LILACS FOR LINDA
PamFord Davis
T
he director begins to rant, “Okay, let’s go
through this again. You have squandered your
riches. Men no longer find you attractive.
Marlow, proprietor of the Lucky Horseshoe
Saloon, is eying voluptuous younger women.
Customers wince each time the curtain opens as
you begin to sing a number. You are desperate.
You knock on the office door and prepare to beg
Marlow, your old sweetheart, to keep you on. Got
it?”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
“Alright, not asking you for a Sarah Bernhardt. Just
do the scene, so we can all go home!”
“All quiet on the set, quiet on the set! Action!”
Lord, please don’t let me foul this up.
I saunter across the bar room floor. Cowhands
are playing poker; others drink dregs from shot-
DOZ Magazine | January 2020
glasses; several make time with painted-face
ladies. Sounds of meaningless chatter and spinning
roulette wheels fill my ears as I pass the bar. My
stiffest competition, leaning against a brass railing,
sneers as I reach past her to rap on Marlow’s door.
“Come in.” The scent of trailing cheap lilac perfume
turns my stomach, as I turn the glass knob.
Rich and famous, I once named my price when
offered leading roles, mingled with the jet-set, and
hired auditors to play watchdog over accountants.
Now I jump at the chance to land a walk-on part.
Entering the office, I see the leading man light a
$10-cigar and straighten his diamond stickpin on
his lapel. He glances in my direction, sarcastically
saying, “Belle, I don’t have time for another one of
your sob stories. We’re through; sure we had some
fun in the old days, but”
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