At the end of the day, Stanley Webb was exhausted.
Shifting his weight from one sore foot to another, he awaited what hopefully would be the final customer of the day, at Bailey’s Shoe Store.
It was Friday afternoon, and the weekend couldn’t come fast enough.
The store’s owner, Mr. Charles Bailey (formerly Beiliovsky), would not allow Stanley to sit while awaiting any late afternoon customer to walk through the door.
“You must always give the impression, Stanley,” Mr. Bailey said, in his heavy East European accent “That you are anxious to be accommodating when a patron walks in, and not be getting up from a seated position. Do you understand me Stanley?”
Stanley nodded yes. “But I have been standing!”
“Well Stanley”, Mr. Bailey said, “ It looked very much to me, that you were going to sit down.”
Stanley Webb had gone from job to job, simply making ends meet, and now, at age sixty-eight, he survived on a meagre government pension, and the shoe store’s minimum wage.
When Stanley arrived home that evening, he collapsed into an old, overstuffed Queen Anne wing chair, a gift from a distant aunt, who had long ago passed. The chair took up a large portion of his tiny bed-sitter. The pillowed back and arms engulfed his tired body, and he slowly drifted off to sleep.
Lilly Van Doren fastened her long flowing blond hair into a bun, holding it securely in place with an enormous crystal hairpin.
Sitting in the dressing room of the night-club, she admired her reflection in the oval mirror adjacent to the dressing table. She pursed her red lips blowing kisses at the image that shone back.
She leaned forward, making sure that the right amount of cleavage was pushed up and visible. She stood, and shifted her body in the tight fitting red dress, and smiled with approval at the sparkling sequins.
It would be another successful Saturday night, filled with hoots and hollers from the mostly male club goers.
She was magnificent to behold, and with the skilful application of the thick pancake make-up, she had erased every sag and wrinkle from her ageing face and neck. A miraculous effect.
Lilly acknowledged the knock on the door, indicating that she was ‘on.’
Strutting on stage while miming the words from an old Ella Fitzgerald jazz hit that echoed through crackly speakers, the cheers and hollers began. Song after song, Lilly’s gyrations brought down the house.
What a Saturday night it was.
Stanley Webb arrived home at 2am, Sunday morning.
Without removing the wig, and scrubbing off the heavily applied make-up, he collapsed into the overstuffed Queen Anne wing chair. It was good to get off his feet.
Lionel Walfish© 2016
© lionel walfish, 2018. All rights reserved.