Page 30 of A Certain Appeal
I nod, and we settle into conversation. Charles was here for one of Jane’s rehearsals, and he points out a few more intriguing details among the memorabilia.
“I met the owner, too. Super-nice guy,” says Charles. “He’s offered to walk me through some front-of-the-house stuff once the deal with Meryton goes through.”
Ming raises her eyebrows. “Either you’re feeling very optimistic, or Darlene’s brother didn’t explain the ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’ poster by the bathroom.”
Charles smiles. “I figured word was out by now. But I also do think we have a real chance of picking up the property.” He crosses his fingers.
I cross mine, too. But as Charles shows Ming the bullet holes in the plane nose above us, my thoughts dim. He’s all in, clearly, but on theoff chance the deal falls apart, or the owner decides to pass things off to that nephew, I wonder what will happen. Andrea said the guy would likely stick with the burlesque concept, but what if he didn’t?
The idea evokes an emptiness I haven’t felt in a long time. I’d be able to find a kitten gig with another show, but the dynamic of our group would be hard to maintain. It’s not as if we’d be able to up and move to another location; noteveryonehas a brother with a bar in Bushwick.
Our situation at Meryton is unique. Most burlesque shows are set up like tonight’s, at a bar with a stage, where attendees pay a cover charge or buy tickets, and the producer gives a cut to the venue and the participants. The shows run once or twice a month at most, and performers have to hustle to get enough of these gigs to cover their costuming budget alone, to say nothing of housing and feeding themselves. The steadiness of Meryton is a gift to anyone who manages to land a position there, which is what makes keeping it going so critical.
As showtime nears, the room fills with familiar faces, crowding out the barren feeling enough that I smile; there’s half a deck’s worth of burlesquers in the audience. That’s something I love about the scene, how supportive performers are of one another. There are occasionally squabbles about who gets to use a certain song, or someone will bite a piece of choreography from another dancer. There’s certainly no shortage of drama in our personal lives, but at the end of the day, we show up for one another.
The band files onto the stage, the same quintet that works weekends at Meryton. The guys are dressed in khaki service chinos, though based on the distribution of pieces, it looks like they only had two full costumes and divided them among the crew. They take their placesand coax out a few notes, starting into a warm-up tune. The energy in the room shifts, conversations going quiet, and my nerves quake with a vicarious thrill.
Johnny pokes his head out from between the curtains at stage right, tugging on an army-green baseball cap as he talks to Arthur.
“Should we grab seats?” Charles asks.
I pick up my drink, pausing when a woman joins Johnny, who retreats through the curtains. The woman looks side to side, blue-black victory rolls framing her pale face as she scans the room wide-eyed.
“There’s Darlene!” Ming announces, and waves.
Darlene spots us and her jaw drops in a gasp of relief. The rest of her emerges from the curtains, dressed in the classic green khakis of a field nurse, the red-cross band on her arm embellished with sequins.
She hurries toward us. “You’re about to save mylife. Sola... ,” she says, naming one of tonight’s performers. “The zipper broke on the flight suit she’s peeling out of and she’sstuckin it. Jewbilee is doing the best she can, but—”
Ming tosses back the last of her beer, planting the empty glass on the bar. “I’m on it.”
“Thank you.” She turns to Charles. “Sorry. I don’t really know you or how you can help.”
“Moral support?” he supplies cheerily.
“I’ll take it.” She points at me. “Can you stretch for time?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A sample peel? I’d ask tonight’s kitten, but”—she mimes pulling something close—“her current position is load-bearing. Sola’s costume istight.”
At the words “sample peel,” my heart rate gallops, stomping out the remnants of emptiness from earlier. I try to sound blasé. “Can do.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Can I snag you a glove from one of the girls?”
“That would be great.”
“Thank you, sweetie. I’ll get you two bubbles as payment, but for now”—she tugs on Ming’s arm—“we have a zipper to fix.”
The women depart. My butterflies begin to stretch their wings, taking short, experimental flights around my midsection. I only get to do a sample peel at Meryton when we have a less experienced host filling in for Johnny, so this is a treat.
“What’s this about a glove?” Charles asks.
“Some shows start with the kitten taking off something simple to get the audience feisty,” I explain. “They don’t always hoot ’n’ holler until they’ve been properly encouraged.” I cast an eye over the room again. With so many performers in the house, enthusiasm shouldn’t be a problem, but the peel should give the folks backstage time to mend the zipper.
The house lights come down. The band transitions to a big-band rendition of Johnny’s intro song, and the emcee strolls onto the stage. His usual tux has been replaced with a field jacket decorated with morale patches, like the one in the pictures of Bob Hope. He keeps his back to the audience as he wiggles his tush, lining up an imagined shot with a golf club.
“Fore!” He swings, and the follow-through turns his torso to the crowd. He grins, like he’s just realized we’re here. “Why, hello there, kiddies.”
