to go?”
“I don’t know, Al. I don’t like this any more than you do. Neither one of us are strangers to the poor side of town. Tell me your idea. I’m hoping that will uplift us.”
“And more layoffs planned.”
“I’m sitting down with the books and our accountant next week to see exactly where we stand.”
A knot formed in my stomach.
“That’s probably why Lucille is all upset,” he continued. “I want her at the meeting to take notes.”
“So, you’re stealing my secretary?”
“Stealing is rather harsh. Borrowing. I don’t have my own. I never needed one before all this. Tell me your idea.”
“Well—don’t say no till I finish. Okay? It’s gonna go. It’s gonna work. It’s great!”
“What is it? Shakespeare may be apropos here. ‘Me thinks thou dost protest too much.’”
“In truth, ‘Me thinks’ is not part of that quote, but it is a frequent mistake.”
“Your idea!”
“I just need you to think positive. Remember that book?”
“What book?”
“You know the book. The one that came out a few years ago. By that preacher.”
“What preacher?”
“I don’t know. Big church downtown. Sold a million copies. That book—Norman Vincent Peale! That’s his name.”
“What does this book have to do with…”
“The Power of Positive Thinking ! That’s the name of it! I read it three times.”
“You’re doing a show about a book?”
“No. The show is – the one I’m—It’s female impersonators over fifty.”
“What? Who’s gonna come to a show like that?”
“Tourists!”
“And how are you going to raise the money for that kind of show? The costumes alone will eat up your budget and you’ll need a larger crew than usual and the set…Al, it will cost a fortune.”
“No. Listen. The queens can use their own outfits. What female impersonator doesn’t have her own wardrobe?”
“I have no idea what the mentally disturbed are wearing this season.”
“They’re not mentally disturbed!
“A man who flits around in a dress in public is mentally disturbed.”
“I wear boy’s clothes sometimes. Am I mentally disturbed, too?”
“No. That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Cause—cause you’re a girl and an annoying pain in the neck, but not sick so… I don’t know. Stop confusing me.”
“Max, these men are not mentally disturbed. They’re artists. Seasoned artists. Yes! That’s it!”
“That’s what?”
I scribbled on a blank page of a steno pad. “On our ads: “Seasoned Artists.” I wrote on the cover, “PR.”
“You think people are going to come all the way from Long Island or some hole in the wall in New Jersey to see a bunch of aging mentally disturbed men in dresses trip over each other’s high heels?”
“Yes! And it won’t cost much. I’m working it out in my head. And tonight, before the Mabel Midnight Show I’m getting it down on paper. I know how much you love paper.”
“And I want to see it—that paper.”
“Uh, yeah, sure, of course.”
“Keep in mind, things always cost more than you first expected. Whatever you come up with double the amount, so you’ll have enough.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” My heart pounded. “Double? How? I don’t even have half of what I thought I’d needed before he came into my office.
“Good. If you can do that, we should do fine. You do seem to have worked things out. Yes?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah,”
“This’ll be bigger than anything else you’ve ever done on your own over before. You’re sure you’re okay?
“Yes! Yes! I already told you!”
“Okay, just double checking. How’re you fixed for start-up money?
I took a deep breath. “Well, that’s lower than I’d like, but…”
Max pulled out a check book from his inside pocket. He opened it on the desk and wrote. He handed me the check. I looked at the face of it. “Max! This is 3,000 dollars. From your personal account. I can’t take this. Here. Take it back. If I lost this…”
“Hey! What happened to Norman Vincent Peale? I’ll be your first investor. When you get it all worked out you’ll tell me how big a piece of your show I just bought. I’ll make a profit. I believe in you kid.”
“I know, but this…”
“You’re going to make me a lot of money. You’re going to be needing a good lighting designer and a good set designer. They don’t come cheap. I know a few guys who owe me some favors. They might be willing to come down on the price some. I’ll call them in the morning. Who are you looking at to direct?”
“I, uh, have a couple ideas.”
“Like who? Maybe I can talk to some people and get you a good price. So, who?”
“Oh, uh, this person’s someone I know pretty well who understands what I’m doing.”
“Okay. You handle it; if you need any help negotiating let me know.” He put on his jacket. “I’m going out to the dining room now to take my ringside seat and wait for the magic of Miss Mabel Mercer.”
He stepped outta the office. I stayed in my seat staring at that check for quite some time. That was a lot of belief. Why wasn’t I better prepared? I’m no beginner. I just jumped in full of emotion. I knew emotion had to stay outta business, but…I had to save The Haven; I had that dream and that was it. I just jumped in. What’s the matter with me? I don’t have the money to support this dream. I don’t even know if the show will be good or horribly bad. I just jumped in. If I lose this and even worse his faith in me—I gotta get busy finding investors! I picked up the phone and started dialing. I wonder what Shirl and Mercy are doing tomorrow night.