Rosy Lighting

 I suppose I hadn't really tried staying in one place. It never occurred to me. I had been skipping from one theater to another, performing a handful of acts and reclining in my role as the guest performer. The regular performers were always just a bit sweeter than they would usually be and the audiences leaned forward in their seats, hoping for a new, exciting act. I was never particularly close with the casts and crews I had worked with, but they treated me nice and that was all I really asked for. I liked to stay on people's good side; the side that pities the new kid when she can't find her cap and gloves. I had met many people who would rather face a person's full wrath than their pity, but my pride was not so vital and my poor heart was all too fragile.

In 1924, I had gotten myself an act at the Lindh Theater in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It was a funny little joint with rosy lighting. It couldn't hope to outshine the Ritz Theater that was built a few years later. I had kicked up a bit of dust left by the shoes of the previous performers when I first approached the spotlight. The piano started and I sang a little tune I wasn't particularly fond of, but I sported a doll-like smile to perhaps convince the audience to enjoy it.

I certainly didn't intend to stay, but I did. When they called me back for another performance, I couldn't bring myself to run. I starred in a chorus number that might've been too advanced for me, but I eventually grew into it. The regular cast and crew grew to be a bit sarcastic, but some stayed sweet. It was a funny little joint that insisted it was just another theater, but maybe I just felt like staying.

The night of my first performance at the Lindh Theater, all the performers had gathered backstage, swarming on tiptoe around someone I only got a glimpse of. A bottle of wine was passed around that we graciously tipped into our glasses. One girl shot her arm up to raise her glass, nearly spilling the alcohol. She shouted above the chatter and addressed the girl at the center of the group, "Hattie, dear, I'll drink to you if you promise to split your new paycheck with me."

The group laughed wildly. The girl continued once everyone had calmed, "Honestly, dear, we are sad to lose you-" some others murmured agreement, "but I suppose I should congratulate you on your newfound success. What did you say your new game is?"

Hattie responded, "I'm a typist."

The group erupted into cheers. Another girl chirped, "We'll see how nice you clean up for that job."

Hattie conversed with everyone for a few hours before slinking out the back door, leaving everyone to their quickly emptying glasses. It occurred to me that I had presumably left more than five times the theaters this girl had, yet I had never had such a sendoff. Perhaps, I wanted one. I doubted that anyone at my previous theaters would remember my face. Perhaps, I understood why people wanted to be missed.

For a while, I couldn't tear my mind from that girl. Despite her gaunt features, her expression betrayed a sort of gentleness. At each joke, she smiled softly, soaking up every ounce of laughter. I had only seen her perform once. It was a dance act involving three other girls. The music had been jazzy and wild to the point where I wondered how the girls kept their rhythm. Hattie had been unrecognizably lively with a broad, toothy smile and her chin tilted proudly up.

I don't believe Hattie ever truly left the theater. At first, she appeared in the audience nearly every night. Then, always twice a week. Slowly, the girls stopped greeting her after the show and in turn, her face started to appear only once every other week, but she made sure to never leave entirely. I could always find her pleasantly reposed face among the cigars and hats. During the musical acts, she hummed along with the melody. During the dance numbers, she swiveled her feet under her chair. During the comedic skit, she didn't laugh, but grinned nostalgically. Whenever a new act was introduced, she sat forward in her seat, brimming with anticipation. If I sang a new song, I sought out her face in the crowd, to detect whether she approved of it. She nearly always did. Hattie hadn't been working at the theater by the time I had been fully accepted into the cast, but I liked to assume that she would have stayed sweet to me.