A Fine Romance, Circa 1945- With Billie Holiday In Mind
Over in a darken corner a couple, she a very perky bleached blonde,
naturally so or not only she and her God know (perhaps her hairdresser as well
but what with the war shortages with the chemicals necessary for artificially
very bleached blonde hair going into Europe rather than say the hair of frisky
brunettes probably only her God just then as the war was winding down but had
not quite finished up and so shortages still held sway), mascaraed blue eyes which
the bleached blonde hair only accentuated, made more alluring, and a fair
dusting of powders and whatnots that make a gal alluring to the opposite sex.
Especially members of the opposite sex who have been spitting the muds of
wartime Europe out of their mouths, have breathed in the odors of men’s fears,
men’s food, men’s lack of toiletries and other refinements for the previous
three years but who even if they had not been close enough to a woman, a perky
blonde one at that, had not lost the taste for such company. (Some men had lost that desire, not in the
throes of desire for other men, you know some homosexual impulse previously
unexplored, although that happened too, happened anytime you had men cooped up
in war, in prisons, on merchant ships, hell, in boarding schools, but from the
shock of war, from what would then be called “shell shock,” and now some
post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD. Those “lost boys”, those who would have
trouble getting back to the old routines, getting back to the “real” world as a
later war generation would call their malaise would be legend as the years wore
on and they drifted mainly west, west of wherever they were from and never
quite got back to that pre-Pearl Harbor calm, never).
Those appealing eyes and hair were accompanied by a long slinky gown
although not of recent purchase since like the hair ingredients the materials
for such glamour-enhancement long ago went ashore at Normandy fitted over a
slender but what guys back then would call “curves in all the right places.” And silver dancing slippers of recent purchase
since she had a friend who had a friend who worked on Seventh Avenue and that
was that, nothing more need be said just in case some noisy bureaucrat was in the
house and jealous that he did not have such resources to get a pair for his own
girlfriend.
Her picture completed in the glimmer of the candle emanating from their table
any idle eyes at the bar filled with plenty of men who had not been close enough
a woman but had not lost the habit and those were staring hopefully in her
direction that she was talking to her companion of the evening. His description
was ease itself beyond the short high side walls haircut that meant he was
still in one or another branches of the military service, just then
clean-shaven although he was one of those men bedeviled by the need to shave
twice daily (made worse in those European muds when a man dared no shave for
fear of being some sniper’s target when the opposing armies were in close
proximity); regulation cologne, although a sea of cologne would not wash away
that smell of men’s fear, even brave men, which made a guy alluring to the
opposite sex, regulation brown eyes, and a fairly-well beribboned, beribboned
beyond what every combat soldier received for just being in a war zone, Army uniform to take the mystery out of which
branch he belonged to and which made clear that he had seen action in some
theater in Europe. He was raptly listening to whatever it was she was saying as
if just the act of hearing her voice, hearing a female voice, an American
female voice was worthy of such rapture.
In front of the young couple who from a quick glance and the reserved manner
of their gestures had not known each other long (and how could they in 1945 the
war not even half over yet and the soldiers just starting to pour back to the states)
were well-used glasses of red wine accompanied by some wine correct meat
dishes. Probably the Beef Alsace for which the Club Martin up in high 49th
Street New York City was famous for far
and wide. On the other hand those gestures did not exhibit the obvious tell-tale
symptoms of a first date, a nervous first date for her since mother had warned
against any such cavorting with soldiers and for him nervous with nothing but
the memories of those muds, fears, and the assorted horrors of war that he
might have lost his touch despite his desire for the society of women, the
timid talk skirting around anything favorite colors, her blue, him black, films,
her romantic comedies, him film noir, songs, her I’ll Get By, him We’ll Meet
Again, the off-hand laughter (she kept calling it a gun and he insisted on
rifle and the occasional blush when in
the newness of the situation one party makes a social blunder (or when the slightest
sexual reference came up although both probably even then sensed they were
headed for the sheets sometime). But moving closer, although not close enough to
break the spell of the darkness they craved in those tender moments the menu of
the day was far removed from what they were talking about, what interested them
that evening.
See our beribboned, clean shaven, slightly flush with the taste of wine in
his mouth soldier boy, let’s call him Adam Jordan which is actually his name so
there need for there to be anything mysterious or nefarious about it, and his perky
blonde date, let’s call her Brenda Dubois for that is her name although she
would not like that information broadcast widely since she is under-age,
under-age for nightclubbing if not for other activities had just a few minutes
before abandoned their darkened safe harbor and stepped to the back of the house
into a back room of the Club, the band’s dressing area, and shared a joint,
marijuana, with Nick Janeway, the famous trumpeter, who was working at the Club
now that he had been discharged from the Army, discharged with a fairly beribboned
uniform which meant that he too had seen serious action in one of the European
theaters of combat although this evening he was wearing the standard tuxedo of
the house band at the Club Martin. As anyone may have guessed Nick and Adam had
served together in Europe and this night Nick had gotten Adam and Brenda through
might and main as his guests for the evening’s entertainment. Might and main since
such elegant supper clubs were booked solid with the regular Manhattan Mayfair
swell who frequented such places bolstered by scores, hundreds of returning
servicemen just off the troop transports and with plenty of dough and desire to
“live it up” after the travails of the European theater.
This night was hardly the first time that Nick and Adam had “flamed” up
(their personal term so the hick other soldiers who were still drinking sodas
or six point two Army beer would not catch on since that “reefer madness” mad rapist
pervert junkie stuff was still making the news, literature and the films) for
they had endured the travails of the slugfest battles of Europe by being
well-doped up when the action cooled off (and decidedly not when in battle as
those medals on their respective uniforms can attest to since both had led squads
from Normandy eastward). This night however was Brenda’s first time, her first encounter
with reefer which previously along with soldiers, sex and about seven other things
she had been warned off by her mother, and while she was thrilled and afraid at
the same time when Adam had broached the question of taking a “hit.” Softened
up by the wine, and frankly by her unquestioned attraction to Adam, she wanted
to be a good sport so on the first hit she inhaled deeply, too deeply. The
mandatory few drags had the equally mandatory effect common among first time
users who treat reefer inhalation the same way as smoking tobacco cigarettes
had fits of coughing which accompany the harsh smoke. Now back at the table Brenda
was just beginning to get a decent buzz off of the stuff.
Brenda thought to herself, beside the million flashing silly thoughts, that Adam was a cool guy, knew some cool
guys and maybe they would get along after all. He sure was attractive enough, for
that read sexy enough as she confided to a girlfriend from work who when that friend
met him had her Adam thoughts and probably ready to catch him if Brenda didn’t work
out, as she could tell by the wandering female eyes that followed Adam when he
was not at table. She had not been sure the first few dates after Adam had
picked her up at a USO dance over in Times Square when she had gone with a
girlfriend in order to support the guys who were coming off the transport ships
by the thousands now that the war in Europe was almost over that they would get
along since he was so worldly and she was just a very bleached blonde from
Brooklyn. He had laughed while they were finishing dinner at that remark and
asked her if she wanted to go back to Nick’s hangout and blow another joint.
Loosened up she agreed and they sat with Nick until it was time for him to
perform.
As Nick headed out of the dressing area to do his work for the night Brenda
and Adam had once again navigated their way back to their darkened corner and
were talking loosely with spurts of giggles on Brenda’s part when Nick and his
fellow band members mounted the small elevated stage several tables away and
began their be-bop swing combo intros. While Brenda and Adam were lighting each
other’s cigarettes (tobacco of course) the house lights dimmed even further and
a tall black woman, maybe thirty or so with a big flower, some kind of orchid
in her pulled back shiny jet black hair, and an elegant fitted deep red gown
with matching slippers that certainly had been recently purchased as Brenda had
seen a copy of a dress like it, war shortages of no war shortages, in one of
the recent issues of a women’s magazine and began singing A Fine Romance in a sultry, sexy, sassy, voice that would make Jehovah’s
angels bow their heads and weep for their inadequacies. Brenda with all kinds
of buzzes going through her head looked over at Adam who was watching and
nodding encouragement to Nick as he played an interlude solo break and thought,
a fine romance, a fine romance indeed.
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