And the ladies of
the chorus grin vacuously and kick their pink tights. One, two, kick! One,
two, kick! I wanna be--in Tennuhsee. One, two, kick! The third one on the
other side looks all right. No, too fat. There's one. The one at the end.
Pretty, ain't she? Who? You mean the one with the long nose? No,
whatsamatter with you? The one with the eyes. See. She's bending over now.
Some kid.
Two a.m. outside. Dark streets. Sleepy chauffeurs dreaming of $10 tips.
All-night Greek restaurants. Twenty-second Street has gone to bed. But we
sit in the warm cabaret, devilishly proud of ourselves. We're a part of
the gang that stays awake when the stars are out.
And the elfin-faced one cuts loose. Attaboy, girlie! Legs shooting through
the tobacco smoke. Eyes like drunken birds. A banjo body playing jazz
capers on the air. It ain't art. But who the devil wants art? What we want
are conniption fits. This is the way the soul of Franz Liszt looked when
he was writing music. Mumba Jumba had a dream that looked like this one
night when the jungle moon arched its back and spat at his black linen
face.
All right. Three a.m. Bring out the lions and the Christians now. The
master of ceremonies is a fat man with little, ineffectual hands and a
voice that bows and genuflects and throws itself politely worshipful at
our feet.
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