With apologies to Mister Sondheim
Photo #8
Follies of 1933
The photo had been taken in October, stiff, awkward, acting it out: Essie in her braids, Minnie with her broad cheeks, Gert with her cornhusker's calluses, Jean with her sensitive stomach, Glad with her homesickness.
They'd met at a casting call, five little girls from West Nowhere, Broadway baby wannabes, quavering voices, high kicks, laughter and hope and dreams. They took the apartment on West 48th Street together.
A decade later, they'd scattered and lost touch. Two had found jobs, one was dead at the hands of a back-alley abortionist, two had gone home, fleeing, seeking the solace of familiarity.
You're feeling cheerful today, deb.
Oddly enough, I am.
But these sepia-toned photos bring out my Big Bad.
Heh.
It's always fun to torture fictional strangers.
Photo 1:
The picture was all that was left of the fur coat, the fashionable hat and even of the square. He assumed the pigeons, or their great-grandchildren, survived. The picture lay at the bottom of a cigar box, with Cuban seals and flaking paper labels. The box also held a lead soldier, missing one leg, and a pile of letters with foreign stamps, letters asking about jobs, about visas, about connections. He dumped the pile in the barbecue grill and lit a match. The ashes swirled up to meet the ashes of the forgotten world, leaving a shining pool of lead.
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Photo 3
"He's still worried we're not going to get away with it."
"Nonsense, Simone. I'm perfectly confident. Rudolph, how many times have I told you that I hate having my picture taken?"
"What are you going to do with your share, Simone?"
"Oh, Jacqueline, there's this wonderful villa in Nice, it's huge, you should see it."
"Ladies, it's never wise to spend the money before you steal it."
"Leon, you're too practical to be any fun."
"But practical is going to make us rich."
Oh Ginger, how wonderful!
One more: Photo #8
It was a holiday weekend in the city, and the five of us were giddy at the freedom from uniforms, schedules and nuns. Judith's parents were hosting us, but we never saw them from Friday afternoon till Monday morn. It was the correct and polite-to-invisibility butler, Charles, who made our arrangements, sent the car, picked up the packages from our shopping trips, booked tickets for the show, arranged our meals, and saw us and our luggage off early Monday morning. That weekend is a blur of laughter and silliness. It's Charles who stands out, stationary in a whirlwind, black and white in a carousel of colors.
They're all such escapees from a 60's/70's caper movie. You expect to see George Segal wander by.
