“I can fox-trot, I’m not all that young. But I doubt if that bunch of disappointed harpists can play one. Eunice, can you tango?”
“Try me, just try me! Learned it when Irene Castle was alive—and with this new body I’m eight times as good as I was then. Been teaching it to Winnie. Do you have a firm lead?”
“Firm enough for you, wench. I’m going to flag the maitre d’—it’s possible that they can play one. It’s the only tempo that has stayed evergreen through all the passing fads.”
“Of course, Jake. Because the tango, danced correctly, is so sexy that you ought to get married afterwards. See if they can play one.”
But they were interrupted by busboys arriving with four swivel chairs and Joan decided that it would be polite to sit in hers a while, since she had made a fuss over chairs. Then sandwiches arrived and more champagne and she found she wanted both—bubbly to make her tiddly and sandwiches to soak it up so that she wouldn’t get tiddly too fast. Roberto and Winifred, returned to the table; Winnie said, “Oh, food! Good-bye, waistline! Bob, will you love me when I’m fat?”
“Who knows? Let’s operate and find out,” he answered, reaching for a sandwich with one hand and champagne with the other.
“Winsome, pour that Coke into the wine bucket and have champagne.”
“Joanie, you know I mustn’t. My Nemesis.”
“But this time there’s food to go with it. . . and not the other hazards.”
Winifred blushed. “I’ll get drunk. I’ll get silly.”
“Roberto, will you promise this poor child that, if she passes out, you’ll get her home safely?” (What’s safe about home, twin? You ought to hang out a red light.) (Nonsense, Eunice! Our man won’t marry us—so what do you want me to do? I don’t give myself to men I don’t respect—and I’ve got years to make up for. I’m nearly ninety-five years old—and knocked up—and healthy—and can’t hurt anyone physically and won’t hurt anyone socially . . . a man’s pride or anything else. Why shouldn’t I be ‘No-Pants’ Smith’?)’ (‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ Boss, your Bible-Belt background is chafing you again. Certainly sex is no sin—but you don’t really believe it.) (I do so! Always have. I’ve been almost enough of a busybody to keep you happy. Why do you needle me?) (Beloved Boss. You’ve shown amazing talent for juggling eggs and I’ve enjoyed every second of it and I hope you have, too.) (You know I have. So much I’m scared of losing my judgment. My caution, rather, Eunice, I never dreamed how much more it is, to be a woman. It’s our whole body.)
The cabaret was crowded now; the lights changed and the floor show began—two comics. Joan listened, tried to look amused, and tried to amuse herself by trying to remember how long ago she had heard each “new” gag. She could see only one improvement in the routines: The “dirty” story of her (his) youth had disappeared. Being based on shock of breaking taboo, the dirty story had bled to death when there were no more taboos. There was sex humor—the comics used plenty of it; sex remained forever the most comical thing on a weary globe. But it was harder to work out real comedy than it once had been simply to shock. But she applauded the comics as they left. There was a black-out and the dance floor changed instantly into a farmyard scene—she found herself more intrigued by trying to guess the mechanics of that “magic” than she had been by the comics.
The farmyard set was used for one of the oldest (possibly the oldest, she decided) of all sex stories, and it was done in stylized, very old symbols in both costume and props: the Farmer, the Farmer’s Daughter, and the City Slicker with his Hundred-Dollar Bills. It was pantomime, with theme music from the orchestra.
She whispered to Jake, “If she’s a farm girl, I’m Adolf Hitler.”
“What do you know about farms, my dear?”
“Plenty, for a city boy. On one nearly every summer when I was a kid. Followed the harvest in high school and college—good money, plus occasionally a farm girl. Always was a peasant at heart—wanted the biggest manure pile in the valley…and got it, save that it was cash. Jake? Couldn’t we buy an abandoned farm? A simple little place, with drawbridge and moat, and our own plant and water supply? Get out of this dying city?”