What are we tired about? God knows. Perhaps because winter is so long in
passing. Or, perhaps, because spring will be so long in passing. Tired of
waiting for tomorrow.
So you dance for us. We have paid 50 cents each to see the show. This
abominable orchestra is out of tune. The fiddles scrape, the piano makes
clattering sounds. And you, madam, are tired. The gay purple tights, the
gilded bodice, the sultana's toque, or whatever it is, do not deceive us.
Your legs, madam, are not as shapely as they were once. And your body--ah,
bodies grow old.
Yes, we are not deceived, madam. You have come to us--last. There were
others before us, others reaching far back, to whom you gave your youth.
Others for whom you danced when your legs were, perhaps, like two spring
mornings, and when your body was, perhaps, like a pretty laugh.
* * * * *
Here are the tired ones. From the South Clark and South State streets
bed-houses. The kinds of faces that the smart movie directors hire as
"types" for the underworld scenes or the slum scenes.
It is Saturday afternoon and we walked up and down the street, looking at
the lithographs outside the decrepit theater fronts. And when it got too
cold to walk any farther we dropped in, forking out four bits for the
privilege.
Pages:
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316