The Gilded Age, a Time Travel by Lisa Mason
Authors: Lisa Mason
into the stream of champagne for another guzzle. Naturally, he didn’t carry
his whole kit and caboodle in the boodle book. He’s not some bumpkin. He’s
stashed a few gold coins in his ditty bag. Then there’s the trunk with the deeds
and papers, a bit of the art he acquired in Paris. He’s not wiped out.
Still!
Still! The lousy little bitch, he could take her slender neck in his hands and
twist it. Women! They’ll steal your soul if you give them half a chance.
The
porter reels up from his guzzle, flushed and shiny-eyed. He’s drawn his own
conclusions from Daniel’s sudden dejection. He proclaims with high spirits,
“Hell with the two bits, mister. Where ye bound? It’s the Fourth of July.
Welcome to San Francisco!”
“Thank
you,” Daniel says humbly.
“Next
time, I’ll charge ye twice.”
The
porter lugs the trunk, Daniel takes the bags, and together they fight the
festive crowd up Market Street. At last Dupont appears to the north. The porter
turns right up a gentle incline that might as well be an Alp, for all Daniel
cares. By God, he’s dry. And exhausted. Thank heaven Father cannot see him in
this ridiculous predicament.
He
and the porter enter another part of town, and the traffic, the sounds and the
smells, the mood and the very light change. A saloon stands on every street
corner, four per intersection, sometimes more if another proprietor has got the
story up. Daniel has never seen so many saloons and resorts crowded together in
such proximity. Music blares from doorways, inviting him in. Men guffaw and
shout. Glasses bang on bars or crash together in toasts. The stink of gunpowder
is infused with the powerful smells of whiskey, tobacco, roasting meat, and an
odd indefinable sickly sweet scent.
A
few women drift in and out of the saloon doors, but mostly linger on street
corners. Daniel approaches a young girl who skips gaily down the pavement in a
sailor’s costume, a navy and white topcoat over bloomers, striped stockings, and
little button boots. A jaunty straw boater is pinned over her yellow curls. She
sidles up to him and curtseys charmingly. He gapes at the heavy white powder
over her grainy jowls, her thin masculine lips beneath the mouth drawn on her
face in red paint. She frowns at his startled look and skips away, tittering.
The
porter laughs nervously. “Here’s as far as I go, mister,” He unceremoniously plunks
the trunk down and strides off.
Daniel
glances around. Something dangles above him, draped over the telegraph wires.
Lace and ribbons, straps and stays. A woman’s undergarment? On the telegraph
wires? His eyes travel from the garment to a window where a lovely young woman
sits. Half-dressed, her hair disheveled, she leans out, seizes a strap of the
corset, and reels in the undergarment like a hooked fish. But she does not
attend too closely to her task. No, her eyes—are they blue?—are trained on him.
He looks over his shoulder, to the right, to the left. She throws back her head
and laughs, her bare throat throbbing.
Heat
rises in his face, under his collar, beneath his belt.
He
drags his trunk a step further. Damn that porter, abandoning him in the middle
of nowhere. He finds himself in front of a huge house with square-cut bay
windows, angular battens, and geometric decorations. The house is painted a
conservative pale gray with bronze green trim, sable brown doors and vestibules.
He should think it a perfectly respectable house except for the young woman at
the window.
Daniel
checks the address. What luck! The porter didn’t abandon him in the middle of
nowhere, after all. He climbs the stairs and pulls the door bell of Number 263
Dupont Street. The bell chimes within. The young woman at the window exclaims
and scampers down from her perch as he stands at the front door of Miss
Malone’s Boardinghouse for Gentlemen.
3
Miss
Malone’s Boardinghouse for Gentlemen
“Jar
me, I’ll not have my Fourth of July cooked,” says Jessie Malone to the
his whole kit and caboodle in the boodle book. He’s not some bumpkin. He’s
stashed a few gold coins in his ditty bag. Then there’s the trunk with the deeds
and papers, a bit of the art he acquired in Paris. He’s not wiped out.
Still!
Still! The lousy little bitch, he could take her slender neck in his hands and
twist it. Women! They’ll steal your soul if you give them half a chance.
The
porter reels up from his guzzle, flushed and shiny-eyed. He’s drawn his own
conclusions from Daniel’s sudden dejection. He proclaims with high spirits,
“Hell with the two bits, mister. Where ye bound? It’s the Fourth of July.
Welcome to San Francisco!”
“Thank
you,” Daniel says humbly.
“Next
time, I’ll charge ye twice.”
The
porter lugs the trunk, Daniel takes the bags, and together they fight the
festive crowd up Market Street. At last Dupont appears to the north. The porter
turns right up a gentle incline that might as well be an Alp, for all Daniel
cares. By God, he’s dry. And exhausted. Thank heaven Father cannot see him in
this ridiculous predicament.
He
and the porter enter another part of town, and the traffic, the sounds and the
smells, the mood and the very light change. A saloon stands on every street
corner, four per intersection, sometimes more if another proprietor has got the
story up. Daniel has never seen so many saloons and resorts crowded together in
such proximity. Music blares from doorways, inviting him in. Men guffaw and
shout. Glasses bang on bars or crash together in toasts. The stink of gunpowder
is infused with the powerful smells of whiskey, tobacco, roasting meat, and an
odd indefinable sickly sweet scent.
A
few women drift in and out of the saloon doors, but mostly linger on street
corners. Daniel approaches a young girl who skips gaily down the pavement in a
sailor’s costume, a navy and white topcoat over bloomers, striped stockings, and
little button boots. A jaunty straw boater is pinned over her yellow curls. She
sidles up to him and curtseys charmingly. He gapes at the heavy white powder
over her grainy jowls, her thin masculine lips beneath the mouth drawn on her
face in red paint. She frowns at his startled look and skips away, tittering.
The
porter laughs nervously. “Here’s as far as I go, mister,” He unceremoniously plunks
the trunk down and strides off.
Daniel
glances around. Something dangles above him, draped over the telegraph wires.
Lace and ribbons, straps and stays. A woman’s undergarment? On the telegraph
wires? His eyes travel from the garment to a window where a lovely young woman
sits. Half-dressed, her hair disheveled, she leans out, seizes a strap of the
corset, and reels in the undergarment like a hooked fish. But she does not
attend too closely to her task. No, her eyes—are they blue?—are trained on him.
He looks over his shoulder, to the right, to the left. She throws back her head
and laughs, her bare throat throbbing.
Heat
rises in his face, under his collar, beneath his belt.
He
drags his trunk a step further. Damn that porter, abandoning him in the middle
of nowhere. He finds himself in front of a huge house with square-cut bay
windows, angular battens, and geometric decorations. The house is painted a
conservative pale gray with bronze green trim, sable brown doors and vestibules.
He should think it a perfectly respectable house except for the young woman at
the window.
Daniel
checks the address. What luck! The porter didn’t abandon him in the middle of
nowhere, after all. He climbs the stairs and pulls the door bell of Number 263
Dupont Street. The bell chimes within. The young woman at the window exclaims
and scampers down from her perch as he stands at the front door of Miss
Malone’s Boardinghouse for Gentlemen.
3
Miss
Malone’s Boardinghouse for Gentlemen
“Jar
me, I’ll not have my Fourth of July cooked,” says Jessie Malone to the