A Few Plumes Short of a Fan?

My showgirl just might be.  Or not.

At 76, the age when women in my family are just hitting our stride, she's pretty much a wreck from booze, cigarettes and I hope to find out what else.  She's three and a half years sober ("This time!"--cheerily), and emphysema makes it hard for her to get around although she doesn't have to drag tanks or anything.  She lives in a crappy (im)mobile home in a bleak location (in contrast to mine, in a comparatively lush location).  But she crows, "I have the perfect life! I like to just hole up in my bedroom, every once in a while go in the kitchen, make something to eat, come out here, maybe watch some stocks on tv or something.  I'm through going out!  I been out."

Her resemblance to Miss Havisham ends abruptly as she gets up from the couch to demonstrate a double kick and something called a "shinnay" [phonetic; I've never heard the word before] that turns out to consist of two pirouettes.  She can still kick higher than her shoulders, and she is still graceful.  Though her face doesn't appear to have had anything surgical done to it, her skin is still creamy and unlined at her cheekbones.  No age spots on her hands, just lonnng, slender fingers, nails polished to match that azalea lipstick.  Skinny and grey, she drifts across the tacky living room, telling me over her shoulder, "You don't have to be a genius, y'know.  If you can count to eight, you can do it--five [step], six [step], seven [step], EIGHT [kick]!"

And then come the pictures.  All she has left fit in one manila envelope ["I lost everything else"].  But when they're this good, you don't need a lot of them. 

In 1955, Lorraine was luscious in the same style as, but far more beautiful than, Marilyn Monroe--and she could hold her eyes all the way open while being photographed, something Monroe never looked like she could do.  I flip through the 8 x 10 glossies, not a studio portrait among them, all onstage or backstage.  There she is, wearing pineapples and parasols on her head, and a turban with what looks like a wicker end table sticking out of it.  And a two-piece swimsuit and 7" heels and white "opera hose" (fishnets).  Or a Scarlett O'Hara outfit with marabou feathers on top of its several dozen yards of ruffles over the giant hoopskirt with a train and a matching parasol and picture hat with sequins and velvet--all pink.  "And if you think that didn't weigh 50 pounds, you're crazy," she observes.  "Just the HAT."

There she is, out on the town.  The hunk looks familiar.  "Um, Lorraine, is that Howard Keel?" in his absolute prime. 

"Yeah, he was my boyfriend." 

"Who's this guy?"

"Oh.  That's Scrappy.  My third husband.  He was 28 years older."

Scrappy?

She has no money.  I have very little time.  But I gave her a homework assignment, told her to call me when she's done.  We'll see (five, six, seven, EIGHT!)--

Comments

[Tom Montag]

Here ya go then. This should be fun!

[chorusgirl]

Shinnay is a Chene' (sp) turn. It's French for "chain" and refers to a series of simple turns one learns in ballet. You stand at one corner of the studio and keep your eyes on a "spot" across the room. You turn across the floor, whipping your head around to look at the spot and not get dizzy until you reach the other side. That apostrophe up there is suppossed to be an accent on the "e".

[fred1st]

Well there's no telling where this is going, but we'll sure enjoy the ride. And btw, got a visit this morning from a reader of your page in Blacksburg, just up the road.