The Other Side of Paradise

I could smell coal smoke and a streetcar rattled past me along 59th. The buildings were lit, but it was by the old-fashioned Edison bulbs, hence the lighting was yellower and less bright. There were still people strolling along Fifth. But the men were much more formally attired, in vests and fedoras and the women wore dresses and little hats, not jeans and blouses. That was when it struck me. As impossible as it might be... I wasn't in Kansas anymore!

I searched my memory for a plausible explanation and I found nothing. There was no rational reason - except mental breakdown... I must be hallucinating. But it wasn't because of my wife's infidelity. I mean... I'd already made my decision about that - which I fully understood and accepted. So, I heartily doubted that I was headed for a rubber room because of Ashley.

Hence... the only other option - at least the only rational one - was that I was dreaming. I mean, a dream feels real while you're experiencing it, right? - no matter how weird the context. And none of what I saw around me... The sights, the sounds, even the smells, was recognizable to my modern sensibilities.

Think about it... how would YOU react if you thought you were in a dream. I expected to wake up - sooner or later. And so, I was temporarily okay with that premise. More pertinent - I don't fold under pressure. It was a value my dad taught me.

He used to say, "If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs - then you are a man my son." He got that from a Kipling poem, which is admittedly Nineteenth Century corny. But it had governed my reaction to stress for my entire life.

Consequently, I was less worried about whether I was awake in a dream, then I was wondering what would happen next. That was when a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost - long louvered hood tan body, chrome wire wheels and camel-colored top - rolled silently up in front of me. It stopped and I heard the voices of several people inside.

A guy leaned his head out the window and said, "Come on, old boy. There's a party to go to." This was a dream... right? So, this must be the next scene. I stood, dusted myself off and walked to the car. The occupant swung the door open, and I plopped down on the rear seat... which in a Silver Ghost feels like a big leather davenport.

There were four other people, besides me, in the back. They were draped across the rear seat and on the rear facing jump seats... all of them clearly drunk. If this was the era, I thought it was - then their drunkenness would mean they were violating the law. Since alcohol was outlawed in 1920, by the Volstead Act, and this was clearly sometime in the Nineteen-Twenties.

How did I know that? Well... there wasn't a depression going on and nobody was in uniform. So, it wasn't the '30s, or'40s. Hence, it had to be the Roaring Twenties - that misguided decade when the government thought it could legislate morality.

The Rolls purred its way down Fifth to Forty-fourth, turned right and approached the front of a hotel. The people inside were singing, "Makin Whoopee." I could tell, from the context, that they understood the meaning of the lyrics. I thought to myself, " I wouldn't have added double-entendres to a dream - would I?" So, there was a pinch of reality involved here.

The guy who'd opened the door told me that his name was Cantor and that was his song. I had a vague memory of a singer named Cantor. Of course he was long dead. So, my dream had also acquired a sense of the absurd. It was populating itself with real historical people.

The other three occupants were women - skinny, flat chested and sporting a lot of leg. They all had their dark hair cut into the sort of bob you see in caricatures of the 1920s "Flapper." They were just as drunk and merry as Mr. Cantor.

I said, puzzled, "Why did you pick me up." Cantor had big buggy eyes. They viewed me with amusement, as he said, "You were drunk - old fellow. So, you must have been looking for a party."

The Rolls stopped and without another word - all four of my companions tumbled out in boozy merriment. I emerged slowly, stepped off the running board, and halted on the curb. The Rolls hummed noiselessly off. I stood there for a moment getting my bearings.

There was racket emanating from a big room to the right of the reception desk. That had to be ground zero for the high spirits. The sounds of clarinet, trumpet, piano, banjo and drums and the shouts of happy party goers was my first clue.

I walked into a large walnut paneled room and saw something that I had only heretofore seen in flickering black and white. It was a genuine jazz age party, complete with Sheiks, and Flappers, all wildly Shimmying, Charlestoning, and Black Bottoming to the frenetic sound of, "Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue."

Showers were not common in that era. So, people took a bath maybe once a week. Which added one more contrast with my era. The room stank of perfume and unwashed people - not to mention tobacco. A drunk in a tux - no shit... formal dress - put his arm around my shoulders and slurred, "Have one on me pard!" He handed me a flute full of bubbly and wove his way back into the churning mass.

I stood there bemused. Then I spotted an alcove off of the main room. A small group of people were standing there, looking like European explorers studying a yet undiscovered native tribe. They seemed sober and relatively intelligent. So, I headed for them. I thought they might give me a clue.

There were four of them, three men and a petite woman. One of the men looked vaguely familiar. The other two were clearly literary types - Harris Tweed suits round glasses and all. But the woman had me riveted... because there was a picture of her on the wall in my writing room. She was Dorothy Parker, a true American character.

Dorothy, or as her friends called her Dot, was one of the best-known literary figures of the 20th Century. But her real claim to fame was her wit. Anybody who would tell an editor that she was, "Too fucking busy, or vice versa," when asked about a deadline... or who would shrug off an abortion by saying, "It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard," had my vote.

She died in 1967. So, I never saw her in the flesh. Alive, she was a very attractive woman - tiny, all of five feet, and slim. But it was the dark beauty of her face, thick brown hair, huge intelligent eyes and even features that drew you in. Of course, her animated intelligence kept you riveted.

She was currently talking to the guy who I thought I recognized. So, I sidled over to stand with them, like I wanted to join the conversation. Dot stopped, turned her head, and said dryly, "And what species of anthropoid are you?"

I knew I had better come up with a zinger, or she would blow me off. Without blinking, I said, "I'm the bifurcated kind because I have a crack in my ass. How about you?" That got a full-throated laugh since Dot was wearing a girdle, like all the other ladies. Hence, it looked like she only had one buttock.

Dot turned to the guy who I thought I'd recognized and said, "I like this guy, Harpo." Great Googly Moogly!! I'd watched enough Marx Brothers and Stooges to know who that guy was. And I realized right away that I was out of my league, which was sorta ironic since my dream was where that league existed.

I stuck out my hand and said, "Erik," he took it and said, "Arthur." That must have been his actual name - something I didn't know. Also, if you've ever seen a Marx Brothers movie you know that Harpo is the one who doesn't talk. So, it was weird to hear him speak. The other two guys were Art Samuels who edited the New Yorker and Alexander Woollcott, the most feared critic in New York City.

Those four were original members of the Algonquin Round Table, which was the most significant gathering of literary giants since the Inklings, and this was the Algonquin Hotel so there was some logic to my dream. But this thing was getting weirder by the minute. I was pondering whether the mushrooms on my steak were the hallucinogenic kind.

Dot said, "So what's a cat like you doing at this party?" I assumed that was 1920s slang term for a guy since I clearly wasn't a feline. I could have launched into an extended tale of treachery in the Twenty-First Century. But that would have gotten me fitted for a straitjacket. Instead, I said, "I've written a novel and I'm here to find a publisher." That was easy enough because it was actually true.

Dot gave me a sharp look and said," Have you got it with you? I said, "It's in my room at the Plaza," which was also true, except that was a hundred years in the future. Dot said, "I'd be happy to take a look at it. If it's good enough, I know some people."

Then she fumbled in her purse and brought out a yellow #2 pencil, sharpened almost to the eraser, along with what looked like a laundry receipt. She said to Harpo, "Turn around," and she scribbled an address, using his back. She handed it to me and said casually, "Look me up tomorrow and I'll take a gander at it."

That was when a fellow walked into the room, who was totally over the top bohemian... even in an age where flamboyant affectation was the norm. More relevantly, he was with a woman who was so beautiful that she squeezed the blood out of my heart. Woollcott said, derision dripping off his every word, "His Nibs has arrived."

Fortunately for me, Samuel said, "And look at the lollipop Ziegfield has with him tonight!!"

That was helpful since it put a name to the man. He was Flo Ziegfield - who was Hugh Hefner before Hef was even born. Ziegfield was famous for grandiose stage reviews featuring incredibly sexy women dressed in daring costumes. It created a type - the "Ziegfield girl". Sorta sounds like a "Playmate" doesn't it?

If you were a certain kind of woman in the early part of the Twentieth Century... Ziegfield could make your reputation if he "discovered" you. Of course, like Hefner, that discovery usually involved a visit to Flo's ornate bedroom. So, I assumed that the woman on his arm was his current mistress.

Dot turned to me and said, "He's a showman for the ages - the ages being four to eight years old. But he's the cat's pajamas right now and he likes people kissing his ass. So, I gotta go talk to the big shlemiel. Give me a jingle or drop by." With that, she scooted across the floor to join the gaggle of Ziegfield's admirers. I stood there trying to translate that sentence into modern English.

It appeared that fawning was the only thing that Ziegfield loved more than beautiful women. Because he totally ignoring the girl he'd brought - while holding forth to the assembled multitude. She, in turn, drifted over to stand near me. She looked lost.

I am way too cool - read "inhibited" - to talk to a lady without a reason. But this one was just so stunningly beautiful that I scooched a bit closer and said, "It looks like your boyfriend has plenty of admirers." She turned to me and said unhappily, "He's not my boyfriend. Mr Ziegfield is my patron..."

Yeah!-right!-sure!! I was astonished at how ingenuous the woman looked when she said it. I mean... she was gorgeous, beautiful thick auburn hair, long graceful neck, huge hazel eyes, and features that were so perfectly symmetrical that it looked like Botticelli had done the work. But still, there was something about her that reeked of innocence.

She also had the heavy makeup popular for the time, which made her resemble a sensuous racoon. Her lips were bright red, as were her nails. It suited the fashion. Twenties girls were flat chested, and leggy. And the scantiness of the dresses fitted those features perfectly. But the body inside this woman's beaded shift dress was the polar opposite of what the designers were aiming at.

She was lithe... with very shapely hips and a beautiful pair of big round tits. So, a flapper dress on her looked almost obscene and it was clear that wearing it made her uncomfortable. I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her. So, I said, trying to ease her self-consciousness, "You're very beautiful. Are you the star of one of Ziegfield's shows?"

She blushed and said self-effacingly, "You must not be from around here. Alice Wilke and Louise Brooks are his stars. I live in a boarding house over on West 24th." She seemed to realize how dismissive that made her sound, so she added eagerly, "I love to write and I'm trying to break into the business. I met Mr. Ziegfield at a party last week and he asked me to come with him tonight. He says it's my debut."

Then she added chortling with undisguised glee, "I oughta get a good story out of this." Of course, My Dear!!... Nonetheless, she'd said it with perfect sincerity. Maybe she WAS that gullible?

The old lecher was obviously grooming this gorgeous woman for something, and I doubted it had anything to do with writing. But it would probably make a great plot for the bodice rippers that were so popular back then.

Nonetheless, the woman's enthusiastic interest in being an author surprised me. I said, "You like to write?" She glowed with enthusiasm as she said, "I was born to write. I have a zillion ideas in here, and she pointed to her beautiful head."

She added, "I've written a few stories and Mr. Ziegfield says that he knows people at the New Yorker who will publish me." I had just met the editor of that brand new magazine. In fact, Samuels and Dot were standing in the middle of the room joshing with Ziegfield as the two of us spoke.

Then the little beauty standing next to me seemed to catch herself and said, flustered, "Where are my manners. My name is Julia, Julia Richmond," and she extended a delicate hand for me to shake. I took her hand in a gentlemanly fashion and said, "Frank Sullivan, at your service."

I could have used my real name. But every writer adopts a pseudonym to separate their real life from their fantasy one. And after all - I WAS in a dream. Sullivan was a minor author from the '20s. So, I figured nobody would recognize that name in a place where the Algonquin Round Table held court.

Julia said, cheerily, "Pleased to meet-cha, Frank." It was the sort of hayseed thing you might say if you'd just met somebody down at the feed store. I said, "Where are you from?" It was obviously not the Isle of Manhattan. She said proudly, "Toledo, Ohio." Holy shit!! She WAS fresh off the farm.

She added flirtatiously, "Where are YOU from, Frank?" I said, "Mill Valley, California." She said, "Oh my, that's a long way from here. Why are you in New York?"

I said, "I have a novel that I am trying to peddle. Dorothy Parker..." I nodded in Dot's direction, "is going to take a look at it for me and she might help me sell it to a publisher."

Julia said, "Who's Dorothy Parker?"

I said, astonished, "How long have you been in New York?"

Julia stood there, looking like a Labrador Retriever who'd just returned with a mallard in its mouth, and said, "Almost two months... I graduated from Waite High and worked for a couple of years. But I wanted to write, and Manhattan is the only place to go to be discovered. My parents gave me enough money to live in New York for a year and if I haven't made it by then I have to come back home."

That would make the woman 21, or 22 at the oldest. I was impressed by her moxie. She had a dream. She wanted to make it her reality and she was brave enough to go to the right place. Of course, having a woman with Julia's face and figure step off a bus in the wilds of Manhattan was roughly equivalent to dropping a succulent little lamb in the midst of a wolf pack.

I said, nodding toward Ziegfield, "So, is he your regular fellow?" Julia colored bright pink, which was easy to note given the scantiness of her outfit, and said, "This is my first night out with him and he has been a little forward. I'm not that kind of girl. I mean, I have plenty of experience with guys, but..." That was fairly obvious. How could a beauty like here NOT have experience with men" She was still talking, "But I'm not easy, like my other roommates are."

I was going to say, "Just how easy are you?" - you know, a little humor - but I was pretty sure that would have ended the conversation, and I didn't want that to happen. So, instead I said, "Would you like to get together some time and talk writing?"

Hey! It was my dream, and she was my dream girl. This whole thing was going to end when I woke up anyhow... so, why not? Her beautiful face lit up with sheer delight and she said, "I'd love that. Do you have a piece of paper I can write the boarding house number on?"

I said, "Just tell me," and I whipped out my cell phone. She looked puzzled and said, "What's that?" I said, "It's a gizmo I bought on Popular Mechanics. I can record stuff on it." Popular Mechanics had been around for twenty years in 1925 and it DID feature some weird gadgets. Julia looked skeptical as she said, "Pennsylvania Six-Five Thousand."

I recorded it and was putting the phone back in my pocket when Ziegfield swept over, larger than life The man was much smaller than me. Julia was perhaps five-three and Ziegfield couldn't have been more than five-five. Of course, most of the men in the room were shorter than I was, and I was no giant. But this was the 1920s when a tall guy was like six feet.

Ziegfield was an immaculate dresser, with a Tom Selleck style mustache and an air about him of total arrogance. Without acknowledging me, he threw one arm around Julia's waist, yanked her to him and marched back to the center of the room towing Julia along like a captured maiden. I could hear his booming voice announce, "And this is Miss Julia Richmond, my new protégé."

Everybody in the room knew what THAT meant and Ziegfield was making the meaning crystal clear in case they didn't. Julia looked nonplussed. But she stood there to be admired - like a breeding mare at a horse show. I instantly hated the man. He was treating my dream girl like a piece of meat.

An insane wave of anguish swept over me. I said to myself, "This is crazy. I'm eaten up by jealousy in my own dream." Disgusted with myself, I turned and walked out of the room, across the lobby and out onto Forty-Fourth. The Rolls was sitting there with the passenger door open.

I got in, told the chauffer, "The Plaza," and the Rolls hummed off. I sat there thinking, "You are one pathetic puppy! Your wife is fucking around on you, and you could care less. But a woman you met in a dream is going to have sex tonight and it's tying you into jealous knots."

The Rolls dropped me on 59th Street, which was the main entrance to the Plaza back then. I exited the plush interior and walked up the steps into the lobby. Our room was on the seventh floor. I had the key card in my pocket... if this was the 21st. If it was 1925 - well then... that would be a different story, entirely. I would be homeless in New York, since I only had modern money with me.

The elevator was not one of today's self-service kind. It had an operator. He said, "Which floor, Sir." I said "seventh" and he proceeded to crank the door closed, the elevator rose and then he opened it. I stepped into the hall expecting to take the stairs back down because I didn't have a key.

I had a moment of vertigo the instant the elevator doors shut and I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. The dizziness passed and when I opened them I was back in the 21st century. I tapped my card on the reader, the little green light came on and I walked into a dark, empty room. There was no sign of Ash. I didn't expect there to be. I did my nighttime preparations and laid my head down on the pillow. The bedside clock said it was one-forty-five.

Ash woke me up, coming in about an hour later. She undressed in the bathroom and slipped under the covers. She was clearly trying not to wake me - which was ironic. Because, it wouldn't have mattered if she'd arrived accompanied by the Michigan Marching Band playing Hail to the Victors. The two of us were SO over.