Checking Out
It took her a full minute to realize: this wasn't her room.
Things came into focus too soon, with an awful swoon as she tried to stand. She was sure now that these weren't her sheets or apartment.
A spark of fear danced over her heart as she wondered what her partner was thinking of at the moment. Was she worrying about Ms. Hart, her dear, sweet friend with the dueling wit? Roxie's ego was squashed underfoot when she remembered that Velma had dined last night with the promoter, the two of them abandoning Roxie at their table very early in the evening. A bitter smile curled Roxie's lip as she stepped back into her underwear.
Well, goody on Kelly; at least one of them probably got a decent lay last night. More than she could say for herself, and this lousy tour.
She closed her eyes and remembered the music, the rhythm, the joy of her first performance beside Velma. Oh, it was heaven...just like that fuckin' song they used to sing together, that no one wanted to hear anymore. Heaven. Yeah, no one tells you heaven's only so big, and if you take a wrong step you fall right off of cloud nine.
And that, so sadly, was what had happened to their perfect double-act.
Yeah, it had been swell for about a year; solid crowds, standing o's, good bookings in the best theaters in the country. Then they took off to Europe.
Europe; she shuddered inwardly. Who's idea had Europe been?
Two years before very cold, proper crowds across the continent, who clapped lightly and stared blankly. Weeks of living on booze and cigarettes because neither of them could speak six other languages, and didn't have the money to spend on guides who could. The money flowing in strangulated down to nothing due to the constant cost of motion. At opening night in Paris, she and Velma had entertained a couple of minor counts. When they left London to return home, they both had been grateful to split a hundred bucks.
She chewed her bottom lip; Velma had fought for them to stay in the States, to strike while the iron was hot. Well, by the time they got back to America, the country was otherwise occupied by starving itself to death. The grand theaters they had played during their first triumphant tour were dying very slowly, along with the movie houses she had worshipped within as a teenager. She and Velma had been reduced; from playing glittery theaters to tapping away in dingy supper clubs filled with scummy drunks.
Everything had gone to hell. A hell more real than she could have ever envisioned when she had first shimmied her ass across the stage two years ago.
The Depression didn't care how fast you danced or how fancy your furs were. It took lives viciously, raping the existence of two people she had known.
Her knee trembled reflexively, shivering against her torso, remembering her losses.
Velma had learned of Mama's death the hard way; coming for a visit, she found the remains of a burned-out tenement and news that there were no survivors. Her partner had taken the loss peculiarly hard, expressing herself through bouts of tears and slammed doors. Everyone around them thought it was just a star's way, a star's tantrum. But Roxie had never known Velma to show real emotion; the woman was diamond-hard, and not prone to weakness. Yeah; unlike Velma, Roxie had harbored no weakness for Mama, and was pretty glad that the bitch had died.
It had been Roxie's turn to cry when, while listening to one of Mary Sunshine's broadcasts last week, she learned that Billy Flynn had committed suicide. Sadness threatened to ruin her makeup when she thought of him, that bastard. He had shown her how to survive, and yet he gave up, throwing himself off of a building because the crash had turned him into a pauper. When his head hit the pavement his bank account had exactly one dollar in it.
Wait, she didn't need anyone, did she? Of course not! She was her own best friend! If she could just buck up and keep living, things would go right back to flasks and diamonds, shimmying dances and reckless orgasms.
Her knees buckled when she tried to stand, sending her back to the bed. God, she was tired.
It had never occurred to her, in her pursuit of fame, how much work it would end up taking. Her visions had contained pretty dresses, dancing boys, and screaming, masturbatory crowds. They never told her that she would have to tap until her feet were sore and sometimes bloody; that she would have to sew her own sequins back on when they fell off. That she would have to hock her diamonds for a place to stay and a hot meal. That the dancing boys would quit when she couldn't pay them, and quickly got tired of fucking one or both of them as a substitute. Days of bon-bon eating and nights of drinking and screwing around had trained her body. As many hours as she had spent shimmying away in her apartment to recordings on her phonograph, it did not match up to strenuous days under the lights, trying to synch up with Velma's easy, professional footfall. These years of one-night stands had etched her body with echoes of pain, and she subconsciously feared that her ankles were falling apart. To the occasional worried stares, she had shrugged and smiled glibly pretending to be unable to find its source.
Her father had told her that life wasn't easy. But she, of course, hadn't believed him.
The worst of it all was that terrifying feeling of being unimportant which hung around her neck like an ermine collar. It was becoming frighteningly plain that no one knew who she was anymore. The depression had brought about a new wave of heroes; bank robbers who defied the government in the name of the poor. Her crime had been a bit selfish and not at all heroic; the jobless people clogging the streets of Chicago could not relate to the idea of plugging one's married ex-lover because he threatened your life...or called you a whore.
But Roxie had no energy left to fight. And Velma, indomitable Velma, whom she had learned to respect, if not completely like, seemed just as tired, just as defeated.
She forced herself to stand, put on the old dress. Paste on the fake smile, along with the ancient fur. She was Roxie Hart, Foxy Roxie, and, well, if her dress was old and out of-fashion, and if her hat looked all wrong, they kept her from the cold. And a star couldn't freeze her knockers off out on the street, could she? Even if she was a star who hadn't signed an autograph in four months.
"Roxanne?"
She pivoted on her heels at the sound of his voice. Shame, a long-lost friend, washed over at the sight of his trusting eyes.
Last night rolled back up onto the shores of her mind. She remembered too well that the performance had been a disaster. Her garters had broken, Velma had forgotten the steps, and their audience of twenty had shrunk down to two. Of course he hadn't left; had stayed to drink a couple of gins.
His funny smile and gentle ways...they had reminded her of why she had married him in the first place. Why she had given up being a chorine as a youth to make a home with him...at least for a month or two.
Why she still used his name professionally.
She had hated his innocence at one time; been disgusted by his loving trust. And now that life had pick-pocketed her of belief that she was born to be a star, that she was meant to be happy, it seemed almost sweet.
Sunuvabitch.
She couldn't change herself; not now. Not after being a star, as washed-up as she seemed to be. No no; there was hope. Maybe Velma would nail them a better deal, and they could get a regular gig at a club. They'd move out of that flea-ridden motel room that they called an apartment and could barely afford. Get enough distance between them so that, maybe, she'd be able to stand the sight of her "sister" again. Then the diamonds would come back, along with the men, and she'd finally hook herself a guy with bigger brains, a better body. A stud.
Yeah, a stud.
Studs didn't stick around, even if they were fun. And at her age, at this time in her life, love started making its demands instead of lust. Soon enough she would be thirty; soon enough, though her mind tried its rebellion, her heart yearned for a child, a family like the one she had left.
But the only guy who ever gave her love was....was...
She closed her eyes tightly, trying to bid the visions that kept her in control to return. But no; there were no more dancing boys. No mirrors, smoke, shimmering dresses. When she opened them again only a poor farm girl in her ratty tails remained, standing in front of her still-loving ex-husband in a warm, well-kept apartment that could never have been kept together by Foxy Roxie.
A man she had made love to. And a man she had no right to hurt anymore.
You're an idiot, Hart.
And she couldn't keep the tenderness out of her voice when she said: "I'll see ya around, Amos."
As the door shut, her heart fell short of another dream.