Free Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas by Maya Angelou Page A

needed the money and I wanted to be near Jack and I loved to dance. I said nothing.
    “Tomorrow night, you bring your fanny up here as soon as you change and sit at the bar. First joker that comes in here alone, you ask him for a drink. Or …” The unnamed threat hung in my ears. Teacher was brandishing his whipping cane.
    “Tomorrow night. One more chance.” He began to count bills, thudding his hand on the bar. “Okay, Kate. Here's yours.”
    Last chance? He didn't know me. There was no chance, absolutely no chance that I'd be there the next night. I went to the door and fumbled at the lock.
    “I'll help you, Rita.” I turned to see Jack's sharp face cutting through the gloom. My prince, my sultan.
    “Thank you.”
    He opened the door easily. The mustard light from the exterior neon sign robbed him of his own color. He slanted toward me and whispered, “Wait for me. I'll just be a minute.”
    Standing in the amber doorway, I decided I would call the sitter and tell her I'd be late. Jack would probably take me to breakfast at one of the popular after-hours placesand we could talk softly over the loud music. He would smile his break-of-day smile and I would say how much he meant to me. The job was forgotten.
    The musicians came out of the club together. Jack was the only one not surprised to find me at the entrance. He said, “You cats go on. I'll meet you at the club. I'm going to walk Rita to a cab.” He took my elbow and steered me toward the corner.
    “I understand you, Rita.” I knew he did. “You think taking B drinks makes you cheap. Well, let me tell you it doesn't. These old guys come in strip joints because they want to look at pretty women. Pretty naked women. Some of them are married, but their wives are old and fat or young and mean. They're not trying to get you to go to bed or anything like that. If they wanted prostitutes, they'd go to whorehouses. They just want to see you and talk to you. Personally, I feel sorry for them. Don't you?” We stopped in front of another darkened night club. If he felt sorry for them, I pitied them to pieces. All I wanted from Jack was to know what he thought I ought to be thinking.
    “My wife and I talk about them all the time. She's a waitress in a club like the Garden of Allah and every night she's got some story. I pick her up downtown and she right away starts talking about the guys she's waited on.”
    A smile began to pull at his face. “Philomena—pretty name, ain't it? She can tell a story that would break your heart. Or else she can make you split your sides. Anyway …” He forced his thoughts back to me. “It's just life, Rita. Just life. Don't be afraid. You're in that joint to make money. So make it.” He put his hand on my cheek. “See you tomorrow night.” As he turned I caught a side glimpse ofhis smile. It was all for Philomena and not a wrinkle of it for me.
    I spent the next day girding my mind for battle. I loved to dance and I needed to work. I could create steps and develop new choreographies. If men wanted to buy my drinks, I would accept and tell them that the drinks they were paying for were 7-Up or ginger ale. That, along with imaginative dancing, would erase the taint of criminality. Art would be my shield and honesty my spear, and to hell with Jack and his close-set eyes.
    The next night Eddie's face moved slowly in surprise when I appeared at the bar. I gave a smile to encourage him.
    “Rita. Well. Decided to join the gang, huh?”
    I said, “I want the job, Eddie.” And kept the grin easy.
    “All right. You understand what I told you. Twenty-five cents off every drink and two dollars on a bottle of champagne. There's not many customers yet, but it's early. More'll be coming in soon. You stand a better chance sitting at the bar than at one of the tables. It's too dark for them to see you.”
    I couldn't afford to ask if he was making a slur at my color. I grinned and waited.
    “Want a little drink to warm you