Chaplin in whiteface, with derby, cane, and tash, and a girl wearing an enormous old bonnet with a fullsized bird on top of it.
“They gonna get us!” Francis said. “Look out!” He threw his arms in the air and shook himself in a fearful dance. The children laughed and spooked boo at him.
“Gee it’s a nice night,” Helen said. “Cold but nice and clear, isn’t it, Fran?”
“It’s nice,” Francis said. “It’s all nice.”
o o o
The Gilded Cage door opened into the old Gayety lobby, now the back end of a saloon that mimicked and mocked the Bowery pubs of forty years gone. Francis stood looking toward a pair of monumental, half-wrapped breasts that heaved beneath a hennaed wig and scarlet lips. The owner of these spectacular possessions was delivering outward from an elevated platform a song of anguish in the city: You would not insult me, sir, if Jack were only here, in a voice so devoid of musical quality that it mocked its own mockery.
“She’s terrible,” Helen said. “Awful.”
“She ain’t that good,” Francis said.
They stepped across a floor strewn with sawdust, lit by ancient chandeliers and sconces, all electric now, toward a long walnut bar with a shining brass bar rail and three gleaming spittoons. Behind the half-busy bar a man with high collar, string tie, and arm garters drew schooners of beer from a tap, and at tables of no significant location sat men and women Francis recognized: whores, bums, barflies. Among them, at other tables, sat men in business suits, and women with fox scarves and flyaway hats, whose presence was such that their tables this night were landmarks of social significance merely because they were sitting at them. Thus, The Gilded Cage was a museum of unnatural sociality, and the smile of the barman welcomed Francis, Helen, and Rudy, bums all, and Pee Wee, their clean-shirted friend, to the tableau.
“Table, folks?”
“Not while there’s a bar rail,” Francis said.
“Step up, brother. What’s your quaff?”
“Ginger ale,” said Pee Wee.
“I believe I’ll have the same,” said Helen.
“That beer looks tantalizin’,” Francis said.
“You said you wouldn’t drink,” Helen said.
“I said wine.”
The barman slid a schooner with a high collar across the bar to Francis and looked to Rudy, who ordered the same. The piano player struck up a medley of “She May Have Seen Better Days” and “My Sweetheart’s the Man in the Moon” and urged those in the audience who knew the lyrics to join in song.
“You look like a friend of mine,” Francis told the barman, drilling him with a smile and a stare. The barman, with a full head of silver waves and an eloquent white mustache, stared back long enough to ignite a memory. He looked from Francis to Pee Wee, who was also smiling:
“I think I know you two turks,” the barman said.
“You thinkin’ right,” Francis said, “except the last time I seen you, you wasn’t sportin’ that pussy-tickler.”
The barman stroked his silvery lip. “You guys got me drunk in New York.”
“You got us drunk in every bar on Third Avenue,” Pee Wee said.
The barman stuck out his hand to Francis.
“Francis Phelan,” said Francis, “and this here is Rudy the Kraut. He’s all right but he’s nuts.”
“My kind of fella,” Oscar said.
“Pee Wee Packer,” Pee Wee said with his hand out.
“I
“They gonna get us!” Francis said. “Look out!” He threw his arms in the air and shook himself in a fearful dance. The children laughed and spooked boo at him.
“Gee it’s a nice night,” Helen said. “Cold but nice and clear, isn’t it, Fran?”
“It’s nice,” Francis said. “It’s all nice.”
o o o
The Gilded Cage door opened into the old Gayety lobby, now the back end of a saloon that mimicked and mocked the Bowery pubs of forty years gone. Francis stood looking toward a pair of monumental, half-wrapped breasts that heaved beneath a hennaed wig and scarlet lips. The owner of these spectacular possessions was delivering outward from an elevated platform a song of anguish in the city: You would not insult me, sir, if Jack were only here, in a voice so devoid of musical quality that it mocked its own mockery.
“She’s terrible,” Helen said. “Awful.”
“She ain’t that good,” Francis said.
They stepped across a floor strewn with sawdust, lit by ancient chandeliers and sconces, all electric now, toward a long walnut bar with a shining brass bar rail and three gleaming spittoons. Behind the half-busy bar a man with high collar, string tie, and arm garters drew schooners of beer from a tap, and at tables of no significant location sat men and women Francis recognized: whores, bums, barflies. Among them, at other tables, sat men in business suits, and women with fox scarves and flyaway hats, whose presence was such that their tables this night were landmarks of social significance merely because they were sitting at them. Thus, The Gilded Cage was a museum of unnatural sociality, and the smile of the barman welcomed Francis, Helen, and Rudy, bums all, and Pee Wee, their clean-shirted friend, to the tableau.
“Table, folks?”
“Not while there’s a bar rail,” Francis said.
“Step up, brother. What’s your quaff?”
“Ginger ale,” said Pee Wee.
“I believe I’ll have the same,” said Helen.
“That beer looks tantalizin’,” Francis said.
“You said you wouldn’t drink,” Helen said.
“I said wine.”
The barman slid a schooner with a high collar across the bar to Francis and looked to Rudy, who ordered the same. The piano player struck up a medley of “She May Have Seen Better Days” and “My Sweetheart’s the Man in the Moon” and urged those in the audience who knew the lyrics to join in song.
“You look like a friend of mine,” Francis told the barman, drilling him with a smile and a stare. The barman, with a full head of silver waves and an eloquent white mustache, stared back long enough to ignite a memory. He looked from Francis to Pee Wee, who was also smiling:
“I think I know you two turks,” the barman said.
“You thinkin’ right,” Francis said, “except the last time I seen you, you wasn’t sportin’ that pussy-tickler.”
The barman stroked his silvery lip. “You guys got me drunk in New York.”
“You got us drunk in every bar on Third Avenue,” Pee Wee said.
The barman stuck out his hand to Francis.
“Francis Phelan,” said Francis, “and this here is Rudy the Kraut. He’s all right but he’s nuts.”
“My kind of fella,” Oscar said.
“Pee Wee Packer,” Pee Wee said with his hand out.
“I
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