“Plain City, Ohio.”
“Haven’t heard of it, but we’re both from the Midwest, and our states are practically neighbors. Friends?”
I nodded. He sure was a nice guy-good-looking, and I liked the way the left side of his mouth tweaked up when he smiled.
“Whew!” He wiped his forehead in mock relief.
He was funny too.
When we had all reached the trailer, a man-wearing gray flannel trousers, a leather jacket zipped halfway up his chest, and a charcoal-colored trilby pulled down to shield his eyes from the sun-jumped on a crate and spoke above the din around us: “A lot of you have come from far away. That’s great! We need plenty of folks to get this place up and running. If you’re a painter, electrician, or plumber, head over to the Court of the Seven Seas. Harry will lead the way.”
Half the folks followed the man pointed out as Harry.
“I figure the rest of you are here to apply for either service or performance jobs,” the man in the trilby continued. “If you want to drive one of the elephant trams, work in a concession, become a rolling-chair boy, barker, waitress, fireman, or cop, then go to the Court of Flowers. No flowers there yet, just another trailer like this one.”
“That’s my cue,” Joe whispered. Then, “Good luck!”
He peeled away with a large group. He turned to look back at me, gave me a thumbs-up and another smile, both of which I returned. He strode with such confidence that dust kicked up around his shoes. Through the racket around me, I could just make out him whistling “All of Me.” I loved that song.
The man in the hat sized up those who remained. “All right then,” he said. “If you’re here to be models, dancers, or musicians, you’re with me. I’ll see you one at a time. After a preliminary look-see, I’ll send you on to auditions. If you make the cut… Aw, hell,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “You know the drill. Line up here.”
One person after another entered the trailer and then exited five or so minutes later with either a grin or a grimace. I tried to prepare myself for the questions I might be asked about my dance experience, and once again my father came into my mind. He may have beat me at home, but he liked to boast to others about how many ribbons and apple-pie prizes I’d won. He’d pushed me to be an “all-American girl,” which meant that he let me go to the Rialto to watch musicals to inspire me to practice even harder. I adored Eleanor Powell in Broadway Melody of 1936, in which she danced without music. I saw that movie maybe ten times, and then tried to re-create her steps at every opportunity: on the sidewalk outside the theater, at Miss Miller’s studio, and in our family’s laundry. Of course, the kids in school made fun of me when I said I wanted to be a star. “You? An Oriental girl?” They had a point. It wasn’t like there were any famous Chinese movie stars apart from Anna May Wong, and she didn’t sing or dance as far as I knew. Then I saw Dorothy Toy and Paul Wing-a Chinese dance team-in the whimsically titled With Best Dishes. I decided if they could make it, why not me? But would any of that help me now? I suddenly felt very apprehensive and very alone.
When my turn came, I entered the trailer and closed the door behind me as I’d seen others do. The man motioned for me to sit.
“Your name?”
“Grace Lee.”
“How old are you?”
“Old enough to sing and dance,” I answered pertly. I wanted to be a star, so no matter how desperate I was, I had to act like one. “I’m good.”
The man pinched his chin as he considered my response.
“You’re Oriental,” he observed, “and you’re quite the knockout. Problem is, I don’t have anything for you.”
I opened my purse, pulled out Miss Miller’s clipping, and pushed it across the desk. “It says here you need performers for the Cavalcade of the Golden West-”
“That’s a big show. Hundreds of performers. But I don’t need an Oriental girl.”
“What about at the Japanese Pavilion?” I asked, my false confidence instantly eroding. “I came from so far away. I really need a job.”
“It’s the Depression, kid. Everyone needs a job.” He glanced again at my application. “And I hate to break it to you, but you aren’t Japanese. Grace Lee, that’s Chinese, right?”
“Will anyone know?”
“Kid, I doubt anyone can tell the difference. Can you?”
I shrugged. I’d never seen a Japanese. I’d never seen a Chinese either other than my mother, my father, and my own reflection in the mirror-and Anna May Wong, Toy and Wing, and a couple of Orientals playing maids and butlers on the silver screen, but those weren’t in real life-so how could I be certain of the difference between a Japanese and a Chinese? I only knew my mother’s thin cheeks and chapped hands and my father’s weathered face and wiry arms. Like that, my eyes began to well. What if I failed? What if I had to go home?
“We don’t have Orientals where I’m from,” I admitted, “but I’ve always heard that they all look alike.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve been told to be authentic…” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. There’s going to be a Chinese Village. Those folks are doing their own hiring. Maybe I can get you set as a dancer from China.”
“I’m not from China. I was born here.”
Unconcerned, he picked up the phone. I listened as he suggested me to the person I assumed was in charge of the Chinese Village. He dropped the receiver back in the cradle. “They aren’t hiring dancers in a permanent way. With all the troubles in China, it wouldn’t be right.”
Troubles in China? I’d read about Germany’s aggression in Europe in the Plain City Advocate, but the newspaper came out only once a week. It barely covered events in Europe and never in Asia, so I was ignorant about all things Chinese except Chinese rice wine, which my mom made and sold out our back door on Friday and Saturday nights to the men in Plain City-a place as dry as chalk even after Prohibition ended. My mind pondered these things, but they were just a diversion from my panic.
“What about on the Gayway?” I remembered that from Miss Miller’s advertisement.
“That’s a carnival. I don’t see you there at all.”
“I’ve been to a carnival before-”
“Not like this one.”
“I can do it,” I insisted, but he’d better not try sending me to a hoochie-coochie tent like they had for men at the Plain City Fair. I’d never do that.
He shook his head. “You’re a regular China doll. If I put you in the Gayway, the men would eat you up.”
My five minutes were done, but the man didn’t dismiss me. Instead, he stared at me, taking in my dress, my shoes, the way I’d curled and combed my hair. I lowered my eyes and sat quietly. Perhaps it was proof of how the most innocent can remain safe-or that the man really was of good character-that he didn’t try or even suggest any funny business.
“I’ll do anything,” I said, my voice now shaking, “even if it’s boring or menial-”
“That’s not the way to sell yourself, kid.”
“I could work in a hamburger stand if I had to. Maybe one of the performers in the Cavalcade of the Golden West will get sick. You should have someone like me around, just in case.”
“You can try the concessions,” he responded dubiously. “But you’ve got a big problem. Your gams are good, and your contours and promontories are in the right places. You’ve got a face that could crush a lily. But your accent-”
“My accent?”
“Yeah. You don’t have one. You’ve got to stop talking all perfect. You need to do the ching-chong thing.”
Never! My father spoke in heavily accented English, even though he was born here. He always blamed it on the fact that he’d grown up in a lumber camp in the Sierras, where he lived with his father, who conversed only in Chinese. My mother’s English was flawless. She was born in China but came to America so early that she’d lost her accent entirely. How she was raised-somehow living far enough from other Chinese that she didn’t have an accent-was never discussed. The one time I asked, my father smacked me. In any case, the three of us could understand each other only if we communicated in English. And even if we all had spoken the same dialect, my father would never have allowed us to use it. Speaking English means you are American, and we must be American at all times. Reciting sentences like I hear you cut school again and what’s the big deal? showed we were assimilated. But all that didn’t mean Dad wouldn’t exaggerate his accent for his customers if he calculated it would make them happy.