Biltmore Oswald Page 10

entitled to the vote. Yet I daresay there are women who would gladly be poured into a new corset everyday of their lives. They can have mine for the asking. Life at itsbest presents a narrow enough outlook without resorting to cunninglywrought devices such as corsets in order further to confine one'spoint of view or abdomen, which amounts to the same thing. The whaleis a noble animal, it was a very good idea, the whale, and I loveevery bone in its body, so long as it keeps them there. So tightly wasmy body clutched in the embrace of this vicious contraption that Ifound it impossible to inhale my much needed cigarette. The smokewould descend no further than my throat. The rest of me was a closedport, a roadway blocked to traffic. I have suffered.

  But there were also other devices, other soft, seductive understrappings. I know them all to their last most intimate detail. Ifeel that now I could join a woman's sewing circle and talk with asmuch authority and wisdom as the most veteraned corset wearer present.My views would be radical perhaps but at least they would have thevirtue of being refreshing.

  However, I can see some good coming out of my unavoidably acquiredknowledge of female attire. In future days, while my wife is outpurchasing shirts and neckties for me, I can easily employ my time toadvantage in shopping around Fifth Avenue in search of the correctthing in lingerie for her. It will be a great help to the householdand I am sure impress my wife with the depth and range of myeducation, which I will be able to tell her, thank God, was innocentlyacquired.

  _May 28th._ I am slowly forming back into my pristine shape but onlyafter having been freed from bondage for some hours. After severalmore sodas, concoctions which up till recently I have despised asinjurious, I guess I will have filled out to my usual dimensionsaround the waist line, but when I consider the long days of womanhoodstretched out before me in the future I will admit it is with asinking not only of the waist, but also of the heart.

  More indignities have been heaped upon me. Why did I ever take up theprofession of a show girl? To-day I fell into the clutches of thebarbers. They were not gentle clutches, brutal rather; and such anoutspoken lot they were at that.

  "What's that?" asked one of them as I stood rather nervously beforehim with bared chest.

  "Why, that," I replied, a trifle disconcerted, "that's my chest."

  He looked at me for a moment, then smiled a slow, pitying smile. "Hey,Tony," he suddenly called to his colleague, "come over here a momentand see what this bird claims to be a chest."

  All this yelled in the faces of the entire Biff-Bang company. It wasmore inhuman and debasing than my first physical examination inpublic. The doctors on this occasion, although they had notcomplimented me, had at least been comparatively impersonal indespatching their offices, but these men were far from beingimpersonal. I perceived with horror that it was their intention to usemy chest as a means of bringing humor into their drab existences. Tonycame and surveyed me critically.

  "That," he drawled musically, "ees not a chest. That ees the bottompart of hees neck."

  "I know it is," replied the other, "but somehow his arms have gottenmixed up in the middle of it."

  Tony shrugged his shoulders eloquently. He assumed the appearance of aman completely baffled.

  "Honestly, now, young feller," continued my first tormentor, "are youserious when you try to tell us that that is your chest?"

  He drew attention to the highly disputed territory by poking mediligently with his thumb.

  "That's the part the doctor always listened to whenever I had a cold,"I replied as indifferently as possible. The man pondered over this fora moment.

  "Well," he replied at length, "probably the doctor was right, but tothe impartial observer it would seem to be, as my friend Tony soaccurately observed, the bottom part of your neck."

  "It really doesn't matter much after all," I replied, hoping to closethe conversation. "You all were not sent here to establish thelocation of the different parts of my anatomy, anyway."

  The man appeared not to have heard me. "I'd swear," he murmuredmusingly, standing back and regarding me with tilted head, "I'd swearit was his neck if it warn't for his arms." He suddenly discontinuedhis dreamy observations and became all business.

  "Well, sir," he began briskly, "now that we've settled that what doyou want me to do to it?"

  "Why, shave it, of course," I replied bitterly. "That's what you'rehere for, isn't it? All us Show Girls have got to have our chestsshaved."

  "An' after I've shaved your chest, dear," he asked in a soothingvoice, "what do you want me to do with it?"

  "With what?" I replied, enraged, "with my chest?"

  "No," he answered easily, "not your chest, but that one poor littlepitiful hair that adorns it. Do you want me to send it home to yourma, all tied around with a pink ribbon?"

  I saw no reason to reply to this insult, but stood uneasily and triedto maintain my dignity while he lathered me with undue elaboration.When it was time for him to produce his razor he faltered.

  "I can't do it," he said brokenly, "I haven't the heart to cut it downin its prime. It looks so lonely and helpless there by itself." Heswept his razor around several times with a free-handed,blood-curdling swoop of his arm. "Well, here goes," he said, shuttinghis eyes and approaching me. Tony turned away as if unable to witnessthe scene. I was unnerved, but I stood my ground. The deed was doneand I was at last free to depart. "That's a terrible chest for a ShowGirl," I heard him to say to Tony as I did so.

  _May 29th._ The world has come clattering down around my ears and I amburied, crushed and bruised beneath the debris. There was a dressrehearsal to-day, and I, from the whole company, was singled out forthe wrath of the gods.

  "Who is that chorus girl on the end acting frantic?" cried out one ofthe directors in the middle of a number. My name was shouted acrossthe stage until it echoed and resounded and came bounding back in myface from every corner of the shadow-plunged theater. I knew I was infor it and drew myself up majestically although I turned pale under mywar paint.

  "Well, tell him he isn't walking on stilts," continued the director,and although it was perfectly unnecessary, I was told that and severalother things with brutal candor. The dance went on but I knew the eyesof the director were on me. My legs seemed to lose all propercoordination. My arms became unmanageable. I lost step and could notpick it up again, yet, as in a nightmare, I struggled on desperately.Suddenly the director clapped his hands. The music ceased, and Islowed down to an uneasy shuffle.

  "Sweetheart," said the director, addressing me personally, "you're notdancing. You're swimming, that's what you're doing. As a Persian girlyou would make a first class squaw." He halted for a moment and thenbawled out in a great voice, "Understudy!" and I was removed from thestage in a fainting condition. This evening I was shipped back tocamp a thoroughly discredited Show Girl. I had labored long invicious, soul-squelching corsets and like Samson been shorn of mylocks, and here I am after all my sacrifices relegated back to thescrap heap. Why am I always the unfortunate one? I must have a privateplot in the sky strewn with unlucky stars. Camp routine after the freelife of the stage is unbearably irksome. My particular jimmy legs wasso glad to see me back that he almost cried as he thrust a broom and aswab into my hands.

  "Bear a hand," he said gleefully, "get to work and stick to it. We'reshort of men," he added, "and there is no end of things for you todo."

  I did them all and he was right. There surely is no end to the thingshe can devise for me to do. I long for the glamour and footlights ofthe gay white way, but I have been cast out and rejected as many aShow Girl has been before me.

  _June 1st._ The morning papers say all sort of nice things aboutBiff-Bang but I can hardly believe them sincere after the treatment Ireceived. I know for a fact that the man who took my place wasknock-kneed and that the rest of his figure could not hold a candle tomine.

  I still feel convinced that Biff-Bang lost one of its mostprepossessing and talented artists when I was so unceremoniouslyremoved from the chorus.

  _June 10th._ I was standing doi
ng harm to no one in a vague, ratherunfortunate way I have, when all of a sudden, without word or warning,a very competent looking sailor seized me by the shoulders and,thrusting his face close to mine, cried out:

  "Do you want to make a name for yourself in the service?"

  I left the ground two feet below me in my fright and when I alightedthere were tears of eagerness in my eyes.

  "Yes," I replied breathlessly, "oh, sir, yes."

  "Then pick up that," he cried dramatically, pointing to a cigar button the parade ground. I didn't wait for the laughter. I didn't haveto. It was