Vivian In Red (10 page)

So as long as Allen kept helping him out like this with the new material, things were swell. And for his part, Allen seemed fond enough of Milo not to mind so much. They all seemed to help each other out, Milo noticed. The office girls would cover answering the phones if one of them stepped out for a bite, or the fastest typist, Helen, would sometimes do some of the other girls’ work for them if they were having a tough day.

There was no acknowledgment of this. They just went ahead and did it. Milo suspected that none of them wanted to see one of their own out there on a bread line.

Milo was practicing the newest tune—sentimental slop rhyming “love” with “dove”—when he nearly jumped out of his chair. “I don’t have time for this!” bellowed the manager at Mrs. Smith, the head secretary with her brown hair slicked back on her head and pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. “Get me another girl, and one that can type this time!”

He saw him stomp his way back to his office, and Milo figured it was time for a lunch break, anyhow. He paused by Mrs. Smith’s desk. She was a widow, poor thing, a waif of a creature, of indeterminate age. She carried herself with an air of weary maturity, and her hairstyle was old-fashioned, but when she flashed a rare and cheerful smile, she could be a fresh young girl of twenty.

“You okay?”

She sighed and glanced briefly up from the carriage of her Corona. “Swell. Know any girls who can take dictation, read music, and type like the wind? If so, send them my way. Miss Jones got herself engaged.”

“Another one bites the dust.”

“Poor dear found herself the last of a dying breed: an independently wealthy man who goes fishing for a wife in the steno pool.”

“I’m off to lunch. Want me to bring you back a sandwich?”

“Sure, I’ll live the high life today with a pastrami on rye.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Milo himself wasn’t going just to eat lunch. He was going to Macy’s to buy his mother a present.

He had never given his mother a proper present that he could remember, not even when the tailor shop was in the money; he never earned his own keep before, is why. And with a few paychecks now, and a few lunches skimped on and coins set aside, Milo was prepared to buy his mother something nice, something just for her, that couldn’t be given to anyone else like the last piece of brisket that she would never take.

He strode at a rapid clip through the silky cool of middle September to Herald Square. As he passed under the awning of Macy’s, he stepped into a whole other world, where the Depression didn’t exist, or everyone liked to pretend so, anyhow. And if a person pretended hard enough, couldn’t he almost make it true? After all, with those stout pillars supporting floor upon floor of merchandise, you just had to know that people were buying these things with some kind of money.

Milo had already made up his mind, so once inside the store, it was a simple matter of finding the ladies’ overcoats. His $18 weekly pay wasn’t enough to afford an extravagant item, and his mother would never wear anything too fancy anyhow, these days. Just last week the Shapiros nearly got evicted, after all, and it was only passing the hat around the neighbors that kept the locks off the doors for a little longer. It wouldn’t do to flounce around in fancy clothes, considering.

But a nice, new, warm overcoat for about $10, that much he could do, and Chana Schwartz would probably even wear it.

Soon enough, a headache gripped his face from east to west. He was standing, in all places, in front of perfumes, instead of overcoats. He suspected that he would need the elevator, but had no idea where it was.

“Who’s the lucky lady?”

“I’m sorry, miss?”

That voice chimed in him like a bell, so familiar, yet he had never set foot in the store before. He turned away from his search for elevators and brought his nearsighted gaze to the shop girl leaning on the glassy perfume counter in front of him. The posture was familiar, too, somehow…

“Who’s the lucky lady receiving a gift from a good-looking fellow like you?”

“Ah, well, my mother, if I can find the overcoats, that is. It’s getting cold soon, see…”

“How nice for her to have such a thoughtful son.” The girl stepped away from Milo and he thought that was the end of that, until she walked to the end of the counter, lifted a section on a hinge, and stepped through. An older woman behind the counter barked at her, “Miss Adair! You come back to your post, right now.”

Miss Adair paid the woman no mind, despite the other lady’s reddening outrage. Milo began to stammer, “Miss, I don’t want you to get in any trouble, I’m sure I can find—”

“Right this way,” she said, moving past him without seeming to have heard. He was able to easily keep an eye on her dark green dress, and the sway of her hips as she wound through the crowd brought more attention than just his. She paused before the elevator. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mr.…”

“Short,” Milo replied. It was already automatic to say so. He’d decided to go ahead and keep the new, American-sounding moniker that he’d gotten accidentally.

Miss Adair went on, watching the elevator doors and tucking one errant curl behind her ear. “I’m getting fired any time now, Mr. Short. I’m quite sure that the only reason I haven’t been told this news is because they need me to stand behind the counter and gush rapturously about all the various eaux de parfum until a new girl can start. In fact, I couldn’t care less if I were selling tin cans of beans, which is probably why they’re firing me.”

The elevator door slammed open, and the dark-haired Miss Adair preceded him inside. “I might as well see you all the way to your destination, wouldn’t you say?” She turned to the elevator man. “Ladies’ coats, please.”

“Please, don’t do this on my account,” Milo replied, loosening his collar and swallowing hard.

“No, no, I’m getting canned on my own account entirely, I assure you.”

At the appropriate floor—Milo didn’t even notice the number, he was too busy feeling ashamed of helping this pretty girl get sacked—Miss Adair preceded him out onto the floor. “Mr. Short? Are you coming?”

He hurried along beside her. Her low heels clicked along the shiny floor. “You see, I used to have a job I enjoyed very much. Only I had a few bad days and a boss who was none too indulgent, and so I was out on my keister and ended up a salesgirl.”

“What job was that?”

“I was a secretary at Jerome Remick. Now that was a job. Seeing the performers come in and out, listening to the pianos all day, of course I did take more than my share of aspirin, between the typewriters and the pianos—”

“We’ve met before!” exclaimed Milo, gently touching her elbow to get her attention. She stopped indeed, looking pointedly from his hand on her arm up to his face. Milo released her arm and flushed. “I apologize. I just—I remember you. A few months ago, you were kind enough to explain to this naïve young man exactly what a song plugger was.”

She squinted at his face and Milo felt a warming flush creep up his jaw. This close, he could see she was just about the same height as him. “Oh yes. I should have remembered: Mr. Short. What an interesting name.”

“Used to be Schwartz.” Milo did not elaborate on the circumstances of the change.

“I see, Mr. Used to Be Schwartz. You didn’t get the job, alas.”

“No, but I got another one down the block. I’m plugging for TB Harms.”

“Well. Good for you. Now, the girls up here can help you find the perfect coat, and I’m off to resume getting fired.”

“Thank you, Miss Adair. I hope you don’t get fired.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t waste your hope on that. Because I don’t think I mind at all.” She’d begun to walk backward, though this meant the shoppers had to scatter out of her way as she went. “And you may call me Vivian, just in case we happen to see each other again someday.”

Back at TB Harms, Milo presented the sandwich to Mrs. Smith with a flourish and a bow, then slammed his office door shut and about knocked Allen right off his seat with the shock of it.

“Watch it, would you? A fella can’t even think.”

“Sorry. Guess I decided to be extra energetic today.” Milo propped the coat box in a corner, his mind replaying that backwards walk of Vivian the perfume girl, the dame sauntering away with the faintest smile playing over her lips.

“The hour that I first knew you were mine…” Allen mumbled.

“Gee, Allen, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Shut up. Trying to rhyme it.”

Milo tilted back in his wheeled office chair and chanted the line to himself a few times. Then he sat up and blurted: “Softly came a melody divine.”

“Heh. Not bad.” Allen leaned forward to scribble.

“What are you up to, anyhow?” Milo stood up from his chair to come look over his friend’s shoulder. From this vantage, he could see the pink of Allen’s scalp through his wispy blond hair. In front of him on the desk was some manuscript paper, and a melody scrawled in smeared ink.

Allen looked around; though they were alone in their office, it had glass walls starting halfway up, and the blinds were open. “Don’t tell the boss, eh? But in between plugging I’ve been working on something of my own. Only, I’m rotten with the words.”

“You gonna cut me in on the credit now?” Milo walked away, shaking his head.

“You just became my lyricist.”

“Wisenheimer.”

Milo put his hands on the keys and played the song again Allen had just taught him that morning. He was already thinking of who might like to hear it. There was a new act that had been coming around looking for material, a boy-girl set of cousins from St. Louis… He said out loud to Allen, “This one might be perfect for the Debonairs, you think? I heard that they’re auditioning for George White…”

“I wasn’t kidding about the lyrics. Why not? You go around making up words to songs all the time, and you come up with rhymes without even trying.”

“Ha, you did it just now.”

“Must be contagious. C’mon, it’ll be a few laughs, maybe. We’ll work on it in slow times here, or maybe after hours.”

“Where we gonna do that?” Milo continued to play, the tune settling into his fingers like they had a memory of their own. “I don’t want to sit around here any more than I already do.”

“My apartment. I’ve got a piano even.”

“No kidding?” Milo paused the song. “Well, sure. After work tomorrow we’ll make like the Gershwins and be rich and famous in no time.”

“Ah, don’t make fun.”

“I’m not, at least not very much. But look, I feel so lucky just to get this far, I’m not gonna get my hopes too far up.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure of failure, we’ve got nothing to lose.” Allen bent back over his music.

“That strategy seems good enough for the government, eh?” and Milo switched tunes on the piano:
“These so-called happy days, my friend, should like to drive me round the bend…”

“Suit yourself, Short. I’m going to aim a little higher than that if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is all the same to me, now shut up so I can do the work I’m getting paid for.” Milo switched back to the tune he was learning, for the Debonairs or some other hopeful musical act, also likely to fail but with a faint spark of a chance at stardom. It seemed to him that the whole system was powered by that little spark: his own job, plus the costumers, set builders, singers, actors, producers. He glanced around at Allen, hands still playing the tune, as his friend scowled over his song.
Hope away, pal. Keeps us all in business.