Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas by Maya Angelou Page B

and a young Marlene Dietrich-looking woman huddled over a table in the center of the room. The woman had a shock of sunlight-yellow hair and brooded over a cigarette holder. The red-haired man had been in before, but had not spoken. Now the four sat watching me as if they were French couturiers and I was wearing the latest creation from Jacques Fath. The more I tried to ignore them, the more they intruded into my mind. Who were they? Some slumming socialites looking for thrills? I tried to give myself to the music, but the group stared so intently that for once the music wouldn't have me, and I stumbled around the floor creating no continuity in my movement and no story in my dance. It occurred to me that they might be talent scouts and maybe I was going to be discovered. I threw that silly thought out of my mind before it could take hold. Lana Turner and Rita Hayworth got discovered, Black girls got uncovered.
    I changed downstairs in the empty dressing room and half expected, half wished that the quartet would be gone when I went back upstairs.
    “Hello, I'm Don.” The redhead grinned and a map of freckles wiggled across his face. “This is Barry.”
    Barry was a tall, graying man whose smile was distant and distinguished. Don, obviously the major-domo of the group, waved his hand toward a pretty young man whose eyes were beautifully deep.
    “This is Fred Kuh, and this”—he gestured like a circus announcer who had saved the lion tamer for the last—“this is Jorie!”
    She shook her head and her hair fell back from her face, heavily as if in slow motion. She spoke in a low, theatrical voice.
    “Hello. My dear, you dance divinely. Just divine.”
    Not Marlene Dietrich, I was wrong; she was Veronica Lake with substance, a young Tallulah Bankhead. “And you're so refreshingly young.” Her perfume was thick, like the air in Catholic churches.
    I said, “I'm twenty-one.”
    Barry asked if I would have a drink with them and I began my spiel about the B drinks, the percentages and the bad champagne.
    Jorie said, “It's true. My Gawd, it's true. You're right on cue. We were told that you'd say that.”
    “What?”
    “You're kind of famous, you know.”
    Don grinned, “You must be the only open-faced B-girl on the Barbary Coast.”
    “In San Francisco,” said Barry.
    Jorie corrected: “In captivity.”
    They approved of me and I warmed to them. I allowed myself their flattery. It was easy to suppose they liked me because I was honest. I did not want to pry into their acceptancefor fear that what I found would be unacceptable to me. Suppose they thought me a clown?
    Barry explained that Jorie was a chanteuse, currently starring at the Purple Onion, a nearby night club. He managed the place and was the emcee. Don Curry and Fred Kuh were bartenders and I was welcome anytime I could get away.
    These beautiful people and their friends began dropping in each evening and I awaited their arrival. I danced indifferently until I caught a glimpse of their party near the back of the room, then I offered them the best steps I had and as soon as the dance was finished I hurried over. There was no need to butter up the manager or hustle the customers. It gave me a delicious sense of luxury to be sitting with such well-dressed obviously discriminating people, while the strippers roamed among the tables looking for the odd drink and the lone man.

CHAPTER 9
    One evening I was invited to a wine party at Jorie's apartment after closing time. The house sat on a hilly street. A stranger opened the door and took no more notice of me, so I entered and sat on a floor pillow and watched the guests spin around one another in minuet patterns. There were glamorous young men with dyed hair who rustled like old cellophane. Older men had airs of sophistication and cold grace, giving the impression that if they were not so terribly tired they would go to places (known only to a select few) where the conversation was more scintillating and the