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“Me?”
“Are you a sailor?” one of the characters asked me. “What makes you think I'm a sailor?”
“Sandy Hook is...”
“Sorry, I'm from Sandyhook, L. I., not out in the bay. If that....”
“Perfectly all right, sir. Just follow the usher.”
I saw the old man give me a sour glance as I followed a trim usher down a side aisle, and backstage into a sort of office. Seven other people were sitting around, looking a bit foolish and nervous. A big jerk, with a round, smooth-shaven face and the voice and manners of a supersalesman, grabbed my hand, said, “I'm Hal Lyons, the master of ceremonies. Your name, sir?”
As I gave him my name and address, a hard-faced blonde took it down. In one corner, another overpainted chick was busy typing up some cards. When I said I was a sculptor, this Lyons boomed, “Well sir, that's just fine, Mr. Jameson. Never had a sculptor on the program before, have to look through my gag file. You don't have feet of clay, do you? Ha-ha!”
“You'd better start looking through your file.”
“Let me crack the yaks. Now, Mr. Jameson, we'll have about twenty minutes before air time. Of course, on the air, we must be careful of our language, mustn't we?” He sniffed my breath as he added, “Especially on New Year's Eve.”
“If you mean have I had a few...”
“Yes, we all bend it a little tonight. Of course I have to wait till the show's over before I start. I suppose you know the rules. You'll be teamed with a partner, asked four questions. You both will receive a hundred dollars for every question you answer correctly. The couples winning the most money then try for the big question, worth $2,000, and a chance at the money balloon. Now....”
“What is this money balloon?”
“Mr.... eh... Jameson, haven't you ever listened to TAX-FREE before?”
“My radio's busted.”
“I see,” he said, as though I'd slapped him. “A dart is placed before each of the final contestants, and if they think they have an answer to the jackpot question, they try to break the balloon with the dart. There's a bill inside the balloon. However, time is flying and our accountant wants to ask you a few questions—in case you win, we must know what Uncle Sam's bite is. Joe—come here and get this... Mr. Jameson.”
A bald fellow, with a narrow, bony face and tired eyes, came over and “got me” by grunting a couple questions as to my income, was I married, any dependents? was writing this down, I glanced at the other people and I saw this girl staring at me—really staring.
I stared back.
She had a lanky figure, so slender she seemed taller that she actually was, with fair legs, and a bosom too large for the rest of her. But her face was wonderful—strong but soft lines, very black hair cut in bangs, odd slant-shaped eyes that gave her an exotic look, an average nose— and when she smiled at me, a great big warm mouth. Warmth was the key to her whole face, a most friendly warmth.
I smiled back at her, wondering what it was all about.
The accountant was saying, “Let me see, Mr. Jameson, your partner is... yes, Mrs. Elma Morse,” and then he took me over and introduced me to this beautiful girl— and I don't mean beauty in the mere physical sense.
When he left us, she said, “I hope my staring didn't embarrass you, Mr. Jameson, but I knew you were going to be my partner. Marshal Jameson—odd name.”
“Ole Kentucky boy.”
“No drawl?”
“Lost that somewhere along the line.”
“Well,” she said, moving over on the bench so I could sit beside her, “I was looking you over. What sort of a freak are you? I'm a record librarian.” Her voice went with the face—hot and frank.
“Told them I was a sculptor. I'm trying to be one.”
“Not bad, you should do fine on any art questions, and I can handle music. You smart? I could use the money.”
“So could I. Afraid I'm not clever.”
She smiled again and I wanted to touch her face. I said, “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Grinning. It gets me....”
The smile fled and she looked more like a frightened kid. I figured her for twenty-three, maybe twenty-five at most.
“Sorry,” she said. “I wasn't making fun of you, or anything. It seemed funny, two strangers meeting and trying to pick the other's brains, in hope of a quick buck.”
“Yeah, big way to spend New Year's Eve.”
“Anyway, that's why I was smiling. I didn't mean to...”
“Mrs. Morse—Elma, you have an exciting smile, as you damn well must know. What you don't know is... I haven't been... eh... around a woman for many months. So don't tease me with that smile.”
“You drunk?”
“Been trying to get that way, but without success.”
“These 'many months'... sound as though you've been in jail.”
“Might call it that. I've been living in a shack out on Long Island, trying to work. With no heat, light, money, or women.”
“Oh, stop talking about women as though we were a stick of furniture. Never met a real starving artist—thought they went out with bootleg gin and the Charleston. Did your work turn out all right?”
“Don't be funny, because you're not!”
“I won't be anything.” She lit a cigarette, turned away from me—her movements so graceful I wanted to cry. I mean—well, you know; see a girl on the street, on the screen, or even a picture in a magazine, and there's something about her that sets your body chemistry bubbling; maybe she doesn't affect any other man that way, but for you, she's a stick of red-hot sexy dynamite. That's what this Elma was doing to me. She was so damn lovely and this was New Year's Eve, and here we'd been accidentally thrown together.... Only I wasn't going to do any chump act—in a few minutes it would be over, and she'd be back with her lucky husband, who was probably sitting out in the audience like a proud poppa. I was all steam on the inside, but I was playing it cool—I had to.
All the time I'd been at Sandyhook, trying to work, trying most of the time to keep warm, I hadn't thought much about sex. I had a good plaster anatomical female figure I kept studying and handling, but looking at female muscles isn't exactly a passion arouser. Also, not eating regularly is far more effective than saltpeter. There were a few girls around Sandyhook in the winter—the plump daughter of the local storekeeper, the tall wife of the guy who rented boats. Sometimes Tony and Alice Alvins, my neighbors, had some girls down for a week-end... but I didn't have the energy or the money for those kinds of campaigns.
There was a tavern on the outskirts of Sandyhook that served shore dinners and was empty most of the winter. Sometimes I went to hell with myself and dropped in for a beer, watched television. There was a bloated old woman of about sixty, with terrible make-up and bright blonde dyed hair... who suffered from the illusion she was still twenty. She wore an expensive mink like it was a rag, was a Mrs. M. Something or other... but loved to be called Margie. She had a station wagon, lived in a big house near the sea, and had a husband, some place. Marge was always high and would breeze into the joint and sing in a clear voice, “Hold that tiger...” and give everybody her young girl's smile with her wrinkled mouth.
I don't know if she was crazy or what, but every few minutes she would hum or sing out, “Hold that tiger...” as though it was very witty. Marge was popular with the barflies. She'd set up the house a couple of times during a night. Several times Marge not only gave me the eye, but gave me a whispered version of “Hold that tiger...” but I wasn't having any of that. Maybe I wasn't hungry enough, or I'd get to wondering if Marion would end up like this unhappy old woman, and it would give me the shivers.
Elma asked, “Do they let us pick our subject?”
“I don't know. I ducked in here to get out of the rain.”
She looked at me for a second, her eyes warm and clear, then she laughed, throaty, thick laughter that hit me like a drink. “That's as good a reason as any. In fact, it's even better than if a person had a reason to come here.”
I didn't try to understand that. I packed my pipe and dug into my pockets for a match. She held out a cheap lighter; I thanked her and she said, “Come on, don't look so glum. We have to be partners, whether we like it or not.”
I wanted to say, “Honey, I couldn't be angry with you if I had to,” but didn't want to sound like a jerk on the make. I simply said, “Don't mind me. Hell, I'm not only glad you're my partner, I'm happy to have even seen you.”
“Well, thank you,” Elma said, giving me that big-mouthed smile that made me sweat. To change the subject, I didn't want to build myself up for a big let-down. I asked “What does a record librarian do?”
“Make a file of their titles, keep a catalog. Frankly, I haven't worked at it in several months. I'm... well, unemployed. Why I'm here. But I liked the job, was more fun—to me—than work. You see, I love music... modern stuff...”
She kept on talking, her voice a happy sound, telling me about the old sentimental records she had, how she played them now and then just to have a pleasant cry... I studied the good curves of her cheeks, the unusual eyes, the lush, heavy lips.
The typist at the end of the room stood up and gave Hal, the m.c., a stack of cards and everybody looked at their watches, as though we were about to go into battle. Not that I've ever been in battle. Hal left the room and out on the stage a band began to play and the room filled with tension as people whispered, “They've started.”
Elma whispered, “The band is strictly commercial— junky.”
Hal's secretary, the hard-looking blonde, suddenly rushed into the room, motioned for the first couple, like a hammy actress. The couple were so nervous they turned a sickly pale. Elma said, “Look like they're walking to their doom. We're fourth—last. Nervous?”
“No. I don't expect to win. How long does this last?”
“Half hour. I sure wish we win. I'm full of the great American dream—lucking up on some easy money. I need it.”
“Who doesn't? But I still don't expect to win.”
The first couple had hardly left the room when the next two were called. Elma giggled nervously. “Must have been a couple of dopes.”
“You get a consolation prize for fluffing out?”
“Everybody receives a box of soap powder.”
“Exactly what I need on a rainy New Year's Eve. I'll...”
The third couple left, and a few seconds later the blonde stuck her head in, curled a finger at us. Elma squeezed my hand. “Here we go—to make asses of ourselves.”
As it turned out, we didn't go any place for what seemed years, but was probably about ten minutes—we just waited around in the wings. The stage was bright with light, a band in the background. At one side of the stage there was a large cardboard Uncle Sam with a cash register for a mouth. At the other end was this huge wooden dollar sign, painted a cheesy gold, with an ordinary red balloon attached to it. In the center of the stage at a platform and several mikes, Hal was putting a couple through the mill. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the audience seemed to enjoy it.
From the wings the stage looked unreal, phony to the teeth. And the audience, what the hell did they come for? Did they all hope to get a chance at the prizes? Or were they all lonely and...?
Buddy-boy Hal motioned the couple offstage with, ”... So sorry, but at least you're walking out two hundred dollars richer. And who knows, you may be in the running for our grand prize and a chance at the mystery balloon. Now... for our final contestants we have Mrs. Elma Morse, a record librarian, and Mr. Marshal Jameson, a sculptor. Folks, bring them on with a great big hand.”
It was the first time I'd ever received a round of applause, except on the football field, and that's different. Either I was embarrassed, or the jerks applauding us like mad seemed so awfully stupid, out of this world—anyway I got stage fright and couldn't move. Elma tugged at my hand and giggled, and I just stood there like a dope. The blonde gave me a sharp kick in the ankle which made me jump— and then I was okay.
Hal escorted us to the center of the stage, ran his eyes over Elma, looked like an idiot, and gave out a corny wolf-whistle, which seemed to panic the audience. He said, “Well, now, Mrs. Morse, shame we're not on TV, you're certainly the prettiest record librarian I've ever seen. How about that, folks?” There was more clapping, some whistling. Elma stood there, face flushed, forcing a tight smile. I stared out at the rows of faces, feeling like a loon, wondering what in the hell I was doing on the stage.
Hal said coyly, “Any time you want to come up and listen to my records...” and slapped himself across the face. For some reason this got the audience hysterical.
When the laughter died down, Hal said, “Just gagging around, Mrs. Morse. I suppose Mr. Morse is out in the audience?”
“I doubt it.”
“You mean he's home listening in?”
“I don't know if he's listening in, either,” Elma said calmly, face relaxed once more. “Haven't seem him for some time.”
“Well, time is running out, so let's get on with the show,” Hall said quickly. “You'll have fifteen seconds to answer....”
I was still so dazed that for a moment I didn't get what Elma had said. Although what good would it do me with less than two quarters to spend on New Year's Eve?
“... Now,” Hal boomed, “here's an easy question— what's the finest soap for home washing? Why, of course... Liquid Bubbles!”
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