BernadetteMiller.com

                                                                        REVOLVING DOOR     

 

     Ever since she was sixteen, Maggie Murphy had worked in the small Broadway bar--unable, somehow, to quit. One Christmas, preparing for work, she thoughtfully studied her reflection above the cluttered dresser. A towering, fat woman of forty, she admired her black-dyed curls and smooth, white complexion that was like Cass, her pretty mother.  Then, she questioned herself. How come, in spite of her good looks, the bar was all she had? She suddenly remembered her mother brushing her dark curls and pushing her away. 

     "Kid, I ain't got time for kisses. I gotta land another husband!"

     Maggie felt a sharp pang at the memory. Repressing the thought, she painted her nails a deep scarlet. She couldn't blame her mother for ignoring her. Finding a husband was rough! She sighed, her glance skimming the rumpled bed. She was unhappy because she didn't have a man. Last year, there was Eddie, a real handsome guy with red hair. She frowned. A moocher, spending all her money. Then, two years ago there was Jack until he found someone else. Who was before that?'

     Buttoning her blouse, she shook her head impatiently. Why drag up the past? If she stopped depending on the bar for her social life and got a respectable job, she'd make friends and get married, instead of sleeping with bums. Yeah, it was time to smarten up. Tomorrow, she'll quit for sure.

     Brightening, she donned her coat and high heels, and paused before the bottle of Scotch on the dusty foyer table. No more of that stuff! She clumped determinedly down the tenement stairs and past the wreath-decorated door. Outside, it was eerily dark. The heavy clouds threatened snow.

     Maggie headed along Seventh Avenue and turned the corner to Broadway. Shivering from the cold, she longed for a comforting drink of Scotch, but she soon reached the cozy This 'N That Tavern. Inside, she scanned the familiar orange ring ceiling lamp, wall cartoon posters, and a pool table in the rear. The room looked festive with tinsel streamers that celebrated  Christmas. 

     Wee Willie, the janitor, was sweeping as she entered the room. He was a big, ugly ex-boxer who wore a red turtleneck sweater over blue jeans. Beaming at Maggie's arrival, he dropped the broom and eagerly patted her behind.

     "Hey Babe, when are we gonna make it?"

     She glanced at his dented nose, the whitish scar across one cheek, and his twisted mouth. "I still ain't interested," she said, shuddering.

     Starting to work, she picked up a clean rag from the bar's lower shelf, and polished the wooden bar until it gleamed. Then, as usual, she folded her arms on the bar and awaited the regulars--as though welcoming familiar guests to her home.

     The "Odd Couple" entered first: a tall, mustached Negro nicknamed, "The Red Baron," and Tuck, his diminutive white roommate who had a blond ponytail. 

     "Hiya, Mistah Fashion Plate!" Maggie said, grinning. "Who's the big designer today?"

     Tuck shyly pivoted, spreading his cape to reveal a matching vest. "Givenchy," he said softly. 

     She whistled her approval. "This Givchee deserves a treat. Tell 'em the fuck's on me! Ooh, what I said." Coyly, she pressed her red-lacquered nails against her scarlet-painted mouth. "Like in television--bleep bleep." She poured drinks. "Two bleep bleep Bourbons coming up!"

     A cue stick clicked omniously in a corner. "Get over here, Bubbala."

     His smile fading, Tuck grabbed the drinks and hurried to the pool table.

     Maggie sighed. Poor Tuck was lonely. He could use a friend like her.

     "Gee, gimme a break, huh?" Wee Willie said, tugging at her arm.

     She brushed him aside. "Quit pestering!"

     "Just cause I ain't much to look at don't mean I ain't good in bed."

     "Huh! Just wants a lay. Like all the others. I said I ain't interested, so get lost!"

     She quickly dried her hands on a paper towel, and began pouring beer as Richard entered with George and Joe-the-Pro, an ex-actor.  Richard, an ex-writer, was Maggie's favorite. Tall and blond and wearing a pea jacket over khaki pants, he was lots of fun but never asked her out. If she wasn't a barmaid, she thought, a nice guy like that might marry her. 

     George, an ex-drummer who now drove a cab, studied his companions with solemn, owlish eyes. "No horsing around this time," he advised his friends. "Or we'll be late for Wally's party."

     Surprised at this possible opportunity to meet people outside the bar, Maggie stopped wiping the liquor cabinet. She smiled, while fluttering her false eyelashes.

     "Say, I ain't been to a shindig since I don't know when," she said. "How come Wally don't invite me?"

     The men glanced at each other and busily sipped their beer.

     Annoyed at their pointed silence, she exploded. "Well, speak up! Cat got your balls?"

     Richard, frowning, turned to George who whispered something. Then, with a sly grin, Richard stretched up over the bar and grasped a heavy breast. "Sweetheart, don't get your bowels in an uproar over a party. You'd be bored to death."

     Maggie frowned at Richard. "Ha, I'll bet!" Angered by his elusive answer, she removed his hand from her breast and glared at him. "How come Wally's been dropping by here for years, and he don't invite me? I got bad breath or something?"

     Joe-the-Pro exchanged a glance with his companions, and extended his glass dramatically. "Darling," he told Maggie, "your teeth are like stars--they come out at night. And your eyes are pools--cesspools."

     The men laughed, but Maggie, who usually enjoyed their joking, felt insulted. She pursed her lips but said nothing.

     "C'mon, Maggie, you know we all love you," Joe-the-Pro said finally. He stretched upward to offer a pacifying kiss but she moved back.

     With a drink stirer, Richard goosed Joe-the-Pro who lurched with a squeal. "For Chrissakes, cut that out!"

     Maggie roared with laughter. Gee, they did care about her, she thought, pleased at Richard's apparent jealousy for stopping Joe-the-Pro from kissing her.

     "Hey, you clowns," George said, "quit kidding around or there won't be any dames left at the party!"

     "That's right," Richard said, while grinning at Maggie. "Okay, men, duty calls." 

     Playfully, they linked shoulders and marched to the door.

     Despite not being invited to the party, Maggie enjoyed the joking around, and called out, "Coming back aftewards?"

     "Natch!" Richard said.

     Standing by the front window, Maggie wistfully watched the men cross the street, pass the A&P Grocery, and disappear from view. What the hell, she thought. Why not crash the lousy party. She knew where it was. And she had the guts. Like when she was sixteen. Suddenly she remembered how she had quit school after her mother ran off with that gambler. Then how she'd lied about her age so she could get a job in the bar. She frowned at the memory. Painfully, she then recalled how she'd stayed up late one night, waiting for her mother to come home. But it seemed like Cass never wanted to give an opinion on things like Maggie's clothes, especially how she'd looked in a new polka-dot dress.

     "Yeah, yeah, it looks nice, okay?" Cass had said and yawned on the sofa bed. "Now leave me alone. I wanna sleep."

     It seemed like her mother just didn't want to be bothered. Maggie shook her head. Well, no wonder Cass had no time. She was probably worn out. Being a dance hall hostess was no picnic! 

     Feeling uneasy, as though there were other things she didn't want to remember, Maggie stared at the snow drifting lightly past the A&P Grocery. But suppose people at the party figured she had no place else to go--like she was desperate.

     Desperate, ha! She tossed back her head defiantly. Everybody in the bar loved her. They thought she was pretty, and a barrel of laughs. Why, she'd be the life of any party!

     When her shift ended at ten, Maggie rushed back to her uncleaned apartment and rummaged through her bedroom closet, tossing clothes on the unmade bed until she dragged out her sexiest dress. The ankle-length sequined skirt unzipped to the crotch, and the plunging lace bodice emphasized her heavy bosom. She proudly inspected the gown. Boy, when they see her in this, won't the guys be impressed! There were grease spots near the hem. She rubbed at them with spit and stopped. Aw, forget it, she told herself. Nobody would notice. 

     Sucking in her stomach, she struggled into the tight dress. Goddamn, she really was getting fat. Despite her girdle, she barely squeezed into size twenty-two. Shoving aside dresser jars, she carefully reapplied makeup: heavily outlining her eyes, recoating the false lashes, and repainting her lips a vivid, purplish red. She powdered her face until the white skin was as smooth as alabaster. With a red velvet ribbon, she gathered the dyed ebony curls into a tidy ball atop her head. Finally, she splashed on perfume, and checked her appearance in the bathroom's full-length mirror. So she was a little plump, she thought, shrugging. Any real man would appreciate a broad like her. Unzipping the skirt, she fisted her hands on her hips, and twisted this way and that, admiring her butterfly-stocking legs peeping through the slit. What the hell, she was a knockout! Quickly, she finished, donned her fake-fur coat, and hurried outside where it was still snowing lightly.

      Juggling her umbrella and rhinestone purse, Maggie stepped gingerly along the wet streets so she wouldn't ruin her glamorous rhinestone pumps. Wally's apartment was only two blocks away but despite her shivering, she wished it were farther. Her stomach knotted with sudden fear. How should she behave at the party? She wouldn't be a hostess like in the bar, but a guest. She remembered her mother entertaining boyfriends in their Harlem apartment. They hadn't wanted her around. Aw, she was just a kid then and shy. At the party, she'll tell jokes, make 'em laugh! Nervously, she tried recalling a joke but her mind was empty. After loosening up, she'd remember some. But suppose it didn't matter what she said? Suppose they, too, didn't want her around? 

     She'd reached the four-story brownstone. Trembling with fear, she hesitated, ready to return home. C'mon, she coaxed herself, this was her chance to prove she could be liked outside the bar. She'd be so fascinating, they'd have to like her! Reluctantly, she climbed the stoop and paused at the windowed door. She heard bursts of laughter and applause, followed by Joe-the-Pro shouting, "Hey, Wally, you should be on the stage. There's a stagecoach leaving in five minutes!"

     Another burst of laughter.

     Then, Joe-the-Pro shouted, "Okay, everybody, settle down and good old George will lead us in Christmas carols." There were enthusiastic replies of, "Let's sing!" Their voices drifted softly through the wallpapered hallway: the men's deep baritone and the ladies' high sopranos. 

          Silent night, holy night,

          All is calm, all is bright.

          'Round yon virgin, mother and child...

     Impetuously, Maggie pressed the mailbox buzzer. The singing faded as the guests quieted to greet the new arrival. Terrified by the sudden stillness, she waited for Wally to open the building door. Her heart thumped so hard, she was sure of an attack, but seeing him emerge from the first apartment, and open the door, she pulled herself together. Smiling, she shouted in the wallpapered hallway, "Hiya, Wally!  Surprise! Surprise!"

     An ex-comic and now a shoe salesman, Wally stood there, staring. He was a chubby, round-faced little man wearing a floral sport shirt over dark trousrs. Flustered, he said finally, "Uh...nice to see you, Maggie." He finally composed himself. "Come on in."

     Deeply relieved at his welcome, she stooped to kiss his cheek and exclaimed joyfully, "Wally, you old bastard, I busted your party!" With a bright smile and swaying hips, Maggie followed him into his large, studio apartment with its lighted tree at the bay window opposite a double bed. In the room's center, gathered around a long, makesift dinner table, the guests stared at her. She hesitated, feeling awkward. Suppose they thought, like Cass, that she was dumb and ignored her? 

     Sparkle! she told herself. Shine! Don't give them time to think about it.         

     As soon as Wally hung up her coat in the foyer closet, she grabbed him with an affectionate squeeze. "C'mere you little sexpot. Aha, now I gotcha!" Playfully, she dragged him down onto the double bed where he struggled to extricate himself.

     George shook his head, groaning, "Oh, boy, there goes our party!"

     Ignoring him, Maggie rose, grinning at having everyone's attention, and was eager to greet the guests, staring at her, open-mouthed. She tugged at her girdle riding up under her breasts, and turned to Wally who struggled to rise from the bed. "Well, how's about introducing me?" 

     Deeply blushing as he straightened his trousers, Wally stammered, "Uh...uh..."

     What the hell, she'd do it herself, Maggie thought. She turned to a blue-suited man, intending to greet each guest in turn. Beaming, she stuck out her hand. "Hiya, I'm Maggie. What's your name?"

     "Tom," he responded cooly, and sipped his drink.

     In the silence, her arm dropped heavily to her side. She waited. Nobody said anything. Bewildered, Maggie looked for Richard. They'd had such fun in the Bar. He'd help her out of this fix. She spotted him seated beside a skinny blonde wearing a blue, velvet jumpsuit. Maggie sashayed to the sofa, and happily squeezed next to Richard. 

     Smiling, she said, "Hiya, Gorgeous, having fun?"

     "Until you came," he muttered, his face flushing as he turned away.

     "Whaddya mean?" she said, surprised and hurt.

     "Forget it." He stared, embarassed, into his empty coffee cup.

     Stunned, she scanned the disapproving faces, and frantically searched for something funny to say. "Are you kidding?" she proclaimed in a loud voice, "This party was like a goddamn funeral. It needed a live wire like me to wake it up. Wake the funeral--get it? Ha! Ha! Ain't that a scream?"

     "Who is she?" whispered the blonde beside Richard.

     "A raunchy barmaid," he muttered, grimacing.

     A deep pain knifed Maggie. She swallowed hard and shivered, feeling cold. She shouldn't but maybe one litle drink, just to warm her up. She clapped her hands. "Hey, Wally, how's about some Scotch?"

     "One Scotch, coming up." Smiling awkwardly, her host exited into the kichen.

     An uncomfortable quiet settled over the room. Maggie stared in anguish at the decorated tree with its pool of gifts.

     Returning, Wally placed the bottle and glass on the table, and studied her with sympathy. "Maggie, I...well..." He finally patted the ball of dyed black curls. "Honey, we're real glad you could spend your Christmas with us."

     She stared at his friendly face. "Gee, you don't mind my...my..."

     'Course not," he said cheerfully. "You drink up and have a good time."

     She yearned to tell him what a sweet guy he was but found herslf blinking back tears. Afraid she'd sobber all over him she sipped her Scotch, savoring the hot sting in her throat. Then, brightening, she shouted, "Hey, Tom, wanna hear a good dirty joke?  I know some beauts!"

     George shook his head. "Jesus!"

     The blonde beside Richard rose abruptly, a pained expression on her face. "I hate to be a party pooper," she said, "but it's late."

     Richard jumped up. "Let me get you a cab."

     The blonde smiled. "Okay."

     Confused, Maggie watched Tom rise next, followed by George and Joe-the-Pro, and everybody else driftng toward the clothes closet. "It is getting late," Tom apologized to Wally, who looked disppointed as he distributed coats. 

     "Say, I hope the party ain't breaking up on my account!" Maggie called out anxiously from the abandoned sofa. No one answered. Still fighting tears, she downed another drink, accidentally spilling liquor over her sexiest dress. 

     Goddamn stiffs! Who cared about 'em anyway. She and Wally would have their own party. 

     She poured more Scotch, while Wally openly yawned, waiting for her to leave.

     In the near-emptied room, Maggie stared into her glass, remembering that other night she'd been left alone, when her mother ran off with that gambler. She' begged and begged but Cass couldn't stay.

     "Kid, can't you see that this guy's gonna help me? Soon as we make some money in Las Vegas, I'll send for you."

     That moment never came. But it might have, Maggie thouht, nodding. If her mother hadn't smashed up that gambler's car and gotten killed. Maggie poured more Scotch. If Cass said she'd send for her, that's what she would have done!

     The bottle half-drained, she left Wally sleeping in the armchair. She struggled into her coat and picked up her purse, but forgot her umbrella. Outside, her head spinning, she hesitated as it continued snowing.

     What the hell, why not get a nightcap at the This 'N That? Make her feel good, seeing the old place again.

      Wobbly in the slippery snow, Maggie grabbed at street lamps for support, scolding herself as she floundered along. She shouldn't have gone somewhere she didn't belong! Look at the fun she'd had this afternoon in the bar--not like the crap she took at the party! At Broadway, she slumped against the A&P window to cach her breath, and felt her world tightening around her like a trap she couldn't escape. If only her mother hadn't run off, maybe things would be different... She shook her head sadly. Cass did the right thing by trying to get ahead. Besides, it happened a long time ago. She had to forget it.

     With her makeup smeared and hair askew, she lurched across the street to the crowded This 'N That Tavern, and slammed open the door. She headed straight toward Wee Willie who jumped up from his bar stool. He stood poised under the orange lamp, his sweatered arms outstretched. Yearning now for affection, Maggie sought his embrace, trying not to flinch at his ugliness whiile he fondled her breasts and behind.

     He hugged her tightly beneath the wet coat. "Where yuh been, Babe I missed yuh."

     "Be at my place in an hour," she muttered, and disengaged herself from his embrace as he said joyfully, "Okay!"

     She staggered outside. Around the corner from the This 'N That, where the bar's occupants couldn't see her, she plopped on a slushy curb and finally began crying. She shook her head in bewilderment. Even that night in Harlem, when she got the telegram about her mother dying, she'd just stared at it, unable to feel anythiing. Yet, here she was Maggie thought, forty years old and  bawling her heart out over a lousy party!

     Finally, she wiped her face with her wet coat sleeve. C'mon, it ain't that bad, she thought. She still had the regular customers who said she was fun. Shivering, she buttoned her coat. Yeah, and there was Wee Willie. She'd feel a lot better having a man again, even an ugly ex-boxer like him. She forced a bright smile. Then, patting her curls, she headed home to freshen up for her new love affair.

 

                                                                                           --THE END--