In Theda Bara's Tent (as Reviewed by Publisher's Weekly)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I was used to drinking at Filpot’s with companions twice my age who talked about their blood pressure or at Paddy’s with a bunch of professional bums who didn’t talk, so it was a surprise to enter a speakeasy full of college kids with bright, straight teeth and stylish flapper clothes, all crowded close together at small tables in a dim basement in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Dixieland jazz rang out from a phonograph behind the bar and mixed with the pleasant tinkling of ice cubes and the buzz of intense conversation. Kenny and I worked our way through the smoke to a couple of empty seats, and all eyes swept our way for an instant to see if anyone interesting had just come in.
The tables were so close that conversation was not confined to those sitting together but included three or four tables, and the minute Kenny and I sat down, we became part of it and were expected to join in. Our companions were discussing pending legislation about female clothing. A bill in Utah would mandate fines and imprisonment for women who wore on the streets skirts higher than three inches above the ankle; a bill in Virginia would forbid evening gowns that displayed more than three inches of female throat. A bill in Ohio sought to prohibit any female over fourteen from wearing a skirt that did not reach to the instep.
 Now that women have the vote, one of the flappers said, we no longer have to endure such silly laws.  She fished a packet of cigarettes from her purse, lit one and scrutinized me to see if I was shocked. She thought she was being modern by smoking, a Jazz Age baby rebelling against the Establishment. She smoked awkwardly and self-consciously, waving the cigarette dramatically after each puff but not inhaling.
 Another woman said, Women are masochists. Theyll vote for that legislation. Lets face it. We women have an inferiority complex. They agreed that women were their own worst enemies. Then they debated whether Sacco and Vanzetti were guilty of murder, the merits of Eugene ONeills new play Anna Christie and whether self-control was out of fashion.
“Freud says if you inhibit your libido,” a girl in blood-red lipstick said, “you’ll become mentally ill.”
“I’ll help you keep it uninhibited,” one of the boys said, and they all laughed.
I was secretly depending on Kenny’s social ease to cover my shyness. But like me, he shrank into himself, intimidated by the softness of these young people, the comfort they exuded. It was bitter to think of the money and love that propped them up. Kenny lived in Flushing, Queens, with his mother and sisters who all worked. He had never gone to college and never expected to. He searched the room for a waiter, saw one, waved his arms, and one of the young men said to him, “Order the Champagne. It’s the real McCoy.”
“None of the giggle water in this gin mill is watered,” another boy said, taking a sip of whatever was in his coffee cup. “Charlie and Jack wouldn’t dare.” He was referring to the cousins who owned the Red Head. “Are you fellows Columbia or NYU?”
Kenny said, “Don’t ask,” as if answering would remind him of something horrible. The conversation turned to prudish parents and how the older generation was to blame for ruining the world before passing it on.
“Hit me again, Jose!” one of the young women said when the waiter finally worked his way over to our table. I could see by Kenny’s expression that he had no idea what to order, and I realized his inviting me to get smashed was just tough talk. He had never been to a speakeasy in his life. “Bourbon,” I said to the waiter. “For my pal and me. Straight up.” These words I learned from Freckles.
“What exactly does compare and contrast mean anyway?” one of the girls asked. A discussion began of the merits of various professors they all knew. When the waiter brought the drinks, he set them down and said, “Enjoy!” But he was Spanish speaking, so he pronounced the j as a y, enyoy. When he was out of earshot, the people at our table made fun of him by clinking coffee cups and toasting one another, “Enyoy!” This offended me, the son of immigrants. These fools would probably make fun of my father who said “peanuts butter.” I learned the term was not correct only when I moved to Haverhill. Let them try to earn a living in a foreign city. Let them try to earn a living at all. What could any of them do, other than open a book and memorize the contents?
Kenny took a sip of bourbon and cried, “Holy mackerel! What is this crap?” He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, opened his mouth wide saying, “Ahhhh,” as if hoping the taste would escape. He said, “Water! Get me some water! My mouth’s on fire!” Why this was funny, I had no idea, but everyone at the table started laughing. Kenny stood up, saying, “You’re just a big bunch of idiots,” and turned to leave.  By the time he got to the door, I realized I was going to have to pay for him, so I peeled off some bills, left them on the table and followed him outside. He was way down the sidewalk, walking along with his hands jammed deep into his pockets, his head bent forward. “Kenny!”  He didn’t stop. When I caught up to him, I said, “You owe me a buck.”
“What for?”
“For the bourbon.”
“I didn’t drink it.”
“You still have to pay.”
“Why? I didn’t drink it.”
No use arguing. I’d get him some other time. We took separate subways home, and he, too, probably went to sleep with a heavy heart expecting to be fired the next day.
But the opposite happened. Our rum-running footage was chosen for the next issue and was shown to thousands of people in hundreds of theaters. We both got raises that allowed us to move together to a fourth-floor walk-up in Greenwich Village, above a tattoo parlor, and there we practiced the Charleston in front of our mirror, so we’d be ready if we ever met any girls who would go out with us.