The Chorine's Dilemma

A climate refugee finds her break in the promised land.

She had come to California with her parents when they'd all left their home in Kansas.  Garden City was founded in 1878 and was all about agriculture and the various industries that hung off it.  Between the fall in wheat prices from the bumper crop of 1931 and the dust storms from the drought across the Great Plains, things got pretty bad.  Her dad lost his job at the grain elevator and suddenly there was no way to make the family's small farm break even.

 

She remembered riding in the back of the truck as they went through the Southwest, heading towards the promised land.  Well, her Ma had promised that things would be better there.  Her Pa just listened, his lips a tight line.  They'd stopped in Albuquerque and stayed the night with Pa's sister, Edna.  Her cousins had looked pretty raggedy, long arms and legs sticking out of clothes too small. 

 

She had overheard Pa and Aunt Edna's low-voiced talking.  I think we may have a lead on something that's better than working in the orange groves. Once we get settled, I'll let you know. You, Bill and the kids could get out of here.  We can't leave yet. Bill's Ma is sick and we're still helping out at the store, even though it don't bring us nothin' more than some canned goods.  In the end, Edna and Bill stayed in New Mexico, limping along on the proceeds of the store they inherited.

 

They travelled Route 66, stopping the next night in Kingman, Arizona.  At the time, she'd thought nothing of it, but in retrospect, it was really more of a wide spot in the road.  It wasn't even a one stoplight town.  They'd found a place with a room for the four of them. She still writhed thinking about how the minute the owner'd seen their Kansas plates, he demanded cash up front. And then asked if she and her brother had lice.  They'd parked in the rear and slunk into the room, hauling their stuff out of the car, so it wouldn't get stolen.

 

The last day was horrible. They'd been hot before, but never like this. Through the Mojave desert, the heat shimmered in waves on the black top. She and her brother couldn't even bicker. Just leaning back against the seats was hard enough. And it was so dry, they didn't even realize they were sweating out what little energy they had left after the days on the road. Ma gave them water every hour or so until the bottle went dry.

 

And then they were there.

 

They crossed through the Cajon Pass and then downhill into San Bernadino, through Los Angeles and to the coast.  The glorious Pacific Ocean. She'd never seen so much water, sparkling as it moved. They stood at the beach, watching the sun set, lighting the sky on fire.

 

Ma's cousin, Lou, had a job at one of the canneries in Long Beach. One of the foremen was sweet on her.  Lou thought she could convince him to take on Ma in one of the cleaner jobs.  Lou had said it was awful work, sweeping up fish guts. Ma said it was a job and she'd be grateful.

 

They had lived with Lou for a couple of months until Pa found his own job and they got a room of their own.  She and Bobby started school and every day had been a trial.  Why can't you talk right?  Dirty Okie!  Go back home!

 

Bobby'd found his way out on the baseball diamond.  Nobody mocked his accent when he threw no hitters against the neighboring school.  Suddenly, it didn't matter that his clothes were old and shoes worn.  He got scouted for a minor league team and that was that.

 

She'd had a lot more trouble. The girls were mean, and the boys thought she was easy because she was poor.  She wasn't particularly good at school. And she wasn't particularly pretty. Mostly she tried to stay out of the way.

 

Things all changed when Lou gave her mother a bag of old clothes her kids had outgrown.  There were the usual mended dresses and darned sweaters. Some shirts and trousers. A few pairs of shoes, including a nearly new pair of patent leather Mary Janes. 

 

Oh, Ma, look at that! Can I try 'em?  They fit perfectly and she almost looked around to see if there was a fairy godmother. But when she walked in them, they made a clacking sound. What in the world? She looked at the bottom of the shoes. Ah, taps! These were tap shoes. She couldn't wear these. Or could she?

 

Her mother suggested prying the taps off and keeping the shoes for church.  No, Mama! Leave the shoes! I've seen tapping in the movies. I want to learn.  There's no money for lessons, honey. Let's just make ‘em regular shoes.  She shook her head. No. I can learn by myself. And she took a few steps. Clack, clack, clack.  This was fun. She could do it.

 

She practiced every day. And she got faster and faster and better and better.

 

Months after she'd gotten the shoes, she realized that maybe her mother had been trying to save them all from the incessant tapping and clacking.  But by then, she had found her way into a dance studio, paying her way with cleaning after class.

 

Once she found dance, she didn't care about the slights at school anymore. She kept her head down and did the necessary to get through.  At the studio, she was a star. She could do the most intricate steps after seeing them once. She could improvise along with music she was hearing for the first time.

 

One day there was a stranger in the back of the studio watching them all dance. The teacher really put them through their paces. The most complicated routines, all of them doing - or trying to do - the same motions, the same sounds in synch with each other and the music.

 

The teacher picked out the best of them to do solo routines, starting with her. She gave it her all and finished with a flourish, a huge smile on her face as the sweat dripped into her eyes.

 

When class was over, the man came up to her, leading with his card.  Max Scheyer, talent scout and agent, at your service. You're impressive. Great moves and a great body.  She smiled at the first and knit her eyebrows at the second.  Thank you.

 

We're looking for girls to dance in the chorus for a new film by Busby Berkeley. It's going to be huge and he needs more girls for the big finale.  I think you've got what it takes. The starting salary is $40 per week.  And that was all it took.  Yes, I'm in.

 

She loved the work. Berkeley created huge pieces with many dancers. 50-60 of them working together, dancing, smiling, and making intricate patterns.  She loved the salary too. It gave her options. She gave some of it to her parents and some she saved. But most of it went to her own little room, decent clothes, and lessons.  She took lessons to improve her posture, her elocution, and to make conversation.

 

She loved the big choregraphed numbers, but she also knew she could do more.  She wanted to be a star. A big one. More than just dancing with Fred Astaire. Ginger had moved from dancer to actress. So could she.

 

She had asked herself what she was willing to do for a role. She knew, just knew, deep in her heart, that if she was cast, just once, in a speaking role, she would break through.  She'd heard about what girls were asked to do to get their shot.  And she still wasn't sure what she'd do if it came to her.

 

And then she was called to the studio to meet one of the producers. He'd seen her when he'd walked through the set.  She dressed carefully. Not too modestly, not too scantily, aiming for the sweet spot that said maybe, but not just now.  Scent, floral, not musk, just a little at the pulse points.

 

The secretary - a knockout herself - picked up the phone on her desk, and announced her. A few words were exchanged, and the secretary waived her in.  The producer rose and greeted her.  Something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Stronger?

 

A tough question to navigate. Coffee would be too jittery, stronger too forward, so it had to be tea.  Tea with lemon and honey, please.  Just the right note. Ladylike, but asking for more than the usual, with sweet and tart notes to show she wasn’t some insipid miss. Someone interesting, worth some extra effort.

 

Thank you for coming in. I've seen your work and I think you can do more. Are you interested? Ready to be the one talking and not just dancing?  And she nodded.  And he moved closer. She held her ground and asked when do I start?  She managed to get out of the office with a screen test and a dinner date.

 

And so began her acting career. Her first role keeping him in a state of unconsummated interest.  She went on to other roles, some greater than others, but her first always stayed with her.

 

She'd played it just right, giving enough to make her audience of one believe it was real, to keep him invested and engaged, creating the illusion of possibilities without giving anything more than she wanted, while getting what she needed.

 

Calibration - that's the key to acting.