dance, and does it well. Too well. And the female impersonator who does a
can-can female dance very well. Much too well.

Nobody wants them. We want Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. There was a
thrill to her. The way she looked when the applause grew loud. The way her
girl arms reached out toward something. As if we at the tables rolling
around in our seats and laughing our heads off and all dressed up and
guzzling sandwiches and ginger ale, as if we were something at a rainbow
end.

Bring her on again. Line 'em up. Now we'll applaud the one we liked the
best. For his nobs who gargled the Irish ballad, two bravos. If he hadn't
got mad at us. Or if he'd got madder and spat a little more behind the
music that came from him. But he didn't. The first gal who died on the
floor. Whose heart collapsed. Whose eyes went blank with terror. Nine
bravos for her. There was a thrill to her. Bravos for the rest of them,
too. But Bertha wins the hand-painted cazaza. Fifty bucks for Bertha. Here
you are, Bertha. You win.

Look, she's crying. That's all right, li'l girl. That's all right. Don't
cry. We just gave you the prize because you gave us a thrill. That's fair
enough. Because of all the geniuses who performed for our amusement and
whom we bombarded with pennies you were the only one who threw out your
arms and your eyes to us as if we were rainbow's end.



MRS. SARDOTOPOLIS' EVENING OFF