moved on to Haightsville, south of Philadelphia. They thought they had a connection there, but that fell through, and they ended up in a tavern called the Bridle Club that was decorated to look like a stable. Emily had the impression that most of the customers were married to other people waiting at home. It was a middle-aged crowdâsquat men in business suits, women with sprayed and gilded hair and dresses that looked one size too small. These people, too, talked among themselves throughout the skits, but they did offer a few ideas. A man wanted a scene in which a teenager announced to her parents that she was quitting school to become an exotic dancer. A woman proposed that a couple have a quarrel about the wifeâs attempts to introduce a few gourmet foods to her husband. Both of these suggestions, when they were made, caused a little ripple of amusement through the room, and the group turned them into fairly funny skits; but Emily kept imagining that they might be true. The man did have the seedy, desolate look of a failed father; the woman was so frantically gay that she could very well have just escaped from a stodgy husband. What the audience was doing was handing over its pain, Emily felt. Even the laughter seemed painful, issuing from these men with their red, bunchy faces and the women bearing up bravely beneath their towering burdens of hair. For the third skit, a man sitting with three other men proposed the following: a wife develops the notion that her husband, a purely social drinker who can take it or leave it and quit whenever he wants to, supposing he ever did want to, is in fact an alcoholic. âPretend like this woman gets more and more out of line,â he said. âPretend like she goes around watering the Jack Danielâs, calling up the doctor and the AA people. When he asks for a drink, she brings him ginger ale with a spoonful of McCormickâs brandy extract stirred in. When he wantsto go out for a friendly night with his buddies, she saysââ
âPlease!â said Barry, holding up a hand. âLeave something for us!â
Then everyone laughed, except Emily.
They were appearing at the Bridle Club for three nights, but the second night Emily didnât go. She walked around town instead, until almost ten oâclock, looking into the darkened windows of Kresge and Lynneâs Dress Shoppe and Knitterâs World. Periodically, carloads of teenagers shot by, hooting at her, but Emily ignored them. She felt so much older than they were, she was surprised she wasnât invisible to them.
In the drugstore, which was the only place still open, she bought a zippered cosmetic kit for traveling, completely fitted with plastic jars and bottles and a tiny tube of Pepsodent. She and Leon were almost penniless at this point. They were having to sleep apartâEmily and the two other women at the Y, the men in the van. The last thing they could afford was a $4.98 cosmetic kit. Emily rushed back to her room, feeling guilty and pleased. She started rearranging her belongingsâcarefully pouring hand lotion into one of the bottles, fitting her silver hairbrush into a vinyl loop. But she really didnât wear much make-up; the zippered bag took more room than her few cosmetics had taken on their own. It was a mistake. She couldnât even get her money back; sheâd used the bottles. She began to feel sick. She went through her suitcase throwing things outâher white school blouses, her jeans, every bit of underwear. (If she wore only leotards, she wouldnât need underwear.) When she was done, all that remained in her suitcase were two extra wrap skirts, two extra leotards, a nightgown, and the cosmetic bag. The small cardboard wastebasket next to her bed was overflowing with filmy, crumpled, shoddy non-essentials.
Their third appearance at the Bridle Club was canceled in favor of the ownerâs cousinâs girlfriend, a torch singer. âI
âPlease!â said Barry, holding up a hand. âLeave something for us!â
Then everyone laughed, except Emily.
They were appearing at the Bridle Club for three nights, but the second night Emily didnât go. She walked around town instead, until almost ten oâclock, looking into the darkened windows of Kresge and Lynneâs Dress Shoppe and Knitterâs World. Periodically, carloads of teenagers shot by, hooting at her, but Emily ignored them. She felt so much older than they were, she was surprised she wasnât invisible to them.
In the drugstore, which was the only place still open, she bought a zippered cosmetic kit for traveling, completely fitted with plastic jars and bottles and a tiny tube of Pepsodent. She and Leon were almost penniless at this point. They were having to sleep apartâEmily and the two other women at the Y, the men in the van. The last thing they could afford was a $4.98 cosmetic kit. Emily rushed back to her room, feeling guilty and pleased. She started rearranging her belongingsâcarefully pouring hand lotion into one of the bottles, fitting her silver hairbrush into a vinyl loop. But she really didnât wear much make-up; the zippered bag took more room than her few cosmetics had taken on their own. It was a mistake. She couldnât even get her money back; sheâd used the bottles. She began to feel sick. She went through her suitcase throwing things outâher white school blouses, her jeans, every bit of underwear. (If she wore only leotards, she wouldnât need underwear.) When she was done, all that remained in her suitcase were two extra wrap skirts, two extra leotards, a nightgown, and the cosmetic bag. The small cardboard wastebasket next to her bed was overflowing with filmy, crumpled, shoddy non-essentials.
Their third appearance at the Bridle Club was canceled in favor of the ownerâs cousinâs girlfriend, a torch singer. âI
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