Read Online American Rose: A Nation Laid Bare: The Life and Times of Gypsy Rose Lee by Karen Abbott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Abbott
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from Europe, andthe house at 7 Middagh Street is like no other on the block. Its facade resembles a playing card, with intricate moldings etched in the shape of diamonds and clubs, and it operates strictly by anarchic rule. Cocktail hour commences at 4 P.M. , dinners (prepared by Eva, Gypsy’s personal cook)often stretch into breakfast, and party guests include everyone from the soldiers in port to Columbia University professors to
Vogue
editors to Salvador Dalí. After feasting on Eva’s roast beef and gravy, boiled potatoes, and chocolate cake, they migrate to the parlor and take turns entertaining. Auden pops Benzedrine tablets and does wicked imitations, George’s observations about his friends cut with scalpel precision, and no one tells a story like Gypsy Rose Lee, who, one visitor notes, pervades the house “like a whirlwind of laughter and sex.”
Holding a brandy in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Gypsy recounts her days in vaudeville, embellishing as she pleases (could they believe she played the back end of a cow?), about Mother’s schemes and attitudes toward men, about raids at Minsky’s and her striptease mentor, Tessie the Tassel Twirler, who proffered some sage advice: “Leave them hungry for more—you don’t just dump the whole roast on the platter.” Carson McCullers sits at Gypsy’s feet and stares up at her, enthralled. She loves this witty, exotic creature, whose legs seem to stretch longer than Carson’s whole body, whose spontaneity and warmth are the perfect antidote to the distant coolness ofAnnemarie Clarac-Schwarzenbach, a Swiss writer and painter who has broken her heart. Carson hears rumors that Gypsy entertains women as well as men, and it is certainly true that the stripteaser cultivates homosexual fans. She wants to spend every minute with Gypsy but keep things light and fun, and luckily, Gypsy won’t have it any other way.
Nearly every night, Gypsy invites Carson to her third-floor suite, greeting her at the door in a sheer nightgown—worn, on cold nights, over baggy long underwear that sags at the knees. A fin-shaped clip holds her hair from her face, still smudged with makeup she never bothered to remove. All of which is to say, without words, that Gypsy views stripping as work, not fun, and portrays herself as a sex symbol only when paid to do so. Carson flops on Gypsy’s bed, keeps her whiskey bottle within reach, and confides all of her troubles. She is under immense pressure to match the critical and commercial success of her debut novel,
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter
, and to redeem herself after the disappointing reception of her second,
Reflections in a Golden Eye
. Work is going so slowly on
The Bride and Her Brother
, her tale of a twelve-year-old misfit, Frankie, who feels like an “unjoined person.” How Carsonmisses writing for the simple joy of it, without worrying about readers or a career. Her estranged husband will probably soon show up in Brooklyn again to pick another fight. And she can’t help it: she misses Annemarie terribly. Gypsy listens and soothes and fetches her friend homemade strudel she’s made with apples from the backyard garden. If their visit lasts past midnight, Gypsy lets Carson sleep in her bed.
On Thanksgiving night, after another raucous party, Gypsy hears a caravan of fire engines whine down Middagh Street. She jumps out of her chair and beckons to Carson, and together they chase after the commotion, hand in hand. “We ran for several blocks,” Carson recalled. “It was exhilarating to be out in the chilly air after the close heat of the parlor.” They’re almost at the scene when Gypsy feels a hard yank on her arm. She turns to Carson, who looks half crazy, the pupils of her wide doe eyes shrunk to pinpoints under the streetlights. “Frankie is in love with her brother and his bride,” Carson says, breathless, “and wants to become a member of the wedding!”
With that, her slump is over. She knows exactly how to
Vogue
editors to Salvador Dalí. After feasting on Eva’s roast beef and gravy, boiled potatoes, and chocolate cake, they migrate to the parlor and take turns entertaining. Auden pops Benzedrine tablets and does wicked imitations, George’s observations about his friends cut with scalpel precision, and no one tells a story like Gypsy Rose Lee, who, one visitor notes, pervades the house “like a whirlwind of laughter and sex.”
Holding a brandy in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Gypsy recounts her days in vaudeville, embellishing as she pleases (could they believe she played the back end of a cow?), about Mother’s schemes and attitudes toward men, about raids at Minsky’s and her striptease mentor, Tessie the Tassel Twirler, who proffered some sage advice: “Leave them hungry for more—you don’t just dump the whole roast on the platter.” Carson McCullers sits at Gypsy’s feet and stares up at her, enthralled. She loves this witty, exotic creature, whose legs seem to stretch longer than Carson’s whole body, whose spontaneity and warmth are the perfect antidote to the distant coolness ofAnnemarie Clarac-Schwarzenbach, a Swiss writer and painter who has broken her heart. Carson hears rumors that Gypsy entertains women as well as men, and it is certainly true that the stripteaser cultivates homosexual fans. She wants to spend every minute with Gypsy but keep things light and fun, and luckily, Gypsy won’t have it any other way.
Nearly every night, Gypsy invites Carson to her third-floor suite, greeting her at the door in a sheer nightgown—worn, on cold nights, over baggy long underwear that sags at the knees. A fin-shaped clip holds her hair from her face, still smudged with makeup she never bothered to remove. All of which is to say, without words, that Gypsy views stripping as work, not fun, and portrays herself as a sex symbol only when paid to do so. Carson flops on Gypsy’s bed, keeps her whiskey bottle within reach, and confides all of her troubles. She is under immense pressure to match the critical and commercial success of her debut novel,
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter
, and to redeem herself after the disappointing reception of her second,
Reflections in a Golden Eye
. Work is going so slowly on
The Bride and Her Brother
, her tale of a twelve-year-old misfit, Frankie, who feels like an “unjoined person.” How Carsonmisses writing for the simple joy of it, without worrying about readers or a career. Her estranged husband will probably soon show up in Brooklyn again to pick another fight. And she can’t help it: she misses Annemarie terribly. Gypsy listens and soothes and fetches her friend homemade strudel she’s made with apples from the backyard garden. If their visit lasts past midnight, Gypsy lets Carson sleep in her bed.
On Thanksgiving night, after another raucous party, Gypsy hears a caravan of fire engines whine down Middagh Street. She jumps out of her chair and beckons to Carson, and together they chase after the commotion, hand in hand. “We ran for several blocks,” Carson recalled. “It was exhilarating to be out in the chilly air after the close heat of the parlor.” They’re almost at the scene when Gypsy feels a hard yank on her arm. She turns to Carson, who looks half crazy, the pupils of her wide doe eyes shrunk to pinpoints under the streetlights. “Frankie is in love with her brother and his bride,” Carson says, breathless, “and wants to become a member of the wedding!”
With that, her slump is over. She knows exactly how to
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