Early Havoc

By June Havoc

She could dance on her toes when she was eighteen months old (and by heaven she had to!).

June Havoc is the famous younger sister of Gypsy Rose Lee, and the daughter of Mrs. Rose Hovick, whose life story was fancifully portrayed by Ethel Merman in the 1959 smash-hit Broadway musical Gypsy.

In Early Havoc, June tells quite another story, the inside story of a ruthless, conscienceless, ambition-driven woman who stripped her own daughters of their childhood. Early Havoc is a book that gets beneath the glitter of “show biz,”, and reveals the savage reality, as only the real autobiography of a trouper can.

“A remarkable show-business document that might be titled ‘How to Make Good in Spite of Mother, Men and Marathons!’—TIME

“Tensely dramatic…these are the years in which a child and a girl were beaten, pounded and shaped into womanhood.”—New York Herald Tribune

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muriwai Books
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789124910

June Havoc

June Havoc (1912-2010) was a Canadian-born American actress, dancer, writer, and stage director. Born Ellen June Evangeline Hovick on November 8, 1912 in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, she made her professional debut at the age of two, on her toes, her first Hollywood movie at three. At five she was headlining in vaudeville as “Dainty Baby June” (alongside her sister Louise, later known as the Doll Girl, and then Gipsy Rose Lee). She first achieved stardom on Broadway in the musical-comedy version of John O’Hara’s Pal Joey, becoming in constant demand in New York, Hollywood, and London. New York theatergoers saw her in title roles in The Ryan Girl, Elmer Rice’s Dream Girl, S. N. Behrman’s Dunnigan’s Daughter, Rouben Mamoulian’s Sadie Thompson, and Michael Todd’s Mexican Hayride. In 1957 Havoc won critical acclaim for her performance as Jocasta in Jean Cocteau’s The Infernal Machine at New York’s Phoenix Theatre, and as Titania in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the American Shakespeare Festival Theatre in Stratford, Connecticut. On television, in addition to appearing in her own series, Willy, she starred in adaptations of Eugene O’Neill’s Anna Christie, W. Somerset Maugham’s Cakes and Ale, and a dozen other dramas. June Havoc was honored with two stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in 1960: one at 6618 Hollywood Boulevard for her contributions to the motion picture industry, and the other at 6413 Hollywood Boulevard for television. She was nominated for the Tony Award for Best Direction of a Play in 1964 for Marathon ‘33, which she wrote. She was inducted into the American Theatre Hall of Fame in 2000. June Havoc died in Stamford, Connecticut on March 28, 2010, aged 97.

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Text originally published in 1959 under the same title.

© Muriwai Books 2018, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

EARLY HAVOC

BY

JUNE HAVOC

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

DEDICATION 4

1 5

2 20

3 30

4 51

5 61

6 72

7 86

8 97

9 116

10 138

11 144

12 148

13 160

14 174

15 191

16 208

17 226

18 238

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 243

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 244

DEDICATION

With gratitude to

Dotty, Andy and George

1

I WATCHED the hot dog being built. First the bun was taken out of a large tin pot, mustard was splashed across it from stem to stern, then came the frankfurter itself, shining from the hot, greasy water. The man must have asbestos fingers, I thought, watching as he dipped his bare hands into the steaming sauerkraut.

Let it drain a little, please, I directed and tried not to look at the dirty fingernails.

He shook the sauerkraut before laying it lovingly over the shiny tube of meat. Onions?

The works, I replied. I gave him my nickel and wandered up the street slowly. I like to relax as I eat breakfast. Besides, it was hot—sluggish hot. Underfoot the macadam had already softened even though the sun had only begun to go to work.

I licked my fingers and wiped away the sauerkraut juice that had run up my arm. I was thirsty. Breakfast just wasn’t breakfast without root beer to wash down my hot dog. However, finances were exactly what came after nothing, and yearning only brought the stinging pavement into sharper focus. I stayed close to the buildings: it was cooler. There was a great deal of walking connected with job searching, but I really didn’t mind. I wasn’t panicky or even worried. I just felt impatient, itchy. I was puzzled but determined. If I could only find out how to be who I’d like to be, I just knew I’d get to be, somehow.

Less than a year before I had run away from Dainty June and Company. My complete billing also subtitled: The Darling of Vaudeville. Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. Being Dainty June had been my livelihood from the age of two, but since 1928 Vaudeville had become the lost world on the map of show business. The depression had all but stamped it out of existence. I munched my hot dog slowly. My hunger was only partly physical. It was a hunger that didn’t go only from the inside out or the outside in; it went as far as my eyes could see or my ears could hear. I was starving for a place to belong. My sensitivities were stretched in all directions prayerfully—longing for a substitute. Show business as I knew it had simply dwindled and vanished before my eyes. The happy island of vaudeville which had been my kindergarten, elementary and junior high school had sunk into the sea and left me treading water. I was an animation of the ancient quote: You can take the girl out of vaudeville but you can’t take the vaudeville out of the girl. I was a displaced person. I didn’t understand it; I only felt it. But I didn’t know enough about life as yet to give anything I felt a name. I’d only been around for fourteen years and I wasn’t placing bets on anything or anybody. I was just looking.

But there was one thing I was dead certain of: I had to create someone to be, other than Dainty Baby June. The big hitch was how to go about it. I’d been trying to find a solution ever since I had run away from the act—Mother, my sister and my childhood—months ago in the middle of the night.

I stood on the corner of Fifth and Hope streets in downtown Los Angeles. I felt the soft oiliness of the tar under my feet; the air was heavy with the sticky fumes of the traffic. The soles of my shoes were so thin I could make wrinkles in the tar by wiggling my toes. I was on my way to make the rounds of what was left of the booking offices. I crossed my fingers and entered a dingy office building. It was dark after the glare of the street; the marble floor felt cool through my soles. I peered around in the smoky gloom. It was early, so there were only a few knots of people in the lobby.

You seen Henny Zellman? I asked Buddy Black and Company as they stood in the entrance.

Not yet, Buddy answered. He wore a neat dark suit; And Company was dolled to the brim. She wasn’t small, but she thought she was. She wore bows everywhere and beading on her eyelashes. But we played the Hippodrome Saturday. Buddy smiled. So bring your bowl up to our place tonight, huh? And Company giggled as they moved out into the sun.

I lived at the Hope Arms just under the rehearsal hall next to the room where they kept the cleaning equipment. It was only temporary, I told myself; besides, I was in it only to sleep. The elevator door slid open, revealing a gangly young man in a faded uniform from which a few buttons were missing. Have you seen Henny Zellman? I inquired as the buzzer sounded and a red light blinked on the elevator’s operating panel.

Lessee now—Henny. Oh yeath—he moved. Said to tell his clients he moved to the lobby of the Acme Building across the street. The young man’s breath was strong with stale coffee. I started to say thank you, but the elevator door clanged shut and he was gone.

The lobby of the Acme Building was a step down the social ladder. Poor Henny. Just a few seasons ago when I was Dainty June he had a whole floor of offices and four secretaries. He was a big, important agent. Poor Henny, I thought, now he carries his office in his pocket. It’s temporary, he always told us. Just till vaudeville gets back. I was struck with a sudden thought. When things are going great nobody says, It’s temporary. Right then I made a deal with myself: remember that everything is temporary and beware the smugness of security. It’s a good way to wind up with the shavings.

I found Henny holding forth in the corridor of the Acme Building lobby. The droop of his cigar stub was as eloquent as his words I’ve got nothin’ to offer you, Baby. With things so bad I oughta just go away and quietly kill myself, only I couldn’t do a thing like that, not even if my life depended on it. His chuckle was silent, but I laughed up the joke.

You book the Hippodrome, Henny. Buddy Black says he played it for you.

Henny began a close examination of some soiled notes he found unexpectedly in his pocket.

Honey— he looked up from his papers and his face softened—last week was the good old days again. Now I ain’t got the Hippodrome because it’s this week.

I said, Oh. We stood together for a moment, mourning at the open grave of the Hippodrome.

I got some dates I wouldn’t send you on. He didn’t look at me. And then I got a date I shouldn’t send you on, but—

Why not, Henny? Why not? I can do a whole spot all by myself. I knew I was being overeager.

He looked at me sadly. You gotta remember all this crap is temporary. It’s like Will Rogers said— he cleared his throat—he said...ah...uh...just keep working, don’t stop working, then you don’t never have to start being ashamed. He raised his eyebrows at me expectantly.

That’s good, I offered, and true, too. But where’s the work, Henny? Give me a spot to play.

There was another silence while my agent investigated his trouser pockets and finally untombed a worn pink envelope. O. K., honey, come into my office. He moved toward an uncongested corner of the lobby. Now this date ain’t the Palace, you understand that, huh?

I nodded. The hot-dog breakfast was already a distant pleasure. I was visualizing a real honest-to-people meal—a hamburger, maybe two, and root beer, of course.

Henny was copying something from the pink envelope. You go on between what this guy calls rest periods—to keep the crowd from leaving. It’s a dance marathon, see? I had heard of the craze—people danced until they dropped. Pay is five bucks, Henny continued, and get the hell out as soon as your act is over.

I looked at the slip of paper he gave me. But this is ten miles out of town. What kind of show business is that? I asked.

Show business, schmo business—play the date, get the money and forget you ever was there. Just try to stay alive, honey. His eyes didn’t match his next words: It’s only temporary.

I put the pink envelope into my pocket. Ace in the hole for today, I thought. There were many lobbies and corridors to cover before I settled for this.

I had all day to unearth a more savory engagement, and I didn’t stop looking, not until the day was over. Then I remembered Buddy Black’s invitation, Bring your bowl up to our place. That meant actor’s stew, for sure. Buddy and Company had played the Hippodrome, so the stew would be special—a real bone instead of scraps, maybe lots of potatoes. I turned toward the Hope Arms. At least I was sure of a good dinner before I thumbed those ten miles to the marathon.

It was polite to hold open house for your friends after you’d hit the jackpot with a genuine paying date. The usual dish was simply the biggest bone you could get for your money, stewed with as many vegetables as you could steal. Sometimes, if you played it right, the basic ingredient was lots of small bones. Do you have any scraps or leftover bones for our little dog? Of course you couldn’t ask for scraps in a restaurant unless you had at least bought a hamburger first, so buying a bone was economically sounder. The big bone boiled while you just kept adding whatever happened to be lying around loose. Sometimes it lasted for days.

I paused in front of the corner grocery store. Onions would be a nice contribution, but the carrots also looked good. I was too long in making my choice; the storekeeper came out to help me. Bad timing, I thought. I disliked arriving bowl in hand with no offering for the stew, but I was late.

I edged my way through the gang gathered in Buddy’s apartment. And Company pouted. You even missed the finale, she said. A big bow at her throat made her look more than ever like a Persian cat. The stew is gone, but the memory lingers on. She rolled her eyes and held her hands over her stomach. The best ever, the tastiest, the richest—

Spare me, I said. I felt empty all the way down to my toes. I’d like to announce the unusual item that I am working tonight, so tomorrow stew is on me. Bring your bowls, huh? I hadn’t been host for a long time. The gang whooped their approval.

Buddy crooked a finger at me. You’re doing ‘in between rest periods’ tonight, I hear. I nodded. Hell, don’t be ashamed. We all played it. Just hold your nose.

And Company piped up, And don’t sit down on the toilet seats. The gang guffawed.

Buddy picked up the huge, empty stew pot. C’mere. I want to ask a personal question. I followed him into the tiny kitchen. You get a fin, don’t you?

That’s right, I said, five dollars.

If I tell you a secret will you keep it forever? He looked serious.

Forever, I said solemnly. I promise.

All right. Now, Uncle Buddy here serves the best-liked actor’s stew in the whole gang, doesn’t he?

Oh, yes, I agreed, and the biggest and most often, too.

He nodded to himself for a small moment as though making a final decision. It’s the meatiest bone flavor of anybody’s, isn’t it?

Well, you know it is. Everybody says you spend more on the gang than on yourself when you get paid.

That’s just it. He pointed his long, thin finger at me. You get a five spot tonight, so tomorrow after rent deposit and stew material you’re almost flat again. Now I’m going to prove to you how the head is fatter than the gut.

He lifted the main ingredient from the stew pot. It was dark brown like any other soup bone. Flecks of vegetables still clung to it. I could have swallowed it whole that very moment.

Behold, Buddy whispered. A lovely round, clean rock. I gasped. Ssh, it’s a secret." Buddy was carefully stashing it away in the cabinet. Saves money, fools the fools, even fools me. I’m not hungry now. I had a dreamy dinner—no expense. Just go out and pinch a few vegetables that aren’t really good enough for the kind of people who pay money for them, season to taste and voilà! The best! He smiled happily. I’ll be down with my bowl tomorrow. Just don’t let me know it’s a rock and I’ll be happy, O.K.?"

O.K., I said dazedly. I’ll see you.

Just goes to prove, doesn’t it? Buddy gestured toward the little room filled with contented kids sprawling and conversing in relaxed, satisfied groups. Proves if you believe it, it’s so. Who said that? Some President, I think. He closed the cabinet on the precious rock.

Far as I’m concerned, Buddy, I’ll remember it coming from you. And thanks. Really thanks. I stepped through the pattern of legs as I made my way to the door.

Forgive me for not moving, will you? A long-faced singer waved me away languidly as I almost stepped on him. I’m too full to care.

That night at 8:00 p.m. just as the slip of paper ordered, I arrived at a huge barnlike building. Henny had told me to ask for a Mr. Dankle when I got to the arena. I had my music and costume tied in a huge bandanna. I look like a bindle stiff, I thought.

It was like entering an amusement park or a skating rink. The aroma of popcorn really drove me crazy with desire. Some people love Martinis or dope. Some people enjoy Benzedrine—or coconut bonbons. I’m mad for popcorn.

How many in the act? Mr. Dankle growled.

I’m a single, I answered.

He looked around for someone to be angry in front of. There was only me, so I got the blast squarely.

What the hell’s that flea-bitten agent think I’m runnin’ here—a medicine show? How’m I gonna get them blood-hungry coyotes to stay in their seats if all I got to toss ‘em is a... His voice dropped thinly. Whaddya do? he said.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Mr. Dankle bellowed, That audience ain’t gonna sit still for no squeaky amateur show. We got enough squeaks dancing right out there in the contest. We gotta give ‘em a contrast in between watchin’ the marathon. It’s gotta be ‘Oh, Christ! Ain’t it great that poor little bastard can still squeak out a song after all them hours dancin’ the skin offa their feet!’ Then— and he whirled dramatically—woosh! The floor is empty because the poor bastards have to disappear to rest quarters for eleven lousy minutes. An’ who we got to keep them spectators from going home before the marathoners return to the floor?

I swallowed hard. Me? I inquired.

Yes, Mr. Dankle bawled. I’ll be a sonofabitch. You! What I need is someone to go out there and remind that audience that there’s a big difference between them marathon poops and a fresh, healthy, normal poop. He glared at me.

Well, I’m certainly different from those...those... My voice failed me for a second. I’m a perfectly fresh, normal poop. I’m as healthy as you—or anybody. I want my five dollars—play or pay. My contract calls for me to—

All right, all right. Mr. Dankle smiled at me so unexpectedly that I really looked at him for the first time. He wasn’t like anyone I had known before, but he was one of many of a current variety.

Mr. Dankle epitomized that world, circa 1930, which lay in the shadow of the real world and could not have existed at all had not the real world got itself into such a scroungy condition.

Mr. Dankle was out for the clip. Not having the courage to hold up a bank, or the intelligence to outwit the elite of his own set, he chiseled. He wasn’t just a little chiseler; he was a big-time chiseler, thereby putting himself just above the lesser members of the brotherhood—the pimps, cardsharps, race-track touts, etc.

He was sporty. He wore bright neckties and twenty-dollar soft felt hats. His shoes were really quite conservative, but they were made for him alone. The initialing on his batiste shirt wasn’t particularly garish, but his manicures were flashy.

He wasn’t really bad, like Al Capone or Dutch Schultz, but he wasn’t very clever either, like Titanic Thompson or Mr. Arnold Rothstein. But Mr. Dankle was self-assured, even cocky. This was his marathon and it was doing well—very well. In his vernacular, he had oiled the local authorities, so there had been no sanitation beefs, no beefs about too many people in one building as a fire hazard—no beefs at all. This security had cost him a pretty boodle, but it was well worth it.

Follow me.

I obeyed him meekly. He took me to the orchestra. In a marathon the contestants danced or walked for forty-five minutes. Then a bell clanged, and they went to the rest quarters. There they had eleven minutes to themselves. The other four minutes were needed to get to and from the dance floor or rest quarters.

Canned music was turned on during these intermissions. As I explained my orchestration to the musicians, the loud-speaker screeched, howled and almost won the decision over me. The drummer was an ex-marathoner; so was the piano player. But apparently they hadn’t been in too many contests, because they were as sharp as tacks.

Rehearsal over, Mr. Dankle once more said, Follow me, and took me to the ladies’ room.

Sorry we ain’t got a star’s dressing room—but then we ain’t got a star. He smiled broadly. You do your act next time the dancers go to rest period.

I changed into my velvet trunks and pink satin blouse. I wore my tap shoes with the pink bows, and under my arm I carried my toe slippers. I’d change into those for my encore. I wore a terry-cloth backstage robe, and felt for all the world like a fleaweight prizefighter on his way to meet Goliath. I took a deep breath and headed toward the orchestra shell. The dancers were just finishing a wild, fast fox trot. There was the clanging of a bell as I arrived at the side of the dance floor. The girls and boys streamed by me.

From my position behind the bandstand I could look out into the arena. Seeing how enormous the audience actually was, I gulped. What was it Mr. Dankle had called them? Bloodthirsty? The last of the contestants disappeared into the rest quarters, and someone was introducing me over the microphone. I got out of my bathrobe nervously, rolled it up and stuck it under the piano player’s bench. Go on out there and kill ‘em, he whispered.

Yeah, you better. The drummer grinned. Kill ‘em fast, honey, ‘cause they’re waitin’ to kill you.

The emcee had concluded his introduction, and as the band blared out the first measures of my opening number, I looked up and saw Mr. Dankle sitting in the very center of the bleachers, almost at the top. For a horrible second I was sure that when I got to the middle of that arena, he would hold out his hands and just like Nero turn his thumbs down, then they’d let the lions loose—and I just didn’t feel up to it. To hell with Mr. Dankle, I thought furiously. I’ll do my act, get my five dollars, and get out of this place as fast as my feet can turn the trick.

The people seemed to like the act, but I couldn’t wait to change back into my street clothes. I found Mr. Dankle and asked him for my five dollars.

Yeah, sure, he said. Follow me. We climbed upward for what seemed miles to the very top of the bleachers. Squat, he said. I sat down gingerly, looking through the boards under my feet at the people passing twenty feet below.

He unwrapped a cigar. Nice turn ya got there. Good legs, too. How old are you?

I looked at my feet. He lit the cigar; it smelled like the back of a bus. My nostrils began to swell.

I’m twenty-two, I said.

He put his face very close to mine and laughed. In a pig’s ass, he said.

Well, I’m...I’ll be twenty-two, I said. One side of my nose closed as the bluish smoke curled toward me.

When did you eat last? he asked.

I looked up into his face and squarely into his eyes. Just before I came here, I said.

Yeah? Steak, I’ll bet, huh? The end of his cigar was chewed and slimy.

That’s right, I said. Steak. And fried potatoes, and a salad, and apple pie. À la mode. And two cups of coffee.

His laugh drowned out the second cup of coffee. We looked at each other for a moment. He took a long puff on that clammy cigar and exhaled a huge cloud of gassy smoke into my face as hard as he could. I went down for the count. He told me later I almost fell through the bleachers. When I came to, I was in his office. There was a nurse with a starched white uniform, even a little cap. The air was now mixed—half cigar smoke and half spirits of ammonia.

Here’s your five dollars, kid. Better put it in your bra.

The nurse had red hair. She was very pretty. I drank the black coffee she offered me.

Mr. Dankle said, Of course we don’t serve steak and apple pie à la mode, but them dancers eat twelve times every twenty-four hours. Soup and thick hot chocolate and cookies at midnight. They’re having that now. Three a.m. they get raw vegetables, crackers and cheese, milk and hot chocolate. Seven a.m. they get grapefruit, ham and eggs, toast and coffee. Ten-thirty a.m. they get fruit, cookies, fruit juices. One-thirty they get a full course dinner. Three-thirty they get a full teatime spread. Six-thirty they get a big supper. They get a ten-o’clock snack, and we make up the others in ice cream and cake treats. They eat like real athletes, see?

The nurse returned at this point with a tray. Over the thick bean soup and thicker pieces of bread and butter Mr. Dankle convinced me that I, too, was an athlete. A marathon dancer. A potential winner.

After I got to know him better, I found out his real term for us. We were monkeys—monkeys in a caged arena. His eyes used to twinkle when he called us that. He had a rare sense of humor.

After he had explained a few of the marathon rules, and the soup had warmed up an extremely cold and empty region, I followed him out once again to the bleachers. This time the monkeys were in full swing. The band was blaring Hold That Tiger! at an ear-splitting pitch. Hot dogs and popcorn, ice cream and soda were being sold up and down the aisles as in a circus. The couples whirled and stomped wildly.

Mr. Dankle was opening a new show right away in New England, he said, and would pay my transportation there. The audience just love their favorite dancers, he said, chuckling. You’re gonna be very happy and I’m promising you a real first-class partner too. The artiste folks don’t last very long in a marathon. Only the horses stay on for the grinds and sprints, but up in the early part of the show, before it gets tough, those that can sing and dance make a boodle. Then they usually scram before the rules get rough.

Horses? I inquired.

Yeah, he answered. Horses—the desperate ones. They got no place to go. They got no brains, so they got lots of guts. They can outlast the daintier ones easy.

Tiger Rag had finished, and an extremely sharp-looking, wiry man stood on the bandstand with his right hand firmly on the microphone. In his left hand he held a batch of small squares of paper.

Fine, fine, fine! he bellowed over the public-address system. That was very good, kids. Ooops! I think I see a couple of arches still left out there on the floor. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

While he talked, the dancers, swaying constantly, backed toward the orchestra until they were lined up about four deep in front of the bandstand. The master of ceremonies stood on the platform with the band.

A request here—no, two, three requests!—for Little Mamie. Brave little girl—still solo. Little Mamie has three hours to get herself a partner. Who will it be? Then, very rapidly: "As you know, ladies and gentlemen, as per the rules of this contest, when Little Mamies partner collapsed last night she was allowed twenty-four hours to wander around this floor alone, hoping, praying, hoping against hope that some other little girl just might give up, and then Little Mamie would automatically latch on to that girl’s leftover partner. Little Mamie’s alone right now, but she’s got three hours to go-o-o!

Mr. Dankle chuckled. Watch this, he said. Little Mamie’s requests were accompanied by dollar bills. Her public wanted to hear her sing. The emcee beckoned to a very small, shabby girl. She drooped toward the microphone; the orchestra went into a bright, brassy introduction and then dropped out while the piano player alone struggled to follow Mamie’s thin, wavering voice through a rendition of Two Tickets to Georgia. It was awful.

Mamie’s arms hung at her sides. Her eyes were ringed with very dark circles, her hair unkempt. Her voice trailed off toward the finish of the song, and one by one the musicians came in for the rescue. She stared at the microphone blankly. Coins clattered onto the dance floor. There was an impressive shower of money.

Mr. Dankle caught the expression on my face. Mamie picks up about ten bucks a day. Nobody can look so beat. Great, ain’t she?

You mean she really isn’t that tired? I asked.

Naw—she’s just playing the suckers. You see, everybody can’t do the same act. It don’t work that way. Some don’t even know how to play beat-up. Besides, they ain’t got the equipment. They don’t look anemic no matter what you do to ‘em. Mamie’s got a good start—skinny, kinda pasty. She looks like she’s through before she begins. And that’s just great in this business. The suckers don’t like the war-horses. They want to feel sorry for somebody, and if you’ll look down there, you’ll see we got ten warhorses to every Mamie. Muscle flexers. That’s why you’ll do great out there. You got all the equipment, kid. You’ll make a boodle! Just don’t eat yourself healthy-looking.

2

HOW ANGRY Mother would have been at Mr. Dankle’s words. I had to smile to myself, because here I was being typed for the same part, the Little Mamie role. Mother hadn’t planned that kind of casting for her baby. Mother had other ideas and they were big. Actually she hadn’t planned on me at all, but as long as nature had outwitted her she intended to twist the arm of fate.

I was born by mistake—in Canada. My father, a newspaperman, had hoped to get back to Seattle before my arrival. But I was over-eager as usual.

Mother used to regale my sister and me with stories of our baby days. Aside from timing my entrance poorly, I had shown my perverse character by turning out to be the wrong sex. My name had been John before I was born. I arrived after the sixth time Mother had left Father. She described how she had thrown herself down a flight of stairs in an effort to lose me, then punched herself in the stomach, and finally tried to starve me out. She guaranteed us that it was really impossible to get rid of a baby you didn’t want, because she had certainly tried everything with me. She said I was the smallest baby she had ever seen. As she put it, I could have put June’s head in a teacup.

Mother had always wanted to be an actress, but her father was strongly opposed; so, aside from one summer when she was twelve years old, during which she had been blissfully happy playing mandolin and kicking up her heels as a member of a group of amateur juveniles, Mother had remained a civilian. Grandpa had his way—just this once.

Her hopes of having a child prodigy in my sister Louise were shaky. While Louise was the most beautiful child alive, she had no flair for singing and less for dancing. I must have seemed a more likely prospect from the very beginning, so, although I did nothing but sit around and eat up the profits for the first two years of my life, I have been working ever since.

I didn’t talk at the age of two, but I danced. I remember going to a large room in a musty building in Seattle. There was