This Side of Jordan (2 page)

 

COUPLES REMAINING: 13

DAYS DANCED: 9

HOURS DANCED: 237

 

Alvin and Cousin Frenchy had attended the start of the dance derby when the floor was still jammed with fresh contestants. That night all the dancers had kicked up their heels and twirled around and yelled and laughed and danced like crazy while the hot-eyed spectators in the bleachers cheered and cheered, and the master of ceremonies in a red polka dot tie announced that this would be the greatest dance derby of the year and anyone in town who didn't buy a ticket would be missing something pretty swell. Straight away, a pretty redhead wearing a green plaid skirt and shoes dyed gold caught Alvin's eye. She had lovely painted eyelashes and a tiny rosebud mouth whose smile gave him the flutters. Her dance partner was skinny as a candlestick and had oily hair. They did the Charleston and Lindy Hop like a pair of whirly-gigs and won a sprint and took a bow to a fine applause and earned a spray of silver coins from the dollar loge seats. The girl's name was Dorothy Louise Ellison, and she was from Topeka, Kansas. This was her fifth marathon and she'd hoped to win the grand prize in order to go to college out in California where her aunt and uncle owned a lemon grove. Her partner was a homely plumber from Kentucky by the name of Joe Norton. Alvin desperately wanted to take Joe's part with Dorothy. Trouble was, he could hardly dance a two-step without a manual and lacked the stamina in his lungs, and if Dorothy truly needed to win the contest to attend college, she'd want a better partner than a sickly farm boy with two left feet. So Alvin sat under the
NO SPITTING!!!
sign for more than eight hours watching Dorothy and Joe waltz about the dance floor with fifty-six other couples. When Alvin left with Frenchy at half past three in the morning, Dorothy and Joe were still arm-in-arm, dancing a drowsy Fox Trot, and feigning youthful romance for smiling patrons seated on pillows in the loge seats.

Tonight she was gone.

Sitting up in the sweltering grandstand high above the orchestra, Alvin had a good view of the entire auditorium, dancers and spectators alike. He watched Joe Norton come out of a dressing room hallway late from the break with Patsy on his arm and looked at the scoreboard and counted thirteen couples and noticed that all the other dancers were paired up and Dorothy wasn't on the floor.
That plumber sonofabitch got rid of her,
Alvin imagined as his heart sank.
She was probably too good-looking for him.
He considered leaving, but didn't have the pep for much more walking tonight. Besides, where would he go?

The radio program changed to a cheerful waltz. Most of the dancers were too hot and exhausted to pick up the new rhythm. A floor judge in a referee's pinstripe shirt clapped his hands to speed them up. Behind the loge seats on the far end of the floor, a large hillbilly family stood up to leave, carrying picnic baskets and milk bottles.

Alvin slid down the plank row behind a pair of fat Chevrolet salesmen eating cold fried chicken out of a metal lunch bucket. They smelled like grease. Alvin watched intently as the master of ceremonies, dressed in black top hat and tails, strode onto the orchestra platform and grabbed the microphone. He had a pencil-thin moustache and slicked-backed hair. His assistant, a slinky blonde dressed up in a cowboy hat and spangles, switched off the radio. Behind the emcee, Jimmy Turkel's five-piece orchestra, back from supper break, filed onto the stage. The drummer performed a brief introduction as the lethargic dancers slowed to a shuffle. Applause erupted from the grandstand. Alvin glared at Joe Norton and worried that maybe Dorothy had been injured or taken seriously ill during the week he'd been away at the farm. Why had she chosen that dumbbell Norton in the first place?

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! HOW ABOUT A BREAK FOR THESE COURAGEOUS KIDS! AREN'T THEY SWELL?”

The audience cheered loudly.

An elderly man tossed a handful of coins onto the floor from the side railing. A young dance pair dressed in matching blue sailor suits scrambled over to collect it all up while a crowd of college-age fellows gave them a boisterous hip-hip-hurrah.

More people cheered.

The emcee waved his arms to get everyone's attention again. At the rear of the stage stood Arthur Cheney, the derby promoter from Omaha Alvin had seen on the back porch, still puffing on a fat cigar.
Why hadn't Petey taken a poke at him,
Alvin wondered, digging again into his bag of popcorn.
A fellow who blows smoke in your face is just asking for a good crack in the jaw.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

The thirteen dance couples milled about together in the middle of the floor, hardly moving now. The farm boy watched one of the collegiate fellows giving advice over the railing to a blonde in worn-out slippers whose hollow-eyed partner was sagging off her torso.

The emcee tapped the microphone with his fist. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THESE KIDS ARE SO COURAGEOUS, AREN'T THEY? HEROES, EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM! RIGHT OUT OF THE TOP DRAWER! AND THEY AREN'T DONE YET, ARE THEY? YOU BET THEY AREN'T! NO SIRREE! THEY KNOW HOW HARD YOU'RE PULLING FOR THEM AND THEY'LL DO THEIR BEST TO SEE THEY DON'T LET YOU DOWN! YOU CAN COUNT ON IT!”

Spectators in the grandstand rose to give the dancers a big ovation, several of whom appeared bewildered by the cheering. Since Dorothy was gone, Alvin hardly clapped at all. He didn't much care who won now.

The emcee grinned brightly as he spoke into the microphone again. “WHY, THEY'VE SURE GOT A LOT OF GUTS, ALL RIGHT, THESE KIDS OF OURS, DON'T THEY?”

Alvin felt the wooden planks rumble under his feet from the roar that swept the auditorium as the orchestra struck up a boisterous “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The emcee raised his voice. “BUT HONESTLY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, HOW LONG CAN THEY LAST? I ASK YOU, HOW-LONG-CAN-THEY-LAST?”

Across the floor, a knot of people in the loge seats began clapping. More coins showered the sluggish dancers. Alvin watched a homely nurse come out from the dressing room with a bottle of smelling salts. The orchestra played a couple bars of “Dixie.”

“NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE PROMISED YOU THESE KIDS WOULD DO THEIR BEST ON THE FLOOR, AND BELIEVE YOU ME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THEY HAVE. OH, YOU BET THEY HAVE! NINE DAYS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, NINE DAYS, THEY'VE BATTLED NOT ONLY EACH OTHER, BUT FATHER TIME HIMSELF TO KEEP GOING BECAUSE, WHY, THEY JUST KNOW YOU'RE ALL BEHIND THEM! SURE, THEY'VE GOT BUNIONS AND BLISTERS, BUT OH, THEY'VE GOT MORE THAN ENOUGH GUTS, TOO, TO STICK IT OUT TO THE VERY END AND WIN THIS GREAT DANCE DERBY FAIR AND SQUARE FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO REALLY CARE TO SEE 'EM DO IT! WHAT DO YOU SAY ABOUT THAT?”

The farm boy almost toppled over as the old bleachers shook under the ovation.

“WELL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT'S TIME TO TURN ON THE HEAT AGAIN, SO PICK OUT YOUR FAVORITE COUPLE AND GIVE 'EM A BREAK BECAUSE THEY'LL NEED ALL THE BOOST THEY CAN GET!”

The emcee motioned to another heat judge waiting just off the platform. More people were crowding into the next row above, shoving along toward the center of the bleachers. Alvin felt like a sardine in his own row and considered switching seats to somewhere higher up.

“MISTER CLARK, ARE YOU READY?”

The bald heat judge nodded.

A buzz swept through the audience.

The emcee drew the microphone close while raising his right hand into the smoky air. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ARE YOU READY?”

A further deafening cheer shook the building. Alvin craned his neck to see through the pack in front of him. A stout woman to his left jammed her elbow into his ribs to make room. He pushed back as the emcee announced to the auditorium spectators, “WELL, THEN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LET'S SEE HOW LONG THESE BRAVE KIDS CAN LAST! MISTER CLARK, HOW ABOUT A SPRINT?” He turned to Turkel. “MAESTRO, GET READY TO GIVE!”

The heat judge walked into the middle of the dance floor where a painted oval marked off a racetrack for the competitors. Alvin felt someone shove roughly into the row beside him.

“Sorry, kid,” the fellow said, as he wedged down between Alvin and the stout woman. He was wearing a felt fedora and a smart blue cassimere suit. “Some local yokel kept stepping on my foot up there.”

He smelled like whiskey and hair tonic.

“Ain't a lot of room here, neither,” Alvin muttered, watching the dance couples tie together for the sprint. He hated getting shoved, particularly when he didn't feel well.

“You got a favorite?”

“Huh?”

“This derby's hired some real cutie pies, don't you agree?”

Alvin shrugged. “I seen a doll last week, but she ain't here no more.” He watched Joe Norton fasten a belt onto Patsy's waist for the sprint and give her a kiss on the cheek. Alvin hoped they'd both trip and break their necks.

“Maybe some fellow bought her off the floor and married her afterward. What was her name?”

“I don't know,” he lied, figuring this fellow probably didn't care, anyhow. Besides, he thought of Dorothy as his girl and that wasn't anybody's business but his own.

The dancers were packed together behind a white ribbon at the starting line, jostling for position. Another trio of floor judges came out from behind the grandstand. All three looked like sourpusses. Some people booed and hissed when these judges took their places on the dance floor.

After the emcee backed away from the microphone, Turkel's orchestra struck up a rousing “Stars and Stripes Forever” as the audience stood to watch the sprint. Joe Norton and Patsy were tucked so far back now Alvin could hardly see them, but in front of the pack were a sweetheart couple from Ohio lots of people seemed to be boosting and a slick pair of Mexican dancers nobody much cared for at all.

The fellow spoke into the farm boy's ear, “I got a sawbuck says I can predict which couple's out after this sprint.”

“Oh yeah?” said Alvin, his attention fixed on the heat judge whose arm was raised at the starting line.
If Dorothy'd been in this sprint,
he thought,
she'd be out front where everyone could see how swell she looked.

The fellow dropped his voice. “Don't you know most of these marathons are a slice of tripe? Why, oiling one of the floor judges'll give you the dope on who wins and who gets the air any night of the week.”

“Says who?” Alvin growled. He wanted the sprint to start so he could watch Joe Norton and Patsy fail miserably before the whole auditorium. Maybe somebody would even throw a tomato at 'em.

“Says I.”

“Yeah, how do you know?”

The fellow laughed. “Well, for starters, I've seen a million of them, that's how. Why, marathon dances were standing them up in Chicago all last summer.”

The heat judge's whistle shrieked and the sprint began, thirteen dance couples galloping through the ribbon like the start of a horse race. Spectators howled with excitement. Six couples hit the first turn in a thick pack, scrambling for the lead. Turkel's orchestra played a fast and spirited “California, Here I Come,” while the audience down by the floor urged their favorite couples to greater speed. Tied together with a belt, whichever partner had the most pluck and fortitude after nine days of dancing dragged the other around the oval, panicked and invigorated by the knowledge that the team finishing last would be cut out of the derby. All about the auditorium, people screamed and shouted for their favorite contestants to go faster and faster, and razzing those they didn't like. Couples stumbled and fought to regain balance. Those who fell hurried to get back on their feet again. Round and round they went, faces horrid with agony. Alvin rooted for Patsy to take a spill or Joe Norton to drop dead. One athletic-looking boy got wobbly-knee'd on the far turn and his partner, a tiny brunette, jammed her shoulder underneath his arm and began dragging him onward, screaming in his ear while the spectators roared for them to keep up. The parquet dance floor became slick with sweat. Desperate couples skidded and slipped. Turkel's orchestra played a fast Peabody and the emcee grabbed the microphone and exhorted the beleaguered dancers to “HURRY! HURRY! HURRY! TIME'S RUNNING OUT, KIDS! DON'T FALL BEHIND! DON'T FALL BEHIND!”

Alvin felt an elbow nudge him in the ribs. His new friend leaned over close to his ear and said, “See those two in the blue sailor suits?”

The farm boy nodded. Those were the Italians from Indiana. “What of it?”

The emcee announced with undisguised glee, “THREE MINUTES TO GO, KIDS! THREE MINUTES! HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!”

“Well, they're getting the air.”

“Says who?”

“One of Cheney's stooges caught 'em having a lay under the bleachers. I hear the birdie had a flask of gin in her skirt. Some dick from town wanted to prefer charges.”

“That's a good laugh,” Alvin said, as Joe Norton and Patsy lunged past a couple wearing athletic shirts and shorts soaked in sweat. The dance floor was a frenzy of roughhousing competitors pushing and shoving, male and female alike, battling frantically for position on the final few laps of the sprint. All the spectators were standing now and Alvin found the clamor deafening. He was getting a headache.

The fellow beside him raised his voice above the racket. “You just watch and see if I'm not right.”

“Sure I will.”

The buoyant emcee cried into the microphone, “ONE MINUTE TO GO, KIDS! ONLY ONE MORE MINUTE! HOLD ON! DON'T QUIT NOW! HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!”

Around the track went all thirteen dance couples, struggling to keep upright, racing desperately for the finish. Joe and Patsy were in the middle of the pack just behind the sweetheart couple, but Alvin didn't know how many laps they'd taken. That's what mattered. Whichever team did the most laps won. Fewest laps meant disqualification. Falls earned deductions, too. Joe and Patsy'd had two, but some of the other couples had more than that. All were badly played out. “THIRTY SECONDS, KIDS! ONLY THIRTY SECONDS! HURRY NOW! HURRY!”