From under my hat (1952)

I tagged along when she went to rehearsal and, sure enough, the stage manager gave me a job at twenty-five dollars a week. Things were different in those days. There weren't a hundred stage-struck girls for every job. And I was young and pretty. My figure wasn't bad. I had a peaches-and-cream complexion. I was working under one handicap, however. No talent. We opened in Baltimore. The first time I appeared in costume in front of the stage manager— pink tights and shoes a size too smallhe gave me a look and said out of the corner of his mouth to another man, "I'd like to own that for a night!" I thought what a nice compliment and said politely, "Thank you very much." When we came off the stage Hattie, who'd overheard the remark, walked up to him and slapped his face. "What an awful thing to do!" I hissed at her. "He's sweet." "There are some things you ought to know," said Hattie and proceeded to take me aside and explain the facts of life. "Forget the words thank you," she said sternly, "and learn to say No, loud and clear." There must have been an unusual scarcity of chorus girls that year who would brave the road for twenty-five dollars a week, because they kept me on the full season. After paying for a room and food and laundry there wasn't anything left. But if you had a roommate— and I had Hattie— and could forget about thick, juicy porterhouse steaks, and weren't afraid of bedbugs, you could get along. I did. The next season I got a chorus job with the Shuberts. Our chorus master, Ned Wayburn, was as tough an hombre as they come. We'd been rehearsing three days when he yelled, "Stop!" He pointed a finger in my direction and snapped, "You! Step out!" He couldn't mean me! Bellowing like that? I stole a glance to right and left of me, and over my shoulder. "You!" he roared again. Meekly I said, "You don't mean me?" "Yes, you!" I stepped out, and this is what he said, in front of the entire 35