Some kid.

Two a.m. outside. Dark streets. Sleepy chauffeurs dreaming of $10 tips.
All-night Greek restaurants. Twenty-second Street has gone to bed. But we
sit in the warm cabaret, devilishly proud of ourselves. We're a part of
the gang that stays awake when the stars are out.

And the elfin-faced one cuts loose. Attaboy, girlie! Legs shooting through
the tobacco smoke. Eyes like drunken birds. A banjo body playing jazz
capers on the air. It ain't art. But who the devil wants art? What we want
are conniption fits. This is the way the soul of Franz Liszt looked when
he was writing music. Mumba Jumba had a dream that looked like this one
night when the jungle moon arched its back and spat at his black linen
face.

All right. Three a.m. Bring out the lions and the Christians now. The
master of ceremonies is a fat man with little, ineffectual hands and a
voice that bows and genuflects and throws itself politely worshipful at
our feet.

Amateur night, says the voice, and some ladies and gentlemen will seek to
entertain us with a few specialties for our amusement. And will the ladies
and gentlemen of the audience applaud according to the merit of each
performer? For the one who gets the most applause, he or she will win the
grand first prize of fifty bones.

Attaboy! Will we applaud? Say, bring 'em out I Bring 'em out! Ah, here she
is. A pale, trembling little morsel with frightened eyes and a worn blue
serge skirt. The floor is slippery. "Miss Waghwoughblngsz," says the
voice, "will sing for your entertainment."