Ethel sipped her wine. She repositioned herself on the loveseat, legs tucked under her, floral skirt spread over her knees and calves, only ankles and bare feet visible. “Anyway, he’s not going by that Mex name. They’re calling him Tom Fillmore, for some reason.”
“Because he’s from Fillmore,” Gertie said.
“What’s Fillmore?” Ethel asked.
“A little farm town north of the San Fernando Valley.”
“What’s it near?” Wilma asked.
“Nothing,” Gertie said.
“So Tomas Gutierrez, a little Mex farm boy from next to nowhere, is about to take over Hollywood and slide inside Ethel’s skirt. Am I getting this right?” Wilma asked.
“Hitting the nail on the head,” Gertie said.
“Oh, honey, let me tell you about this boy. We had him playing a G-man in a tight blue gabardine suit. It was all I could do to put that suit on him. I had to measure his chest and inseam a half-dozen times before I got it right. He just stood there and let me run my fingers across him.” Ethel adjusted her bun. “My goodness, I’m getting flushed just thinking about it.”
“Call him up,” Wilma suggested.
“Really?” Ethel asked.
“Sure, why not?” It was Saturday night. They were adults and could do as they pleased. What could be the harm?
Gertie plucked that question right from Wilma’s brain and offered the answer, “Haven’t you been drinking a bit too much since, well…for this past month?”
Wilma waved her hand like a matador would. “We’re young. We deserve to have some fun.”
Gertie gave in to Wilma’s twelve extra minutes of wisdom once again. “Okay, Ethel, call your dreamy Tomas. Tell him to bring some friends.”
“And more booze,” Wilma added.
“And some records for the Victrola,” Gertie said.
An hour later, Tom and his friends and his booze and his records filled Wilma’s little bungalow. Rather than risk the enmity of her new landlords, Wilma invited the Van Meters to join the party. They brought more booze. Mr. Van Meter spun Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing Sing.” Gene Krupa’s opening drumbeats got Wilma up and dancing. Tom’s friends pushed the furniture against the wall and cleared the floor. Pretty soon, everyone was hopping.
As the music and hum of the little party spread to the houses on either side of Wilma’s, more folks dropped by, more folks were called, more records spun, more booze drunk. Party favors just seemed to appear: a bowl of peanuts, chicken on the grill in the front driveway, a tub filled with ice and bottled beers, marihuana cigarettes for the group milling around by the Van Meter rose bushes, a little mound of cocaine on the bar of the kitchenette, a bag of leftover biscuits from the hash house where Wilma worked, musical instruments. Someone put a uku-lele in Wilma’s hand between records. She launched into a rendition of “Five Foot Two”—just because everyone knew it, and would sing along—then tore into her favorite Benny Bell number, “Everybody Loves My Fanny.” The artist from down the block produced a pair of bongos and joined in. Folks made instruments out of spoons from Wilma’s kitchen drawers and pill bottles and hair combs. One thoughtful pal of Tom’s had brought a kazoo with him. The makeshift orchestra ripped through a handful of numbers, loud and boisterous, if not necessarily skilled.
The booze kept flowing after the orchestra took a break. Mr. Van Meter stayed on top of the Victrola. Mostly, he kept things swinging, spinning sides by Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington, Fletcher Henderson, and the like. When he played Harry James’s hit, “I Had the Craziest Dream Last Night,” Ethel nuzzled up to Tom. You might call it dancing. It looked like something else. The wardrobe girl made a suit of herself and Tom wore it.
If any eyebrows were to be raised, they’d have to wait until the morning. This party was inertia unto itself. Sure, you could hear the water gushing in the toilet every time someone used the tiny bathroom in the middle of the bungalow, but as Wilma pointed out early, “This ain’t a shindig for gentlemen and ladies. It’s for guys and dolls like us.”
The little bungalow swelled and sweated with party guests. The lawn around it was trampled by revelers. Various guests used Wilma’s bedroom for one of the things bedrooms are used for. Her sheets were left in no condition to be slept upon. A fight broke out. Maybe a few of them. Who could tell among all the madness? It stretched until the first light of dawn colored the eastern sky.
The problem with Wilma was she could never keep her drinking to just one night. Her party had been a hit. She should’ve slept it off that Sunday afternoon and been back to herself by evening. She just couldn’t.
She found a little bit of orange juice and a lot of vodka when she woke up that Sunday. Screwdrivers carried her through the cleanup. Leftover gin hid in her flask during her lunch shift on Monday. She may have accidentally-on-purpose dumped a tray of dishes in the lap of a regular who grabbed her ass that one too many times. Otherwise, it was a good shift. Tom Fillmore, who’d blown his chance with Ethel late that past Saturday, kept Wilma company through Monday evening. On Tuesday after her shift, he took her on a tour of Hollywood nightspots. They drank whiskey neat with showbiz types at Players on the top of Sunset. They grabbed a quick bite and a slow martini at the Formosa Café. He took her to see Lena Horne at the Little Troc. She washed down the songs with her own set list of gin gimlets. They finished the night off at his house on Fountain.
Tom had ideas and Wilma played along.
She woke up in Tom’s bed around 6:30 Wednesday morning. She had until 4:00 to get to work. She could’ve slept a while longer there and, surely, Tom would’ve have driven her home, but that seemed like the worst plan of all. She didn’t want to talk to Tom, didn’t want to look into those dark, empty eyes, didn’t want to think about the night before, about how rough and rude Tom had been at the end. She climbed out of bed as gently as she could, stuffed her bra and panties into her purse, pulled on her black party dress, and tiptoed out of the house. On the front porch, she considered walking the two blocks to the red car stop on Sunset in her bare feet but decided that her high heels would be slightly less painful.
She dozed on the red car down Sunset and on the next one up Figueroa, trying not to think what she looked like, wild red hair styled by a pillow, breasts loose under the black rayon of her dress, only the dregs of yesterday’s makeup clinging to her face, crust around her eyes. She could tell her story to the morning commuters without opening her mouth.
It’ll be all right, she told herself. I don’t know any of these people. I’ll never see them again. She listed off the things that would heal her from this brannigan. A little sleep. A lot of water and coffee. A long bath. A hamburger and fries. Feeling human again was only seven or eight stops up Figueroa.
The red car braked around Avenue 52. Wilma idly glanced at the passengers boarding the trolley. One of them looked a lot like Jack only older, alcoholic, mean, and sporting a nose that had been broken at least a dozen times. She was too slow about turning away. He saw Wilma and steered a course in her direction. Wilma put her purse on the empty seat next to her. He picked up the purse, tossed it in her lap, and sat down.
Christ, the last thing she needed on a morning like this was a visit from John Chesley, Sr. She looked out the window to her right and tried to pretend she couldn’t feel his shoulder pressed against hers.
The red car started rolling again. John said, “You look like you’ve had one hell of a night.”
Wilma kept facing the window. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“When