My Other Half or I Came, He Sawed, They Conquered
Part I
It sounded like a good idea at the time, but I’m sure everyone thinks that just before everything goes all pear-shaped and rotten. What can I say? It was probably the spotlight. Maybe the cheering crowd.
“Say, what happened to the other girl?” I asked the stage hand.
“She couldn’t keep it together.” He held up the outfit on the hanger. “Think you can fit in this?”
Maybe it was the feathers.
My jaw dropped and my knees went weak. “I’ll do it!”
I mean, come on, who could say ‘no’ to any job that required wearing feathers? That’d give Miss Hadley’s chin something to wag about the next time she cracked the door.
Oh, and did I mention the shoes? Fabulous shoes! Glossy strappy six-inch stilettos. Green. Poison green. I guess that shoulda been my first clue, but then I wouldn’t know a clue if I bought one and at this point, I didn’t have two dimes to rub together. My legs looked a mile long and my can looked round and perky. So, how could anyone fault me for taking the job?
“You’re on in five minutes.”
I’d never done tricks of any kind before and who knew it was The Astoundin’ Aloysius’ first time as well? I mean, I just assumed he was a pro. He had a really nice poster after all, done up in color, with eyes painted so that they stared from anywhere in the room and even on the streets, which is where I first saw it and why I came in for this job.
I stood in the spotlight, my sequins painting the audience in a galaxy of light, my arms outstretched to present, the air taut with anticipation and the smell of stale tobacco, mildew, and sweat permeating the air. Ah, showbiz.
The band in the pit set the mood, whining Caravan. My job wasn’t difficult by any stretch of the imagination and the glory was incredible. I just had to mind my posture, carry props on and off the stage and convince the audience that The Astoundin’ Aloysius was truly astounding. And he was. And how.
He pulled rabbits outta hats and flowers from the sleeve of his tailed tuxedo jacket. He pulled two bits outta my ear that I knew weren’t there before because, like I said, I didn’t even have two dimes to rub together. And then as the music built to a reedy climax, there It was.
He dragged It on the stage himself: a long black box like a coffin on a gurney, with a hole at each end and two smaller holes on the longer sides to keep things breezy.
I stood picture pretty as The Astoundin’ Aloysius spun the gurney ‘round, showing everyone that the box was copasetic. Then he undid some latches and the sides of the box seemed to faint dead-away as if from the astonishment.
What was I to do? I mean, it was pretty obvious what The Astoundin’ Aloysius wanted me to do. His waxed mustache glistened as he stood in front of the box, his arms in a giant L-shape. So I did it. I climbed on to the gurney, trying to look graceful and not muss up the feathers and sequins while lifting a leg and situated my keyster just right to bring up the other leg. I wasn’t easy, and my head started to spin. Maybe it was the headdress.
And that box wasn’t comfy. It was hard as a rock. And cheap. When he started closing things up, I could tell It wasn’t anything but black painted plywood with hardware store hinges, not magic hinges or anything.
The Astoundin’ Aloysius took off his jacket, folded it nicely, then tossed it off stage somewhere. Why bother foldin’ it? I remembered thinkin’. Then he undid the buttons of his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, to set to some really serious work.
And then came the saw. It was a Really Big Saw. The Astoundin’ Aloysius paraded it in front of the stage and it flashed with light. The audience gasped. Did I mention it was Really Big? He stood with his legs shoulder width apart and raised The Saw over his head and bent it, to assure everyone it was real.
Now, I’ve already said I’m no rocket scientist, but it didn’t take an Einstein to figure out where this trick was going. So while The Astoundin’ Aloysius was posturing and showboatin’, I felt along the box for a secret button or passage or something. Anything. There had to be something, right? I mean he wouldn’t actually saw through me, would he? But I couldn’t feel a thing but wood and gummy paint. Maybe The Astoundin’ Aloysius really knew magic?
He stood behind the box and leaned The Saw up against it. He waved his hands over me, clearing the air of reality and chanted words I’d never heard before. I think they were Icelandic.
Then he asked loud and clear, “Can you move your feet, honey?”
I moved my feet to the music’s rhythm.
“And can you wiggle your fingers for me, honey?” he asked, and I did. He rolled his eyes. “Through the holes, so they can see ‘em, honey.”
The crowd snickered. I poked my hands through the holes in the side and wiggled my fingers in a friendly wave.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked loudly.
“I suppose.” My voice shook.
The audience laughed.
Then he spun the gurney around three times fast, and I really wasn’t feeling alright then. He raised The Saw and stroked it across the middle of the box. Once. Twice. The falling sawdust tickled my belly. I was getting nervous. What if there was some secret trap and I just couldn’t find it? Three, four, five times he sawed. I didn’t feel the sawdust anymore.
With a crazy grin, he looked at me. “Are you still feelin’ alright?”
I wasn’t not feeling alright, but I didn’t feel all hunky-dory either.
“Can you wiggle your fingers and feet again for me?” he asked.
I stuck my fingers outta the holes and did as I was told, but something didn’t feel quite right. And then what I could only describe as a refreshing breeze crossed my middle. I twisted my neck a little to see, and sure enough, there were my feet, wiggling away, but they were a good yard away from the rest of me.
The band played a triumphant chord and the audience applauded wildly. The Astoundin’ Aloysius stood between my upper and lower half and took a bow. Then to top it all off, he opened the box. Not the half where I …or rather where my head was, but the lower part. The part with my legs. As soon the box fell away, my lower half sat up, swung around its legs, my legs, so that they dangled off the gurney.
The crowd’s cheered, jumping to their feet, whistling and stomping their approval. I woulda applauded too if there were room in my half of the box. The Astoundin’ Aloysius bowed again, but this time he was kind of awkward, like a toy soldier. Suddenly, my legs sprung from the gurney, leapt from the edge of the stage and made a mad dash up the aisle.
“WAIT!” I called out and the audience went dead silent. “Where’re ya goin’?”
My legs stopped and turned towards me. The flounce of the tutu swayed like a pendulum keeping time.
“You can’t just leave me here like this,” I said.
My feet took a step towards the door, paused and turned. The tutu tilted in salute, then with a clatter of heels and a trail of sequins my legs ran outta the theater.
“You can’t do that. Come back,” I cried out feebly, the door swinging a final tootle-doo.
It dawned on all of us that this wasn’t part of the show. The horror percolated to everyone at once. A half of a person, a set of legs, had just stormed off before our very eyes. The audience couldn’t get outta the theater fast enough. The Astoundin’ Aloysius and I watched men shoving women and children aside as they climbed over seats to escape. Women held their ears, silencing their shrieks. Children hid under skirts.
Eventually, the theater cleared and it was just The Astoundin’ Aloysius and me on the stage, the spotlight still burning our eyes. I didn’t know what to do, having never been in such a pinch before.
“Now what?” I called over to The Astoundin’ Aloysius.
He glanced over his shoulder, shrugged and looked back at the empty theater seats.
“Pssst!” I jerked my head to call him over.
He moved like he was wading through mud.
“Do ya think you could help me out here?” I wiggled my fingers at him through the holes.
The Astoundin’ Aloysius didn’t say a word, but unlatched the box so that it fell away again, as if in relief. I held out my hand and he took it like an unexpected prize. I pulled myself up into a seated position, only without the seat. He jumped away.
“Come’ere,” I said.
He shuffled an inch towards me. The blackening on his mustache ran.
“Closer.” I crooked my finger at him until we were face to face, SenSen on his breath.
I slapped him. Hard. Right across his Astoundin’ face.
His lower lip quivered and a tear leaked from his eye, trickling down his cheek to his mouth, taking some blackening with it, making him look like Charlie McCarthy. He screeched and ran away sobbing.
“Hello?” I called out to the emptiness, a lone downy feather dancing on the echoes of my voice.
Part II
Miss Hadley invited me to live with her and her fourteen cats. I could hardly say no since my fourth floor walk-up wasn’t a possibility. Besides, by moving in with her, she could peer at me over her tea cup rather than through the crack of her door. “Chica Chica Boom Chic” scratched from the radio.
“More sugar, dear?” she asked after setting down the chintz patterned cup.
I could barely see over the edge of the table and the cat hair on the placemat tickled my nose. At least that didn’t smell like cat piss.
“No thanks, Miss Hadley.” I pushed away the tabby cat that stuck its head in my cup.
“Mr. Tibbins just wants a little, dear. But he likes more milk.” She reached across the doilied table top with the creamer and obliged him. “Don’t you, dear?”
The cat returned and mewed in reply as I glared from under Mr. Tibbins’ belly. Not having the strength to pull myself onto a chair, I was confined to a trivet with castors, the kind placed under large planters. My lack of insurance and “credibility” according to the charities kept me from getting a proper wheelchair. Who could blame ‘em? Even I couldn’t believe what happened. So I was stuck seeing the world from barely two feet off the ground. Miss Hadley disappeared behind grey and black fur as Mr. Tibbins settled in to drink.
There was a loud ‘raaaooowww’ from the kitchen followed by the crash of glass.
“Ah,” Miss Hadley sighed. “That would be Miss Pansy.” Miss Hadley’s chair scraped as she stood. “She’s been hitting the bottle earlier and earlier these days…..”
I waited until Miss Hadley’s sagging stockings disappeared into the kitchen before skootching myself over to the coffee table, cursing the fringe of the frayed oriental rug that caught in my wheels. I shooed the cats off the newspaper.
How does one go about finding the other half of one’s body? Call the police and file half of a missing person’s report? I turned to the Lost and Found. Someone’d mention such a thing, wouldn’t they? I mean, a pair of legs, and nothing but a pair of legs – and a can - couldn’t go unnoticed, right? I skimmed over the ads: dogs, wedding rings, umbrellas, coats … nothing ‘bout a pair of legs. I’d placed my own ad at first, but there’s a surprising number of crack pots out there who think looking for a pair of legs is a regular laugh riot.
There was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” I called, pulling myself back across the rug.
“Don’t be silly,” Miss Hadley replied racing outta the kitchen, a stray curler flying behind her.
She smacked the back of my head as she hurried by, throwing me off balance and face down onto the carpet. The taste of clay and the tang of urine filled my mouth.
“Oops! ‘scuse me, dear,” she uttered, throwing the bolts and lock on the door.
The chain jangled and snapped when it reached its end.
“Oh, it’s you,” Miss Hadley said.
I pushed myself upright. The crease in the back of Miss Hadley’s knees frowned.
“Sugar? Are you there?” a voice outside asked.
Miss Hadley bobbed and wove, trying to block the mascara-ed eye’s view into the apartment.
“Here, Aggie,” I grunted as I knuckled ape-like back to my trivet.
“Why don’t you mind your own business, you floozy,” Miss Hadley hissed, struggling to close the door on the wriggling pink gloved fingers. “Just a salesman, dear,” she assured me over Aggie’s shrieks. Miss Hadley tried to hold a pleasant smile as the door bucked and shuddered against her. “Won’t you have another cuppa tea?”
I wheeled over. “Why won’tcha let her in?”
“I can’t, dear. It’s Wednesday.”
Wednesday. Show and tell day for the mah jongg biddies. I stared up at the chain miles over my head.
“You got some nerve makin’ me your personal freak show,” I said.
The door bowed behind Miss Hadley as she shrugged and I had to give the old girl credit for standing her ground. Aggie was no slouch either and she was giving the old college try, even though the closest she ever got to college was winking at some State student over a cherry phosphate. Every other hit or so, the door gaped enough to flash a glimpse of the ciggie dangling from Aggie’s rouged mouth, the line of ash growing longer.
“What about a nice lemonade,” Miss Hadley offered between angry thuds.
“Only if there’s gin in it.” What I wouldn’t do for a bit of hootch! “Aggie, spring me from this hoosegow, will ya? I’m dyin’,” I called.
Now, I’m not saying I wasn’t appreciative of Miss Hadley’s hospitality and all, but a girl can only take so much.
“If you’d just open the door, Miss Hadley, we’d be outta your hair,” I said.
“I can’t let you do that, dear.” Miss Hadley’s face scrunched like a fist against a particularly hard thud. “Wednesday,” she shrugged again.
The door shut with a slam and for a second I thought I’d see the tips of Aggie’s fingers twitching on the floor like a coupla pinkie mice. Then I heard it. Chugging down the hall like the Atchison Topeka Santa Fe
Aggie’s not what anyone’d call a petite fleur, but somehow she kept her balance, wind-milling through the doorway, sailing over the coffee table, only t’have the couch stop her short. It woulda been all right if she hadn’t a landed on Miss Mittens who bolted up the back of the couch and onto the étagère, causing tchotchke carnage. Aggie and I stared at each other open mouthed.
“Let’s skedaddle, kiddo,” she said, cigarette still dangling.
I nodded, grabbed my purse and gloves from the umbrella stand, and wheeled my way as fast as I could past Miss Hadley who still hadn’t moved from the door.
“But it’s Wednesday…” she protested weakly as we sailed by without even saying “toodles.”
When we reached the building exit, Aggie called out,“Arms!”
I lifted my hands over my head ballerina-style and Aggie slipped an arm through, carrying me like an Easter basket, picking up the trivet as she ran down the stairs of the stoop. When we cleared the block, she set me and the trivet down. I hopped on it.
“So, where to?” I asked, catching my breath as we made our way down the boulevard.
The world was a different place when viewed from crotch level.
“Madame Helene’s,” she announced, her patent pumps keeping a staccato pace.
“Madame Helene’s?”
“Sure, sugar.” A blissful smile calmed her agitated face. “We’re gettin’ you a chapeau!” Aggie said it like “shap-o”
I dragged my hands to slow myself. “A hat?”
“Sure. Nothin’ makes a girl happier than a smart new hat.”
“Dontcha think a hat might make me look like an end table?” I asked.
“Oh, sugar, don’t be silly.” She crushed the stub of her cigarette with her heel. “A hat would distract from your … condition.”
“Look here, Aggie, a pimple or dandruff is a ‘condition’,” I explained. “Missin’ the entire southern hemisphere is in a class by itself.”
Aggie opened her purse and tapped out another cig from a silver case as we waited at the bus stop. And then I saw it. Right behind Aggie, plastered to the wall, a poster advertised the latest summer extravaganza. In bold black letters, it announced, “Legs! Legs! Legs!” Only, these weren’t ordinary legs. I knew that third set of legs doing high kicks in the chorus line.
“That’s Them,” I gasped in disbelief.
“What’s that, sugar?”
“They’re there!” I pointed to the poster. “Those ‘Legs! Legs! Legs!’ are my legs.
“Whaddya mean they’re your legs?” She peered closer. “They’re just legs.”
“I’m tellin’ you those are my legs. Dontcha think I’d recognize ‘em after all the shavin’, lotionin’, and puttin’ on stockin’s I’ve done over the last fifteen years?”
“But they’re a drawin’.” She hunched over to hide slipping on her horn-rims.
“Don’t tell me you couldn’t tell if they were your legs?”
Aggie frowned and extended a gam, looking at its reflection in the bus stop glass. “Well, supposin’ they are your legs …”
“We hafta get ‘em,” I insisted, looking frantically up and down the street. “My legs can’t be running ‘round town like that. It ain’t proper!”
We hopped the next bus downtown, and if ever I wished The Astoundin’ Aloysius had shown me that two bits trick with my ears, it was then. We coulda gotten off in front of the Music Hall, but as it was we had to hoof and wheel it five blocks away and just missed the start of the matinee.
It took another half hour to convince the box office attendant to let us in, although just who else’s legs he thought those were was beyond me. Aggie and I stood in the dark hoping we hadn’t missed ‘em. It was a packed house. I felt a little proud of my lower half done good.
And then, in the midst of a Yankee Doodle spectacular with powdered wigs and sparklers, the band stopped and a harp fluttered like the hundreds of hearts that I pictured waiting in giddy anticipation. The center of the stage rose looked like a multi-tiered wedding cake, level after level of rosy cheeked Betsy Rosses alternating with tricorned Georgette Washingtons, until, at the very top, like the bride and groom, there They were, wearing a skirt that looked like a patriotic boater with streamers dropping down the back and posed jauntily in ruby red pumps that woulda made Dorothy wish she were back in Oz. The theater went silent.
“Where the heck’ve ya been?” My voice cut through like a Harry James solo as I pushed myself down the aisle. “And just whaddaya think you’re doin’?”
My legs shifted uncomfortably, first cocking one hip, then another.
“Get over here, right now!”
As I rolled closer to the stage, the grade increased. I rolled faster n’ faster, the carpet burning my knuckles as I tried to slow down. Everything around me blurred ‘cept for the orchestra pit that yawned up front. Before I got there, a wheel caught and I sailed belly-button over noggin until I landed on stage, looking up “my” skirt at red sequined panties.
“Well?” I asked, teetering on the edge of the tiny tier, my hands grasping at air t’ keep from falling.
My knee slowly drew back.
“NO!”
I winced as the shoe point hit my ribs and sent me sailing through the air once more. I braced for impact on the kettle drums.
Part III
The mah-jongg biddies took their time shuffling tiles on the card tables. Ice slid and chimed in sweating glasses of tea. The whirr of the fan and slurred mew of Miss Pansy kept the mood somber. I lounged on the davenport, flipping another page of Hollywood Secret. There They were again, my legs, this time with Clark Webster at the Copacabana. My legs at the Copa! A cascade of ostrich feathers set off the fishnet stockings and towering heels - Cuban, of course.
The paper shrieked as I tore the page out and added it to the pile with Robert Powell at Cannes
“Take a picture. It’ll last ya longer,” I said without raising my head.
“Can I?” the kid asked eagerly.
One of the old dames had brought her ten year old grandson, who’d spent the past ten minutes staring at me. Chocolate ice cream dribbled over his chubby clenched fist into a pool where Mr. Tibbins and his cronies lapped their fill.
“Get lost!” I threw a balled up piece of paper at him.
He moved pretty quick for a husky kid, but he was back.
“Waddya want?” I raised my head to glare at him.
The biddies dropped their gaze to their tiles. The kid licked his lips clear round.
“I’ll give you a nickel to see it,” he said.
“What?!”
He dug deep into his dungaree pocket and pulled out a shiny silver coin. A gal’s gotta make a living. I held out my hand and let the buffalo hit my palm. He circled around and a dozen biddy eyes followed him. Before I could lift the bottom of my blouse, the front door flew open.
“Sugar! Come quick,” Aggie burst out, steadying herself as her stern caught up with her bow.
“I’m not exactly in a ‘come quick’ situation,” I reminded her.
“Here.” She teetered to my side. “I’ll help you.”
She grabbed a hold of my trivet and I started to raise my arms into basket position.
“See here,” Miss Hadley protested, standing indignantly. “We’re entertainin’.”
Aggie leaned in towards me. “I gotta guy I think can give you a hand.”
“Hands I got plenty. It’s legs I need. Whaddya got?” I asked.
“He’s a mechanic and an artiste, straight from gay Paree.”
“Ya don’t say?”
“This fella, Maurice, says he can get you a setta legs.”
“Now whaddya need a set of legs for?” Miss Hadley asked. “It’s just nasty business down there.”
The other biddies nodded in puckered agreement.
My cut end felt cool. Junior had helped himself to The Show, making the face most folks did when they saw nothing but skin smooth as my forearm.
“How’d ya go to the bathroom?” he asked.
“Jackie,” his grandma scolded, although she’d likely given him the nickel in the first place. “You don’t ask a lady that! You ask her, how she powders her nose!”
That settled it. My legs were having a helluva lot of fun and I wasn’t gonna miss out on any more of it. A full page ad in the Times today suggested tonight my legs might just show up with one Mr. Harold Lynn, the movie star of the century, at the Orpheum for a premiere.
“Let’s see what your guy’s got,” I said as Aggie grinned.
--------------------------
How Aggie knew which warehouse to pick was beyond me, but she didn’t even bother to knock “shave and a haircut” before sliding open the door.
The air thrummed with electricity and the lights flickered and buzzed. It looked like something out of a Fritz Lang picture. There was scaffolding everywhere and metallic skeletons of weird creatures posed ready for action.
“Jiminy!” I spun the trivet around, making myself a little sick.
“There’s Maurice now,” Aggie said excitedly.
A shower of sparks rained from the top of some prehistoric animal’s head.
“Yoohoo!” Aggie waggled her fingers.
The tiki-ish figure waved back and turned off the torch before climbing down the scaffolding and approaching us.
“This here’s the friend I was telling you about, Maurice.” Aggie said as way of introduction.
Maurice lifted the massive face shield releasing a cloud of blue smoke. He was an odd-looking fella with one of those pencil mustaches that musta run outta lead. At first I thought he was still chewing on the pencil, then saw it was a Gauloise.
“Ain’t he dreamy, sugar,” Aggie cooed outta the corner of her mouth.
“He’s the livin’end alright,” I replied noting his grayish skin and the dark circles under his eyes.
“Bonjour,” he said in that rude Frenchie style.
“So, whaddya think?” Aggie jumped in right away.
He gave me the once over, then the twice over. He did a thrice over before he frowned, giving the universally annoying Gallic shrug. “Peut-être.”
Without further explanation, he walked into the darkness, returning shortly with a tool chest. He extracted a tape measure, a square, and some calipers, then proceeded to measure my length, width, height, diameter, girth and every other direction I shoulda learned in Mrs. Duff’s geometry class, the cig dangling from his lip the whole time.
When I’d just about had enough, he slowly stood, crossed an arm around his chest, and removed the cigarette, sighing a chain of O’s.
“So, what’s the story?” I asked, looking from him to Aggie and back.
“I can do quelque chose …” He shrugged again, making me want to pop him one in the kisser if only I could reach.
“When?” I demanded. “I got places to go, buddy.”
“Where do you gotta- - Ow,” Aggie squealed as I rolled over her toe. “Watch it, sugar!”
Maurice’s frown deepened and he lowered his lids, lifting a lip to allow room for the ciggie. “Un week? “Peut-être deux?”
His thumb counted one and his pointer,two, so that it looked like he was waving a pistol.
“That won’t do, buddy. My legs’re gonna be at the Orpheum tonight, and I gotta be there too,” I said. “Ain’t ya got anything now?”
His brows shot up, although everything else remained glum. “Peut-être daddy-long legs?”
Aggie’s eyes went big.
“Yeah, sure.” I played it cool. “Bring ‘em, daddy-o.”
For the first time the Frenchie smiled, revealing teeth like a Brit. “Okie dokie.”
He swept me up and tucked me under his arm like a forty pound baguette. Aggie trotted alongside, her heels clacking like castanets as we ventured deeper into the oily stench of the warehouse.
“Are you sure, sugar?” Her voice was high enough to make dogs bark in the distance. “I mean wouldn’t ya rather wait?”
“I’m tired of waitin’, Aggie.”
The Frenchie’s armpit made my eyes water. I had to be at the Orpheum tonight. I just had to.
“Voila!” Maurice announced, setting me down on my stump.
“’Walla’ indeed,” Aggie gasped as we stared at the eight delicate brass points on the floor that soared into the air, joining together at the top with a small metal basket.
“Fantastique, n’est-ce pas?” Maurice said, taking out a rag and polishing a limb.
“And how,” I agreed. “Saddle me up.”
It took a bit of doing, some rope, a winch, a harness and a small explosive, but I was finally in the catbird seat. After months of staring at people’s crotches, I could see the tops of heads. Aggie needed a touch-up on her dye job.
I toyed with the levers and buttons, checking for results, but nothing happened.
“Show me how this baby works, Maurice.”
Maurice held up something in his hand. It was a key, the kind used for music boxes or kiddie toys, only bigger. Despite his ladder Maurice still had to stretch to reach the keyhole just below me. My new legs creaked and whined as he wound the key several times.
“Bien.” He nodded, then reached across me. “Ze brake,” he explained, throwing a switch as he jumped clear.
At first nothing happened, but then there was a whirr and a twitch and then a jerk. Suddenly all the legs moved in every direction. I sped forward and then to the side, threatening to topple Maurice’s other creations.
“A droit!” he yelled. “A DROIT!”
The only French I ever had was a kiss. “A droit”? I tried everything until Maurice stopped yelling“a droit”, but then started screaming “A GAUCHE!”
After a little time and some casualties, Aggie’s nice tweed jacket for one, I got the hang of it. Soon enough I had all eight legs doing a little mambo and then a tango. The legs wound down at the Lindy Hop, so I threw the brake.
“I’ll take ‘em!” I informed Maurice.
“Are you kiddin’?” Aggie asked, picking up broken bits and pieces from the floor.
“I’ll show those legs of mine,” I told her. “Who needs two legs when I’ve got a chorus line?” I released the brake and demonstrated a series of fan kicks.
-----------
A heckuva crowd lined the streets, but I was ready. Maurice polished my new sticks ‘til they shone like gold. This was better than shark skin shoes or silk stockings. The elegant tap, tap, tap on the sidewalk put all eyes on me. I turned heads, boy, oh, boy. I turned ‘em.
“I don’t know, sugar,” Aggie whined looking ‘round nervously.
“Relax. It’s under control,” I assured her.
I moved a lever to cross one set of legs, and a low “ooh” swept through the gathering. Aggie always put the damper on things if she wasn’t in the spotlight. Well, this time when I wasn’t gonna let that happen. Tonight was my night.
No one seemed to notice wave after wave of fancy limos pulling up to the red carpet, spitting out this star or that ingénue. I waved as the flashes popped my way. They won’t even notice when The Legs show up. I was through with ‘em. I didn’t need ‘em anymore. They could go to the Copa. I’d be the whole conga line at the Coconut Grove.
And then, there they were.
Harold Lynn stepped out first, dazzling in a white dinner jacket, a giant gardenia tucked into the buttonhole. He reached back into the car, and a leg extended with the most gorgeous shagreen t-strap I had ever seen. I could hardly breathe. A tear welled up but I hurriedly wiped it away. This was no time for a sentimental journey. It was my time.
I waited until everyone was clear of the car and the flashbulbs turned from me to The Legs. Harold Lynn posed alongside, his hand resting gentlemanly at the small of my lower half’s back. The Legs looked smart in a tulle and rhinestone number. And then there were those t-straps. I could hardly take my eyes off of ‘em. They were perfectly proportioned and elongated my legs just right. I think that’s what did me in.
“Hey!” I called from my eight-legged tower. “Just who do ya think you are?”
The paparazzi lowered their cameras and The Legs slid from a dainty third position to a more belligerent second.
“Say, there,” Harold Lynn said, tilting his head way back, just so’s he could talk down his nose at me. “Just who do you think you are?”
“Me?”
I wound the key, released the brake, and stepped forward, giving Mr. Harold Lynn, movie star of the century, something to think about as he backed up.
“I just happen to be the brain behind those two legs!”
He turned back to look at ‘em. One foot nervously scratched at the other leg’s calf.
“Don’t try to deny it,” I said, moving closer. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you from the time you left The Egyptian and all you’ve done is gallivant around.”
The scratching stopped and a hip cocked as a toe started to tap.
I shot ‘em the stink eye. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to.” I was toe to tip with ‘em. “And I’m gonna put a stop to it right now!”
I shoulda known they weren’t gonna give up that easily. Before I could get any closer, a leg drew back to kick me.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, lifting my new appendage just in time.
The momentum was just enough to throw my former legs off balance, landing ‘em on their keyster.
“That’ll teach ya,” I cackled.
The wayward foot retaliated by hooking onto one of my man-made limbs and pulling it out from beneath me. I swayed like a palm grove in a hurricane. While I steadied myself, my old legs jumped up and started running.
“Not again,” I groaned then took off, tap-tap-tapping to a Gene Krupa beat.
My legs were fast, but my new pins had ‘em beat eight to the bar. We turned the corner and shot past a coupla speak easies and even Madame Helene’s hat shop. We ran past the alphabet avenues, cars screeching to a halt as mothers yanked their baby carriages outta our way. We headed towards the state streets.
We were just about to Delaware
I didn’t anticipate impaling the rats that sent me skittering around, like socks on linoleum. Even my rogue legs did a little fancy stepping to take it all in. Key or not, there was nothing to stop me now.
Just then, a car screeched to a halt at the end of the ally and a door flew open.
“Hop in, toots!” Harold Lynn beckoned from the backseat, the gardenia and his pomaded hair wilted.
The Legs leapt just as the cogs on my pins seized. But I wasn’t gonna let ‘em get away. Just as we broke outta the alley, I dove, catching hold of my shapely ankles.
“You got a lotta nerve!” I yelled, dodging the cone heels kicking at my head.
“I’ve got you, honey bear,” Harold Lynn called, tugging from the other side. “Step on it, Sammy!”
There was the squeal of tires and my grip slipped. I did the only thing I could do, clamped down with my chompers.
I bit for dear life as we careened down the street, one mechanical foot keeping the car door from slamming closed on me. It was all she wrote with one wide left turn and my teeth raked their way down my heel until I chewed nothing but air.
I spun on my hinges in an explosion of brass shrapnel. Harold Lynn stopped the car and opened the door for a better look. My legs, a broken t-strap dangling from a toe, sidled up next to him.
“HUUUUSSSSSYYYYYY!” I screamed.
Harold Lynn smiled and saluted. “See ya in the funny papers, doll face.”
And they disappeared into the night.
Epilogue
I wound the key. The ticking slowed, then I abruptly hopped to the next step. I wound the key again. Having to wind-wait-and hop up four flights of stairs was no picnic, but I couldn’t stand another minute in Ms. Hadley’s cat house. I used the nickels from the mah jongg peep shows to pay for Maurice’s creation. It wasn’t fancy, but between the hopper and my trivet, I found a job. Even a maroon like me couldn’t miss the irony: I sold shoes at Martin’s Shoe Emporium – strappy sandals, towering platforms, flippant flats. I was their best saleswoman. That earned me a 50% discount.
I was just settling in for the night when a ruckus erupted outside my door.
“Who’s there?” I picked up the phone, my finger poised to dial the operator.
“Open up, sugar!”
“Aggie?” I hung up, wheeled over, switched the bolt and threw open the door.
“Looky who I found roamin’ the streets,” she declared.
My jaw dropped.
She stood in the doorway with my legs, dressed in mid-calf calico.
“Cankles?” I gawked. “Cankles? What’ve you done?”
My formerly dainty feet were wedged into a mule three sizes too small. I looked up and understood why. My lower half was in a family way.
“TRAMP!”
My legs bolted for the stairs.
“Not so fast, missy.” Aggie stopped ‘em with a wedgie.
My legs swayed from side to side.
“May we?” Aggie motioned to the doorway.
I sighed, wheeling aside to let Aggie and my legs in. I glanced up and down the hall before locking the door after ‘em.
My legs awkwardly sunk onto the davenport.
“What’re ya gonna do when the baby arrives?” I asked, wheeling into the parlor. “You can’t kick it around like a soccer ball.”
My feet shuffled in agreement.
“They need ya.” Aggie grinned and held up a roll of duct tape. “Arms,” she commanded.
Grinning back, I raised my arms over my head basket-handle style for the last time. Aggie lifted me up.
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