“Hey there, JJ.”
“Are you moving out?” he asked.
“It’s for the best,” I said. “You know Pops doesn’t like me performing and it’s not worth fighting about it anymore.”
I tried to sound light, breezy, as if this were no big deal, but inside I was seething, angry as hell at the two of them, my mother and my father. And my head was spinning from what my mother had justsaid. Was there a hint of envy at the life I was living now? A glimpse at a life she’d never had the chance to explore? But she knew what I’d just been through, she knew it was a miracle that I’d managed to get myself cast in theZiegfeld Folliesso soon after everything that happened in Rockville. It was sheer determination and sass that had gotten me that job, and yet here they were booing me from the sidelines. Well, to heck with them. I didn’t need them or their approval. I’d be just fine on my own.
“Where will you go?”
“I’ve got a place lined up with the girls from the show.”
He looked shocked. Where we came from, it was unheard of for a girl to move out of her parents’ house until she was well and truly married off.
“It’s okay, I promise you,” I said, walking over and putting my arm around him. “I know it’s not what we’re all used to, but it’s different here—actresses, singers, dancers, so many of the show girls—they all live together in apartments near the theater, it’s easier to get to and from rehearsals.”
“But Papa will be so angry,” he said, his forehead creasing with concern.
“He’s already angry,” I said. “At least I won’t be under his nose all the time, taunting him by going back and forth to the theater.” I said it as if it were my choice to leave, as if he hadn’t given me an ultimatum to quit or move out of his house.
“But if you go he’ll never forgive you.”
He was right, he probably wouldn’t, but what choice did I have? I wasn’t going to be ruled by him, stifled by his old-fashioned ideas.
“Of course he will, he just needs some time, that’s all. Come on,help me get these down, would you?” I pointed to three hatboxes I had all the way at the top of my closet. Junior may have been the baby of the family, but he was still taller than me by a long shot.
“You’ll come back, though, won’t you, Olive?”
“Of course I’ll come back, Junior. I’ll always be here for you.”
The apartment was at the far end of Manhattan on West 213th Street in an area called Inwood. And I didn’t know what Ruthie was thinking, because it was no stunner. One window in the living room and one in the kitchen—that was it. The carpet smelled damp and it was on the tenth floor, the elevator was broken, so not only was I sweating like a man by the time I climbed the stairs on those sticky summer days, the apartment heated up hotter than a two-dollar pistol. There were Jewish families living there mostly, and Irish immigrants, and when we walked to and from the train station before or after a show, we were often stared down with looks of disdain. Ruthie said they must’ve thought we were cheap flappers making some money on the side.
“We’re show girls, not prostitutes,” she called out one evening after a few too many drinks and with a face full of makeup, to a couple pushing a baby carriage who were glaring in our direction. “There’s a difference.”
Our building was surrounded by trees and open fields, and during the day there were always children running around the neighborhood, but inside, the apartment was dark and dingy, so I spent as much time at the theater as possible, and in the afternoons, rather than ride the hot, sticky train forty-five minutes from the theaterdistrict back up to Inwood, I’d practice my numbers at the rehearsal halls.
Luckily, we didn’t have to stay in Inwood too long. Within a few months Ruthie was given the extra responsibility of auditioning new dancers for theFollies,because, though he seemed to love every minute of it, Ziegfeld told her he didn’t have time to hand select the girls anymore. There was a constant flow of dancers and singers coming and going, getting married, getting lured to other shows, getting promoted to the chorus or taking the show on the road, so the company had to be replenished often, staying at around one hundred girls altogether, more than any other show on Broadway. Ruthie had her work cut out for her, but her paycheck doubled.
A month later, Ziegfeld called me into his office.
“Do you know why I started theMidnight Frolic,Olive?”
“Sure I do, Mr. Ziegfeld, you wanted to keep the party going.”
“That’s right, and quite a party it has been.”
When I first started he wasn’t shy in telling us that he created theFollies’ sister show, theMidnight Frolic,because he had always hated seeing his audience members walk out of the New Amsterdam Theatre at the end of aFolliesshow and go spend their money to eat, drink and dance at Rector’s or Delmonico’s, and more recently at the Backstage Club or Casa Blanca. So he built a 680-seat rooftop supper club, serving the highest-quality food you could find at any of the nightclubs in town, and he gave everyone a reason to stay. He built a revolving stage, tables surrounding the dance floor where guests could eat and drink, and a transparent glass walkway abovethe audience, with blowers and spotlights shining upwards, where some of the chorus girls gave patrons a new perspective. The performances were far more risqué than the originalFolliesshows that went on earlier in the evening, and for the extra skin and racy jokes, he charged a higher price for tickets and tables.
“Things are changing, Olive, and we need to change, too,” he said. “We need to give them a new reason to stick around after the show.”
“I’ve heard the food and the hooch you serve is pretty outstanding.”
“I still want to give my patrons a buzz. But that buzz doesn’t always have to be in liquid form—that reason to stay, that could be you.”
I felt a rush of excitement at being chosen for this special distinction. It was certainly more provocative than theFolliesand my father would cringe at the thought of me now, but he’d already kicked me out of his house and accused me of being a harlot, so there was no sense in trying to please him anymore.
On my first night in theFrolic,after dancing all night in theFollies,I came out on the platform in a skin-colored, lace, barely there costume that looked more like an undergarment, covered in balloons. I sauntered down the wide glass stairs and paraded through the audience, encouraging the gentlemen to pop my balloons with their ten-cent cigars. From the stage, Will Rogers sang “Girls of My Dreams,” and as the balloons popped and popped and popped, I was left with nothing but my lacy negligee. Ziegfeld put small wooden mallets on the tables, and when the audience liked an act they didn’tjust applaud and hoot and holler—they’d bang their mallets on the table, sending a vibration of approval through our bones.
I was in heaven on that stage. It was everything from theFollies,but more fun, more singing, more flirting, more dancing, and Ziegfeld paid me $75 a week in addition to myFolliespay. I was on top of the world.
