tried to time it so that she had babies when Rod was resting. When that was not
possible, she would go on working until a theatre manager called a halt… usually
as a result of complaints by females not as well endowed. Carol was one of those
fortunate women who got more beautiful as her belly bulged.
She parked her children with Rod’s mother when she and Rod were on the road, but she
usually had one or two with her, a privilege her youngsters all loved. Then, in’ 55
(I think) Rod made a mistake in a bullet-catching illusion, and died on stage.
Carol did his act (or a magic act of some sort with his props) the next night. One
thing was certain: she was not hiding props or rabbits in her costume. When she
started working Reno and Vegas and Atlantic City, she trimmed it down to a G-string.
She added juggling to her act.
Later, after coaching, she added singing and dancing. But her fans did not care what
she did; they wanted Carol, not the gimmicks. Theatres in Las Vegas or Reno showed
on their marquees just ‘CAROLITA!’ – nothing more. Sometimes she would stop in the
middle of juggling and say, I’m too tired to juggle tonight and, anyhow, W. C.
Fields did it better,’ and she would walk out on the runway and stop, hands on her
hips, dressed in a G-string and a smile, and say, ‘Let’s get better acquainted. You,
there! Pretty little girl in a blue dress. What’s your name, dear? Will you throw me
a kiss? If I throw you one, will you eat it or throw it back to me?’ or, `Who has a
birthday tonight? Hold up your hands.’
In a theatre crowd at least one in fifty is having a birthday, not one in three
hundred and sixty-five. She would ask them to stand, and would repeat each name
loudly and clearly – then ask all the crowd to sing Happy Birthday with her, and
when the doggerel reached ‘Happy Birthday, dear – ‘ the band would stop and Carol
would sing out each first name, pointing at the owner: ` – dear Jimmy, Ariel, Bebe,
Mary, John, Philip, Amy, Myrtle, Vincent, Oscar, Vera, Peggy’ – hand cue and the
band would hit it – ‘Happy Birthday to you!’
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If visitors had been allowed to vote, Carolita could have been elected mayor of Las
Vegas by a landslide.
I once asked her how she remembered all those names. She answered, ‘It’s not hard,
Mama, when you want to remember. If I make a mistake, they forgive me – they know
I’ve tried: She added, `Mama, what they really want is to think that I am their
friend – and I am.’
During those ten years I travelled now and then to see my special darlings, but
mostly I stayed home and let them come to me. The rest of the time I enjoyed being
alive and enjoyed new friends, some in bed, some out, some both.
As the decade wore on and I approached one hundred, I found that I was experiencing
more frequently a slight chill of autumn – joints that were stiff in the mornings,
grey hairs among the red, a little sagginess here and there – and, worst of all, a
feeling that I was becoming fragile and should avoid falling down.
I didn’t let it stop me; I just tried harder. I had one fairly faithful swain at
that time, Arthur Simmons – and it tikcled and pleased him when I referred to
myself, in bed with him, as ‘Simmons’ Mattress’.
Arthur was sixty, a widower, and a CPA, and an absolutely reliable partner in
contract bridge – so dependable that I gave up the Italian method and went back to
Goren because he played Goren. Shucks, I would have reverted to Culbertson had
Arthur asked me to; an utterly honest bridge partner is that pearl of great price.
And so is a perfect gentleman in bed. Arthur was no world-class stud – but I was no
longer eighteen and I never had Carols beauty. But he was unfailingly considerate