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When Sophie Tucker Kissed a Critic 143
whole act is classic, a series of classics — because I change my act all the time. That’s the reason I can play eleven weeks big time solid in Chicago at the Majestic and Palace and State-Lake — because I give ’em new stuff all the time. But, oh God ! the hours of study it takes. Sometimes my brains just itch.
“But it’s worth it, to get what you want and do it like an artist,” Sophie vowed with lighted face. “I’ve just picked,” she went on, “and remade a new one with marvelous story and lyrics. It’s called ‘The Soda Water Blues,’ and if it doesn’t give you the grandest, gloomiest laugh you ever had I’ll buy you a new car. All my five boys dress up for it as bartenders, and I get stewed on vanilla and chocolate. That’s something I’ve never done before!”
“I tell Sophie,” said my rival, rocking easily where Sophie had rocked, “that she’s the ballad-monger of the streetwalker and the drab. No lady of the underworld could hear Sophie sing a heart song without shedding tears.”
In the laughter which this evoked, the distinguished dramatic critic for a great newspaper (for two cents) disappeared into Sophie’s other chamber, ostensibly to telephone, but really, I fancied, to give me a chance alone with Sophie.
“I wish you wouldn’t go, darling,” said Sophie; then to me (she didn’t darling me) : “Ashton, do you know I’m making more money than any woman in this business today?”
“No! How much?”
“I wouldn’t give you the figures on account of the income tax. But for God’s sake don’t put that in! They’ll be on my tail.”
“I’ll say you said it laughingly.”