The Sorrows of a Show Girl Part 1

The Sorrows of a Show Girl.

by Kenneth McGaffey.

EXPLANATION.

In the following chapters some of Sabrina's remarks are likely to cause the reader to elevate his eyebrows in suspicion as to her true character.

In order to set myself right with both the public and the vast army of Sabrinas that add youth and beauty to our stage, and brilliancy and gaiety to our well known cafes, I wish to say that she is all that she should be. She is a young lady who, no matter how old she may be, does not look it. She is always well dressed, perhaps a little in advance of the fas.h.i.+on, but invariably in good taste. Among strangers or in public places her conduct is all that could be desired, while with those of her own set she becomes more familiar and may occasionally lapse into slang.

Fate may compel her to earn her own living or she may receive an income from a source that has nothing to do with these stories. Any person without the circle of theatrical or newspaper life is looked upon as an interloper by Sabrina and treated accordingly. Hundreds of her like may be found any evening after the theatre in the cafes and restaurants of the "wiseacres" known as the "Tenderloin."

KENNETH MCGAFFEY.

In which Sabrina rushes on the scene and begins to discourse breathlessly on theatrical conditions, b.o.o.bs that send poetry for presents, the tribulations of hunting employment, and the outlook for a New Year's dinner.

CHAPTER ONE

"Ain't it appalling," demanded Sabrina, the Show Girl, "ain't it appalling the way the show game has gone to the morgue this season?

"I never seen nothing like it since I been in the business, and while I ain't going to flash no family Bible that's been some time. Why, shows that were making money if they played to thirty-two dollars on the day just naturally died. Me? You know I wasn't hep to the outlook. I come prancing into town fresh from doing one-night stands through the uncultured West. We did b.u.m business for fair, but shucks, there ain't five dollars' worth of real money in all of Southern Kansas at no time.

Salaries! Huh! I had to send home for money to pay my fines with. I cavort gaily out to hunt a job and find a line from Mr. Seymour's office that made the run on the Knickerbocker Trust Company look like the nightly window sale of 'The Evangelist.' I never seen so many of my friends in town at one time in my life, and if you make a noise like a dollar-bill anywhere between the two Flatirons you're liable to be the center of a raging mob. I heard it breathed that all the theatrical storehouses in town were playing to S.R.O.

"I got a chance to shake down a little change as prima donna with a turkey show. What do you know about that? I played with one last Thanksgiving, and--excuse these tears--it was a college town and the show was on the blink. 'Nough said. The manager hasn't left there yet.

"Oh, Listerine, have you heard the news? Alia McGraw has turned poetess.

You know she always was peculiar. I was visiting her the other evening in her dressing room when she declared that she was going to give up her dramatic art and go to painting word pictures. Whatever they are. You see it was this way: She had a b.o.o.b on her staff who was paying her his devoted attention. According to her statistics that's all he ever did pay for. Well, he commenced doing advance work about a present he was going to give her until he got poor Alla to thinking that it was nothing less than an automobile, and she treated him accordingly. One morning a messenger boy makes his entrance into the flat and hands her a book. Can you beat that? The only thing that kept Alia from foaming at the mouth was because she was combing her Dutch braid. It--the book--was called a Rubaiyat by Omar Quinine, or something like that. This Omar party never wrote a comic opera in his life. But Alla wasn't discouraged, for she looked through every page in hopes of finding a Clearing House certificate, but not a leaf stirred. All she came across was a marked verse that went something like this:

"A book of verse underneath a bough, A Jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou Beside me sitting in the wilderness-- Oh, wilderness is Paradise enow.

"Did you ever hear of such a short sport? Wanted to buy it by the keg and go sit under a tree in Bronx Park. As soon as Alla run out of language she sat down and in less than three hours doped out an answer.

I got it here on the back of her laundry list:

"A book of verse is not what I can use, But give me, if still my love is thine, A wine list from which to pick and choose.

Cut out the shady bough for mine.

"Give your bough to some nice 'feller,'

And if you would make my life sublime Put me in some cool rathskeller And we'll forget the jug of wine.

"Wine in a jug! What do I hear?

Not with a loaf of bread and thou, A cheese sandwich and a gla.s.s of beer, Unless you've changed your brand ere now.

"This sitting in the wilderness may be fine For those who the realms of nature seek, A restaurant is at least a paradise divine With payday on the first of every week.

"I guess maybe that won't show him up! Ain't it just glorious? It's kinda wabbly on its feet, but just think, it's her first attempt. She said there were a lot more things she could say, but even her desire to be a poetess wouldn't let her forget that she was a lady. Alla told me that the height of her ambition was to write the words of a popular song and have Harry Von Seltzer sing it in the College Inn. She can't ever make a hit as a poem producer though 'cause she hasn't got high cheek bones and teeth like a squirrel. Alla was pensive all through the first act, and while she was making her change from a lady-in-waiting to a bathing girl she remarked that she was going to write an ode--past tense of I O U, I guess--ent.i.tled 'Thoughts on Hearing Ben Teal Conduct a Chorus Rehearsal.' They won't let her publish it.

"What do you know about the new law about tanks having to have their names on the barroom door? I see where the Metropole will lose money unless they furnish disguises to their steady customers. Can you imagine the suspense certain parties will feel when they rush into a shop for their early morning 'thought mop' and have to cling to the bar while Arthur looks up their past performances in Bingham's Bartenders' Guide.

"A gentleman friend had the kindness to extend me courtesies to 'The Witching Hour' the other evening, and listen to muh: There is some cla.s.s to that show. Ain't you seen it? It's a song and dance about this mental telepathy gag. There is a gambling gentleman who can tell a poker hand every time. The only reason he ain't a heiress is because his conscience jumps up and gives him a kick in the face. This party in the play influences people's minds. He thinks of something, and people miles away think of the same thing. All the same wireless. Take it from me, there's a whole lot to it at that. I was out with a kind friend the other evening whose general disposition is to try and make Frank Daniels look like a spendthrift, so I knew it would be beer for mine unless I made a great mental effort, so all the way up the street in the taxicab I just held thumbs and concentrated my mind--I saw more new style hats, too--and said to myself, 'For Heaven's sake, order wine,' 'Please loosen up and order wine.' All to myself, you understand, never once out loud, for though I am in the business I don't seek the reputation as a working girl.

"Well I hope I may never look a lobster in the face again. No, I am not speaking of this party. But I hope I may never look a lobster in the face again if he didn't swell all up, prance into the eat hut and say careless like over his shoulder to the waiter, 'A bottle of that Brut.'

Just like that. I tried the concentration gag on him for a pearl ring he had on, thinking I had him under the gypsy curse, but there was a person who had the nerve to call herself a lady who had been saying things about me sitting at another table with a Harry who had led me to believe that I was his own little Star of Hope, and I just couldn't get my mind centered.

"Honest to goodness, I don't know what I'll do unless I find work. My suite of apartments is reduced now to one hall room and a closet, and the Dennett & Child's circuit is beginning to look like K. & E. booking.

The only thing I can think of for me to do is to get engaged and hock the betrothal ring for a meal ticket.

"Me for roller skates. Here I've been hunting a job until I wore out two pair of these Sorosis things and not a bush shakes. Can't even sign a contract for a Friday night amateur contest. By gum, I'd take a job barking for a snake race. I had an offer to go into vaudeville. What do you know about that? The act hasn't any time yet, but it will get time as soon as it makes good, and to make good all its needs is a trial performance, and the backer thinks he knows where he can get a trial performance, and to get ready for the trial performance will require about five weeks' rehearsal at nix per week. Do you think a stunt like that is worthy of my attention? Adversity does sure land on the poor chorus doll with both feet at every stage of the game.

"I was reading in the paper the other day that some old pappy guy out in Chi was making a noisy fuss that the chorus ladies stay up too late nights. I wish somebody would show him to me, that's all I ask, just show him to me. I suppose old Pink Whiskers was a chorus man once himself and has got all the dope on the subject. So we stay up late, do we? I suppose he will be wanting us to read helpful books instead of making up, next. To my mind, of course I may be wrong, but to my mind the staying up late nights ain't half as bad as getting up in the morning. Of course, I don't know who or what this old wop is that made this crack, but if he thinks we spend most of our time in sinful idleness he'd better copper his bet. All we do is rehea.r.s.e all morning, matinee all afternoon, performance all evening and travel all night. The rest of the time we have to ourselves, and he thinks we frivol. Why, he ain't wise to half the privations they force on us. Would you believe it? I have gone forty weeks without never even catching a glimpse of Broadway, and once went for ten without even a cheese sandwich to bring gladness to my heart. Can you beat that? And then he goes and turns loose a rebel yell because when we do get a little time to ourselves we stay up late nights. Oh, Mellen's Food! When does he want us to stay up?

Mornings? Some wise boy once said, 'Early to bed, early to rise, but you don't meet any prominent people,' and I guess maybe he wasn't right. He got the number then all right, all right, and he didn't have to speak harsh to Central at that. We gotta do something to amuse ourselves, and I never had a traveling gentleman yet conduct me to a watch meeting. A girl comes out of the stage door tired and lonesome; some village cut-up prances out and gets acquainted; the girl is hungry, so why not? Perhaps she is sending money home every week and can't afford a little lunch after the show herself. No, that's no taproom jest. There is more than one of the merry-merry putting her little sister through school and don't you forget it for a minute. And he gets sore because we stay up late nights. He'd better roll another pill, get at the cause and then hang the curfew on a few of those town romps. If he hands out another song and dance number like that again, send him up to me, I'll give him a bunch of inside info that will make him think something broke loose.

"I managed to slip in and see 'The Talk of New York' the other night.

Say, that's a great play. Did you get wise to the way that Kid Burns party juggles the loose talk? I don't believe there ever was a party that slings slang the way that guy does. My mother was always particular about my bringing up, and if I ever pa.s.sed out any of this George Cohan style of repartee she would give me a slap on the map and tell me to chase back and handle my harangue as per Mr. Webster. So, though I have traveled about a bit, I still retain my pure English, even when I lose my temper, which is going some for a lady.

"What am I going to do New Year's? I know one thing. I ain't going to play an encore to the sozzle session number I pulled off last season.

Didn't you hear about it? Evidently you were not on Broadway last New Year's Eve. A couple of young ladies and myself were playing a progressive h.e.l.l party all up and down the main street. You see, you play it this way. A guy comes up and blows a horn in your ear. You swat the horn quickly on the end with your hand. If the guy swallows more than half the horn you win and are allowed to 'phone for the ambulance.

But that was only a prelude to the main event. Ah, me! I blush to chronicle it. There were so many shows in town that the supply of college students didn't come up to the demand, and as me and the bunch had sorta turned them down after they went and lost all their money on the Thanksgiving game, so we had an intimation that developed into a hunch that our little 'welcome' mat on the doorstep would not be crowded with an eager throng. We engaged a couple of window tables at the Cafe des Beaux Minks realizing that though we were not in the money we were still on the track. This was last New Year's Eve. New Year's afternoon we held a reception up at Miss Verneaque's flat, took up a collection for the widows and orphans and cleared $4.43 apiece on it. The place got pinched and we all had to hide on the roof until the cops beat it. But not for me this year. Me for the peaceful kind of a celebration. I don't know what to do. The only people I have on my calling list now are the agents, and they will all be home splas.h.i.+ng in the egg-nog.

"Gee, but I wish I was home. Was you ever in a country town on a New Year's Day? Say, list. Sixty laughs in sixty minutes looks like a busy day at the morgue compared to the laughs they hand out in one of those one-night stand dumps. The Sons of Temperance all go out and get a bun on ad lib. and everybody inhales good cheer. I sang in the choir. Honest I did, but it didn't take. I got a silver cigarette case yet the choirmaster gave me. But no home this year; me to the Cafe des Enfants.

What? Will I? Don't make such a foolish noise. I'll be there with my hair in a braid. Two-thirty at Hector's. Say, you've got the Good Samaritan looking like a rent collector. So long."

In which Sabrina discloses a little of her past and those of the members of the company, tells how she was a bridesmaid and goes into detail in regard to the benefit to humanity of having carrier pigeons trained to rush the growler.

CHAPTER TWO

I was strolling down Broadway the other afternoon with Oscar when we happened to meet Miss Sabrina, the show girl. I introduced them, of course, and then retired to the background. This is what followed:

"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Jenkins. I've heard the party here speak of you."

"Yes; and I have heard him say several nice things about you."

"Is that so?"

"Sure. But don't take it to heart; he means well."