It was not yet dusk but the light
from the sun ran down the city blocks, away from the Great lake, as though it
was looking for somewhere happier to dwell. At seven o’clock, I fled my dormant
Uptown penthouse for the riveting South Side, grabbing a gray suit jacket off of
the hook in the hallway to combat the Chicago wind; autumn had set in
prematurely this year. It was Friday night and I had no curfew.
My old weekend standby was Millie
Ette ’s jazz room, The Zanzibar, on the corner of State and Ohio. Tonight promised
to be particularly crowded with locals and tourists alike, as King Oliver was
purportedly making his way in at ten o’clock. I walked a few blocks obliviously
before noticing the unusual stillness of air. No wind was whipping and summer
kept its grasp on the porch railings longer than I could remember from previous
years. As I looked around the city, sparkles of golden light pranced around
from street corner to store front. Young women flouncing excitedly held hands,
crossing streets in groups of four or five and made their way to clubs with
newfound freedom and mirth. Several families with drooping children lingered on
the sidewalks, the oldest sibling sometimes held the leash of a household
dog. The school week had tired the
children whom had been eager to learn Pythagoras’ theorem and the capital of
Poland. They were nearing home and would be promptly put to bed, tucked in as
their parents went off to sip red wine at the coffee table.
Everywhere businessmen stumbled
back home from the bar to change clothes and eat dinner with waiting wives
greeting them with rouge lipstick and a roast turkey. They too would soon be
headed off to The Zanzibar in hopes of locking eyes with the wild jazz King.
I
approached South Side through a portal seemingly comprised of silvery cloth,
vast pearls, and rubies and emeralds. My mother would have fainted at the sight
of beautiful, daring women spanning the streets who were far from modest and had
men around them smirking. Outside of the Zanzibar, waiting in line, I am pushed
off of the concrete sidewalk curb by a dark, bulky man with an entourage and an
Italian leather briefcase.
“This here the club,” the bulky man
pointing, said in a heavy accent to the dark man behind him, “tell the…Ms. Eberly that she gotta act good
tonight, or else Sacristi’s gonna be real mad.”
What kind of actor was Ms. Eberly and
why did her good standing with Sacristi depend on her job performance? I
finally had come to the entrance of the club: a thick, solid cherry wood door.
“’Evening, Mr. Thompson. I
apologize for the wait tonight, as you know, the jazz king is coming here!
Please follow me to your suite, right this way.” The bowtied doorman extended
his arm toward me.
Inside, a few sultry horns were
playing low notes on a corner stage and gorgeous women were dancing below it.
Four of them in black tasseled fringe dresses moved their strong, rounded hips
to the smoky sounds. Flanking them was a fifth, a lone dancer in the front, perhaps
the most sensuous woman I had encountered. Golden wavy locks flowed beyond her graceful
shoulder blades, flaunted by the emerald green bodice of her flowing gown.
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