CHAPTER THIRTEEN.      THE RIOT ACT

☆

      The 46th Street Theater was historic, massive, and magnetic in all the ways other Broadway theaters were, and Valerie remained adamantly unimpressed. She endured this behavior from the moment the cab stopped in Midtown to the time she settled into the middle section of the actual auditorium. Frankly, she might be able to appreciate the grandness of the venue especially the fact that she was in an actual Broadway theater for the first time, if she hadn't known who she was being forced to watch for the next hour. On her left, occupying the next two seats, were Midge and Susie, acting oblivious to her miserable attitude, quavering with anticipation themselves.

      The blonde tried to humor her own cynicalism for a moment, half-heartedly flipping through the pamphlet offered to her at the door that described Sophie Lennon's 'humble' beginnings, before becoming disenchanted with that as well. She surveyed around the room, able to for the time being as the overhead lights were still on, and muffled a dry snort. From her viewing distance, the entire theater was filled with upper-class New Yorkers, dawning their pressed suits and sleek gowns, murmuring excitedly amongst each other. She could tell the majority of the audience weren't strangers with attending Broadway shows, judging by how relaxed and at home they made themselves. Her acerbic amusement only grew as she took a peak at the unknown patron sitting on her right side: a woman in a fur coat and gloves, flashing the string of peals wrapped around her wrists and neck. These were the type of people who could afford a Sophie Lennon show, and somehow this comic was meant to be the salt-of-the-earth artist with a knack for connecting with the 'common folk'. 

      "Are you not the least bit excited to be here?" Midge questioned all of a sudden, leaning forward to get a better look at the blonde. "We're about to see one of the most famous comedians in the world right now."

      "You know who else was really famous? John Dillinger." Valerie responded, deadpan, resulting in her friend and manager to roll their eyes. "Would I want to be forced into an overcrowded theater with him for an hour while he colorfully describes his bank robbing techniques? No."

      "We're in a Broadway theater," Susie said jovially, a half-hearted attempt to vanquish Valerie's forlorn look. "That's a big deal to most people."

      "I'd rather be watching West Side Story." Valerie easily retorted, and the other two ladies simply gave up. When they had all met together in Manhattan and stuffed themselves in a shared cab, Midge had become extremely baffled by the revelation that Valerie did not find Sophie Lennon funny. An ensuing argument broke out, to which Valerie just repeated the exact same dialogue she said to Susie on the phone, right down to the syntax. Still, even after the debate ended, the brunette was standing in unanimity with their manager in disbelief over the blonde's opinion. 

      "Sophie Lennon is a national treasure." Midge had countered towards the end of their cab ride, right when the car was making a right onto West 46th street.

      Valerie recalled scoffing, before saying: "Americans also consider the bald eagle, deep dish pizza, and the Yankees national treasures so I wouldn't say we're the best judge of character about these types of things." 

      Soon enough (too soon), the lights were dimming, the curtains were folding to the sides, and everyone lurched in their seats in tense eagerness as the woman of the hour crossed the platform. Rapturous applause filled the theater as Sophie Lennon graciously waved, her pace towards the center of the stage gradual, batting her hands and appearing taken aback by the amount of cheers. Out of pure politeness, Valerie clapped, but noticed how ferociously Susie and Midge applauded, eyes wide with awe. 

      When she finally stood in front of the microphone stand, the makeshift background of Queens' dilapidated townhouses standing behind her, the comedienne (dressed in her classic apron and bandana with red streaks of hair peaking out) pouted dramatically, "Well, I haven't seen this gracious of a turnout since the Buffalonians gathered around the Temple of Music to watch McKinley get shot!"

      And the show went off with a loud wave of laughs, continuing for the next hour. On a less dramatic note, it wasn't a horrible show — Valerie has definitely been forced to sit through worse. It wasn't like her ears were bleeding. In actuality, she sat in that theater bored for the most part, dozing off slightly, trying to focus on other things in order to stay awake, wishing desperately she had snuck in a book to keep her mind busy. Sophie had conducted a real crowd-pleasing show, gaining laughs through her usual frontier of working-class tough lady and exploiting the dramatics of blue collar living. The crowd ate it up, as did Susie and Midge, whose eyes failed to leave Sophie's unmovable stature for the entirety of the performance. 

      "Put that one your plate!" Sophie cajoled into the mic, the repetition of her signature catchphrase riding the ripple of claps across the room. She put her hands on her wide hips, lips pursed as she spoke again in her thick New York accent, "Yeah, I'm from Queens, born and raised. Queens is the place you go to get to the airport — to get the hell out of Queens!" More hysterical chuckles came out in response. "Ha! Put that on your plate!"

      Valerie rolled her eyes, slouching a little in her seat, the coat she brought with her scrunching around her shoulders. There was nothing she disliked more in comedy than catchphrases. The only people who could pull off a good catchphrase was Jerry Lewis and Bob Hope, and if that didn't prove that it was a very narrow, exclusive list, she didn't know what would.

      "In Queens, we got a neighborhood called Flushing, which isn't a name so much as a suggestion for what to do with the place!" Sophie gawked, waving around the feather duster in her hand, "Put that on your plate!"

      Midge giggled until she caught the bouncing of buoyancy coming from all sides of the room. She cocked her head towards Susie and Valerie, "You hear those laughs?"

      "They're big laughs." Susie confirmed with a nod.

      Honestly, Valerie had failed to recognize that, too caught up in her own languor to take stock of how massive of a gig this was, of how famous and clearly successful Sophie had made herself to be in order to get to this magnificent theater. Valerie didn't have the arrogance to claim she could get here easily, even if her humor was better than Lennon's, but that desperate, anxious curling in her stomach reminded her that she wanted to be here eventually, telling jokes and captivating audiences in an auditorium that held over a thousand people. 

      Nervousness quickly stroked Midge's expression. Hurriedly, she questioned their conjunctive manager, "Are you sure our stuff is funny enough for Harry?"

      Susie glanced at her with an odd look, "Positive. Why? Aren't you sure?"

      "I'm pretty sure." Midge replied, a little too hesitant.

      "Pretty sure?" Susie questioned with incredulity, "I went out on a limb for you two, sister, so be damn sure!"

      "I'm damn sure!" The brunette corrected, startled by the woman's combativeness. Her blue eyes, clinging onto natural nerves, met Valerie's gaze, "Are you damn sure?"

      Not wanting to face Susie's wrath next, but also being honest, Valerie nodded confidently, "I'm very damn sure, plus I have absolute faith in Susie's judgement and if she says we're good enough, we're good enough."

      "Finally, a little trust." mumbled Susie, before all three women's attention returned to the stage. 

      "Yeah, I like to eat! I'm so fat —" Sophie stopped, leaning forward and cupping her hand around her ear, waiting for the crowd to respond. This had become a common enough occurrence in her show so far, when she would pose a question or leave an open-end to a routine, giving the audience, who was used to her well-rehearsed patterns, a chance to join in. Now, Valerie enjoyed a bit of crowd-work, participated in it even at the Gaslight and to immense success, but the way Sophie escorted it felt cheap, unauthentic in a way Valerie didn't appreciate. She liked a little spontaneity, yet Sophie's formula was extremely regulated, her bits almost word-for-word practice, seemingly.

      "How fat are you?" The crowd asked in unison. 

     "I'm so fat that I used to look rubenesque, and now I just look like a Reuben sandwich!" Once again, the theater erupted in buoyancy with the comedienne bowing gracefully afterwards. 

      Midge shook her head in awe, "I grew up listening to this woman on the radio."

      "Me too." added Susie.

      "Even my dad laughed at her. He tried not to, but he did!" Midge peaked over at Valerie, brows scrunched slightly, taking in the blankness plastered across her face. "Did you not watch her when you were a kid?"

      "Not really. My parents weren't fans, and by the time I got a good listen to her, I decided I didn't like her." The blonde whispered back. In retrospect, Valerie couldn't recall listening to many comedians on the radio when she was a child, prone to mimicking her parents and listening to whatever they listened to. Due to that, she stuck mainly to music — her mother preferred Jazz and black artists while her father enjoyed folk songs and gospel — but by the time she was a teenager and developed her own taste, she watched comedians such as Mae West and W. C. Fields. Sophie Lennon simply didn't fit into her scope of admiration. 

      Susie tsked in disbelief, before returning her attention back to the main stage. She grinned as Sophie continued to joke, "She got a lot of us through the Depression."

      Simultaneously, Midge and Valerie's faces twisted with puzzlement as both women whipped her heads towards their manager. The brunette quirked a brow, "How old are you?"

      A disgruntled scowl crossed her face, "I'm not telling either of you."

      Eventually, the show ended to thunderous applause, the whole crowd getting on their feet to clap and whistle as the older comedian made her way towards the side exit. Flowers were even tossed towards the slick platform of the stage. Valerie politely joined in on the standing ovation, reminding herself to just be grateful that after an agonizing hour, the show was actually over. Now, it was time to meet the star comedian backstage after some of the theater emptied out. She didn't dread meeting the woman, as much as she hated watching her perform. Despite the lack of nuance and humor in Lennon's comedy, Valerie very much doubted the woman was horrible, and there was a layer of excitement to speaking to a female comic of her high stature. It's not like there was a chance everyday to meet such a successful woman in the entertainment industry.

      Once their row shuffled out towards the back doors, Susie lead her two clients through the production doors, flashing a VIP badge with smugness as the trio slithered through cramped and dark corridors. After a moment of maneuvering, the overhead lights flickered back on and the three ladies found themselves in the right wing of the stage. In silence, the three watched as Sophie signed and handed out autographs on a makeshift table from her fake ironing board. There was a whole line of eager people coming from the other side of the stage waiting for a chance to share a word or two with her. It was impressive, Valerie could admit that at least.

      Susie didn't wait to call over the attention of Harry Drake, the older man in a nice pressed suit and black rimmed glasses who was lingering by Sophie's side. As subtly as they could both pull off, both women straightened their postures and smoothed out their dresses as Harry trudged over in good-nature. "Hello Susie. Oh, thanks for putting on your fancy duds. Shows a lot of respect for the occasion here."

      For the event, Susie chose to wear a blazer, dress pants, and a button-up white shirt, all accompanied by her signature black hat. Truthfully, she looked very dapper and it was more formal than the getups she usually wore, but nevertheless, it was clearly clothes from a men's department. Susie didn't seem all that bothered by the comment, choosing to be snarky instead. "Listen, I know it's late and you have a catheter that needs changing, so let me introduce you to my girls. This is Amanda Gleason and Valerie King."

      Valerie shook his hand and smiled graciously, but couldn't help the smirk that twinkled on her lips for a split-second. Susie looked nauseated to introduce Midge with that horrible show name. 

      "Nice to meet you both." Harry said cordially. His eyes, seemingly firm and unwavering, met Valerie's with a sense of sympathy. "I just want to express my condolences for the loss of your husband. I'm so sorry. He really had quite a talent."

      "Thank you, Mr. Drake." Valerie replied with firmly pressed lips, trying to hide the discomfort weighing on her shoulders. She focused on the biting of her nails into her hands so she didn't loitered in it. "I appreciate that."

      Thankfully, for her sake, he didn't linger on the awkward moment. "Did you like the show?"

      Midge's response came swiftly, wedging in so she could save Valerie. "We loved it! She's hysterical — she's timeless!" She complimented with a grin.

      "She's the best in the biz." Harry appended with only a hint of arrogance. It must feel good to manage one of the most richest comedians in America. "Let me introduce you. Sophie!"

      Nervousness struck each of the three women. Sophie turned, caught a glance of Harry's gesturing hand, and amicably smiled at the next awaiting fan eagerly wanting her autograph and a slice of her time. "Oh, hey, don't worry, I'll be back!" She said, before waltzing over, her stance slightly wobbly given her extra weight. Valerie was surprised to find her Queens accent just as thick as it was on stage. She assumed she emphasized it for dramatic purposes.

      "Sophie, this is Susie Myerson, Amanda Gleason, and Valerie King." Harry greeted. "Amanda and Valerie may be opening for you in Jersey."

      Midge reached out with an open hand first, "Nice to meet you!"

      "Ah, Sophie don't shake hands!" She proclaimed, holding her hands up. Both Midge and Valerie became taken aback by that until the older woman's face beamed with a dopey grin. "Sophie shakes bodies!"

      Without notice, her long arms were wrapping around both women, squeezing their small frames tightly. Trying not to grimace in her strong embrace, Valerie awkwardly chuckled and patted the comedienne's shoulder, feeling the vibrations of her bellowing laughter against her front. "Yay, I love hugs." Valerie weakly appealed.

      Sophie pulled back to look down at both of them. It wasn't displayed on stage, but she was actually an extraordinarily tall woman. "Harry, make sure you cheat towards these adorable young things!" She chuckled, along with everyone else, at the compliment. Taking a couple of steps back, she arched a skeptical brow at the two young comedians. "So, you two are gonna be the appetizes, huh?"

      "We're hoping." replied Valerie, sharing an encouraging look with the brunette.

      "Well, it's a tough gig." Sophie added. "They tell you that?"

      "Yes, they did." The blonde answered, looking at Midge for confirmation, who nodded pleasantly. "We're both game."

      "Good for you gals!" She said, appearing pleased, before an idea popped into her head. "Why don't you both come over to my house this week? I like to get to know my acolytes."  

      Midge was ecstatic by the prospect. "We're at your disposal!"

      "Harry, set it up." Sophie directed towards her manager, before whipping back around to face the lingering crowd and grinning joyfully. She marched back towards them, "Look at those beautiful people!"     

       All three women turned their expectant regards onto Harry. Much to their silent relief, he seemed happy about the introduction. He offered Susie an optimistic, wry smile. "Susie, I'll be in touch."

      "Thanks, Harry."

      With that, he was off, joining his client's side to probably help quicken the meet-and-greet. For a moment, the trio stood there in pure quietness, watching the scene and absorbing how tremendously well all of that went. Even Valerie, with her cynicalism and perpetual dread over coming to this showcase, couldn't rip the roots out of her surprise delight. They all glanced at each other and could barely contain their nervous excitement. This was another step towards making it big, another step out of Midtown and onto success. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

      Before walking to the church, Valerie stopped at a twenty-four hour convenience store located on a street corner. She picked up a bottle of inexpensive Maltese wine and two plastic tumblers, before continuing her way down Gold Street. The tumbledown, moss-covered church came into view, but the blonde weaved past the building and towards the back where the rectory was located. It was a small cabin-like structure made of rough cobblestone; there was a miniature porch with three steps, square-sized windows, and a stubby chimney. By no means was it a perfect place to live, priest or no priest, and she would be willing to bet a hefty amount of money that other ministers from the Catholic Diocese of Brooklyn had better lodgings. Still, it was free living essentially, which meant something where your occupation possessed no yearly income.

      She walked towards the front door, listening eerily at the wood creaking under her weight, and knocked. A moment or two passed, before the door swung open and Father Hagan's weary face appeared. Without a shared word, a dubious brow rose as his eyes narrowed on the wine bottle cupped in her hands. "You couldn't buy beer?"

      "I only drink beer when I want to get drunk." The blonde explained genially. "And I'm not looking to get sloshed. I'm looking for a nice night with friend."

      His questioning nature lingered, but he did swing the door more fully open and stepped aside to let her in. The living room was small, but by all means, decent. There was a couch, a coffee table, and a fireplace. It was connected to a tiny kitchen that included a stove, fridge, and cabinets. There was a radio situated next to an empty kettle, methodically playing gospel hymns.

      As she shook off her coat and planted the bottle and glasses on the table, Father Hagan gruffly shut the door and headed towards the kitchen. "You know, most people don't want to be friends with priests. We're not party-goers, you see?"

      Valerie dryly chuckled, "Yes, I've heard. But as you're well aware, I haven't been in much of a party going mood in a long time so you're kind of the perfect person for a simple chat."

      She turned and saw that the holy man was bringing over a platter of crackers and spinach dip. There was a corkscrew delicately balancing on the edge of the tray. As he got everything situated at the table, Valerie took the liberty of unscrewing the cork in the wine and pouring each of them a tumbler full of red.

      "How did Sophie Lennon's show go? Did you enjoy it?" Father Hagan inquired, couch moaning in protest as he sat down, accepting his glass graciously. 

      Valerie's nose scrunched, "Not really. She's never been my thing." She relaxed on the opposite side of the couch, tumbler in one hand while the other held a cracker slathered in green dip. It wasn't cheese, but spinach was a good enough substitute, especially since she forgot to eat today. "But the good news is our meeting went well and I think I've got a fair shot of opening for her in Jersey."

      "Hey, that's good news! Cheers to small blessings." They clinked their cups together and took small sips. Maltese wine wasn't better than Italian, but Valerie wasn't looking to spend hard cash on anything too expensive. "God's plan is being put into motion for you."

      The blonde resisted the urge to groan and roll her eyes. It really wasn't polite to do that in front of a priest. "If you say so." Her eyes suddenly narrowed as she took in his rumpled exterior. Clearly, he was tired, judging from the dragging lines of his face, but his black shirt and clerical collar remained on. Thankfully, his cassock was gone, otherwise Valerie might have bolted at the rush of old, childhood memories of attending church. "You look exhausted."

      "I had a long day." He admitted, voice low. "Morning and afternoon mass, confessions, preparing my sermons for tomorrow, et cetera, et cetera. Plus I'm also helping organize a food drive for Christmas. You know how it is, holidays can be exceptionally tough on families."

      "Holidays are tough." Valerie quietly repeated, nodding in agreement. For a second, her regard focused on a random spot on the ground, the place where two floorboards didn't meet and the darkness of the ground was peaking. Her eyes became a little dazed, somewhat bleared. Her first Christmas without Mark, she was suddenly reminded of. She would have to face her family alone for the holidays for the first time in forever. She snapped herself out of that line of thought quickly. "Can I ask you something non-religious and totally superficial?"

      If he was taken aback by the abrupt line of questioning, it didn't show. "Absolutely."

      "What do you think of my name?" She asked, curiously. "Like as a whole. Like, when we met, did you think 'oh, what a pretty name' or 'that sounds like her parents secretly didn't like her when she was born'?" 

      "To be honest, I didn't think twice about it." He chuckled, before thinking it over. "But I suppose, it's a pretty name. It's got a nice rhythm to it. I prefer your full, actual name." 

      The blonde scoffed, leaning back into the cushions, her navy blue skips slipping from her feet and landing on the floor with a thump in the process. In all his slyness, Mark had revealed Valerie's birthname in a conversation with the priest years ago, just for the point of annoying her.  "Of course, you do! I was named after a saint, for Christ — I mean, Pete' sakes! It's embarrassing when I have to explain it to people." She circled her cup slowly in one hand, watching the ripples of dark red move across the surface. Bitterness struck her like a bolt of lightening. "I was named after the patron saint of love. How deeply ironic now, right?"

      She took a long swig, hoping the rush of grape and acerbity flushed out the somberness. Father Hagan's eyes pierced the side of her face, eyes crinkled in sympathy. He tutted a little, choosing his words carefully, "Perhaps, instead of looking at it from that point of view, you could opt to look at it from a more positive one; such as, perhaps you were always meant to be named that, because you were destined to have a great love in your life and Mark was that."

      Softly, Valerie snorted under her breath, dismissive, but the words lingered in her mind. Intrigued, she glanced over at the priest, asking in a half-serious, half-cynical tone: "Do you think God meant for me and Mark to meet each other?"

      "I believe that God doesn't put people in our paths without reason, good or bad outcomes included." He surmised without hesitation. "As much of a cliché as it is, the Lord does work in mysterious ways, even if us as his creations don't always understand, but I do believe there is a purpose for everything He does."

      She was silent for a moment. She refused to analyze what he was saying, her mind already rocked and rattled enough by anger and grief. She didn't need to try to psychoanalyze God's choices, especially since she had spent half of her previous life trying to understand the Lord and failing to find satisfying answers. "I think none of God's plans make any sense." Valerie muttered, before finishing her tumble and setting it across from her on the table. She bent over to scoop more of the dip onto a new cracker. "You know, my big sister's accused me of being ashamed of my name. Not of my full name, because she has an equally horrible one, but of my last name."

      "Why would she believe that?"

      "Because when I got married to Mark, we had a bit of a debate on whether or not I would take his last name. At first, I didn't want to and he didn't care, so for a little while I kept my surname. Then, I realized it might not have been such a bad thing for me to change it, so I did." Valerie giggled, a little rueful. "Gene told me I was just looking for an opportunity to distance myself further from the family, as if she didn't change her last name when she got married. But of course, according to my family, any change I make to my life without their explicit consent is an act of betrayal so..."

      Father Hagan listened to her pensively, "What's your maiden name?"

      "Donovan." She answered easily. "Stemming from a long line of farmers, and sheep herders, and Christian drunks from Ireland."

      "It's a good, strong name."

      "It is." She conceded, thoughtful. "But it's a dirty name back where I'm from. Everyone in town knew us, knew who our father was, and judged us accordingly. You couldn't go anywhere in South Boston without hearing whispers about the Donovan family."

      After a moment, he asked: "Was your sister correct? Were you ashamed?"

      Automatically, she wanted to yell absolutely not, but the words paused on her lips. Her answer came out slower than she imagined, "No, of course not. Those snotty bible-thumpers back home had no right to judge any member of my family, and I would defend them until the end. But —" The rest of her response came out quieter. "There was some relief on my end when I changed from 'Donovan' to 'King'."

      Father Hagan nodded, "It's not a crime to admit that." 

      "It's not, because I was ashamed, it was because —" Valerie had rushed to correct the assumption, but her explanation died. She couldn't put her feelings into words without articulating twenty six years of turbulence with her family, without divulging ancient memories, and old griefs, and resentments that should have been buried years ago but hasn't. So, she opted not to explain anything at all. "It doesn't matter. My point for bringing all this up was, because I need to solidify a stage name for when I'm doing comedy and I feel like 'Valerie King' isn't what I want to run with."

      He could tell there was more to this than just picking a stage name, but he also had become accustomed to Valerie's mood swings over the course of their veiled friendship, especially since Mark's passing. He knew pushing her to reveal more would do more damage than good so he dropped it. "I think it's a wonderful name." He said benevolently. "I can't recall any other Valerie's in comedy. Then again, if you wanted to add some uniqueness, you could always go with 'Valentina'." 

      "Well, that would for sure make my dad happy." She said, giggling at the imagery of her father's jubilant expression if she decided to do that. She refilled her tumbler and clinked it again with his own. The radio, humming the background, notably switched into a different tune after the announcer's voice drifted off. In the midst of the static, after a few verses, she could hear the familiar melody of The Caravans singing, 'I Know the Lord will make a Way'. She couldn't help, but smile a little at the tune. 

      "A fan of Gospel?" Father Hagan inquired, amused by her reaction. "I wouldn't have taken you as one." 

      "Not really, but my parents listened to this type of music when I was growing up." answered Valerie, pinching another cracker from the tray. She felt like she was eating a lot, even if her stomach still grumbled for more. "Our congregation wouldn't let us listen to hymnals and songs by Negros in church, but my mother would always listen to it in our house."

      "She must of had very good taste, your mother." grinned Father Hagan. "You remember the lyrics?"

      She did. She could recite the whole song by heart now that her memories were resurfacing. She remembered her father softly crooning to 'Am I a Solder on the Cross' while driving his car to work every morning, Valerie in the passenger's seat on the occasional days he decided to take her with him. She recalled her mother cooking in the kitchen nonstop, the curtains gently dipping in and out from the wind, the sun basking light, her lovely voice singing to different hymnals, half in English and half in Italian. She could lay out the details of how her parents would dance to 'Wade in the Water' despite it's gloomy text, her father playfully dipping and spinning her unexpectedly, her mother swatting his arm and keeping to her seriousness despite the blush that would rise up her neck. 

      "Not really." Valerie dismissed, turning in her seat so she faced him more. With a tight-lipped, inviting smile, she quirked an eyebrow at him, "Now don't hold back on me now. I want to hear all about the annoying members of today's mass." 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

      When Harry Drake phoned Susie the next day to relay Sophie Lennon's address, Valerie had expected the comedian, given her robust persona and affinity to hijack the Queens borough into her own personal punching bag, to live in, well, Queens. This turned out not to be the case as the address for her residence lead both women directly to Lower Manhattan, nearby the intersection of East Houston and Elizabeth Street. 

      "This can't be it." Valerie repeated once again, glaring down at the scrap of paper with Lennon's home address. Not matter how many times she looked at it and then looked up at the street signs, she couldn't believe it was accurate. "There's no way she's living here. She would stand out like a sore thumb! You would have hoards of reporters sniffing around here like dogs searching for a rib-eye."

      Midge also appeared puzzled by their surroundings — the swanky neighborhood, the clean streets, the polished townhouses that spoke of elegance and money, the lack of mistrustful patrol coppers — but tried to be more open minded. "Maybe this is her vacation house. She makes so much money, I'm sure she has more than one place."

      The blonde held on to her skepticism, but said nothing further. A couple more paces south of Elizabeth Street and finally, they were standing in front of Sophie's supposed home. It was a wide townhouse made of brick and rimmed with white paint; there was a front gate, oval-shaped windows, and judging by the stature, multiple floors. Vaguely, it reminded her of her in-law's home, but at least theirs was less astutely rich-looking. 

      "Here goes nothing." Midge nervously announced, before stepping up the walkway, the blonde by her side. She reached up to ring the doorbell, both women utterly shocked when an entire symphony was conducted as a result. It sounded like church bells or carolers with their bells. By no means were doorbells meant to sound like that.

      The door gracefully opened and a lanky, older gentleman in a pressed suit appeared. "Good afternoon." His facial muscles hardly moved, his voice smooth and very British. "Mrs. Gleason and Mrs. King, I presume."

      "Yes, we are." Valerie said, eyes wide, taken aback by the sight of a butler greeting them at the doorway. "Good afternoon."

      "Ms. Lennon is expecting you both. Please come in." He backed away and left a wide berth for both ladies to enter. Trepidatiously, they followed suit, their heels immediately meeting shiny marble flooring. Valerie had to stop her jaw from smacking the ground once she noticed the foyer of the home. It was a long hallway connected to numerous closed doors and an open stairwell that wrapped upward into the second floor. Framed paintings, wick candles, and artistic lights decorated the entire layout. The whole place looked so pristine and polished, like she was entering a museum or a palace. 

      "So who composed that doorbell? Puccini?"

      "I wouldn't know."

      "Probably just some guy at the doorbell factory." Midge ineptly chuckled.

      While both women spent another moment or two gawking, the butler was staring them down, expectant. "Your coats, madams?"

      "Oh, right!" Midge yelped, hurriedly yanking off her coat while Valerie did the same. The brunette tried to grin up at the man, though it faltered a little. "Such a big foyer. You should put in a ping-pong table."

      The butler pointedly ignored her and the two hands that were reaching out with their coats. Abruptly, he called out: "Jenkins!" 

      A man from a neighboring room appeared swiftly, startling both comics. With careful and precise movements, the servant grasped both of their coats and took their purses as well. Before the door closed, Valerie caught a quick peak inside and saw almost a dozen maids in there as well. She uncomfortably shifted in her spot.

      "They look like they could use some water." quipped Midge, glancing between her friend and the butler, trying to let the awkwardness dim. 

      Briskly, the man replied, "Ms. Lennon will be down shortly."

      "Ms. Lennon is down now!" A somewhat familiar voice called out, and when both ladies turned to face the open stairwell, neither of them could contain their disbelief. There was Sophie, elegantly gliding down the steps, one hand grazing the railing, with the air and presentation of someone entirely different from what they both saw at the theater. No longer dawning her signature bandana or plus-size red dress, she instead wore a dapper gown that touched the floor, her skirt in waves, and a sash that crossed from her shoulder down to her waist. Her hair was no longer straggly and bright red, but blonde and neatly cut. The extra weight she had been carrying on her body was gone too, revealing a slender and taunt figure. The most mind-boggling part was that her iconic accent had vanished completely from her dialect. Valerie couldn't quite believe it.

      "Sophie...hi." Midge greeted slowly, unable to help the parted gap of her mouth. 

      "So good to see you both." chuckled Sophie, either not noticing or caring that both women were looking at her like she was a prized animal at the zoo. "Oh, and you're both on time! That's so unlike a comic."

      Midge blinked rapidly, "I tend to be punctual."

      That wasn't true at all, but Valerie had arrived early to her Upper West Side apartment in order to drag her to Lower Manhattan. The butler stepped forward, his gloved hands cupped behind his back, "Mrs. Gleason was inquiring as to the provenance of the doorbell."

      "It was a joke." corrected the brunette. "I said Puccini."

      Sophie smirked, "It was Aaron Copland."

      "Wait, Aaron Copland wrote your doorbell?" inquired Valerie, speaking for the first time since she entered. Her voice squeaked a little.

      "It's something he does. Aaron writes doorbells for all his friends." The older comic explained. Sharply, she turned to her butler. "Dawes, how is the light in the Blue Room today? I got a terrible night's sleep, and you know that makes my eyes sensitive to light. Is the light caustic today?"

      "I'll check, ma'am."

      The three women waited in bated, clipped silence as Dawes languished down the hallway and to the room apparently labeled the 'Blue Room'. He peaked inside, closed the door, and took his time waltzing back to his boss. "The light is not caustic, ma'am."

      "The Blue Room it is." Sophie declared, before walking towards the double French doors, expecting them to follow. 

      "Awesome." Valerie unnecessarily added, lingering discomfort in her voice. "My second favorite color."

      The 'Blue Room', as it was dubbed, was a massive sitting room meant to host guests that contained zero furniture or decoration of a shade of blue. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a magnificent piano towards one of the walls, and different sets of couches and loveseats scattered across the floorplan. Despite having never been to England before, the blonde imagined this was what a tearoom from Buckingham Palace looked like.

      Noting the equal amounts of amazement on both their faces, Sophie explained with an essence of casualness, "I had to fire six designers to get this room exactly how I wanted it. I'm not sure it was worth it."

      "This is gorgeous!" Midge complimented, her fingers reaching to touch the glossy wood of the piano. 

      "Don't touch!" Sophie interjected, stopping the brunette right in her tracks. "That was Cole Porter's. He wrote 'Begin the Beguine' on that very instrument; and this rug was once owned by George Gershwin."

      Valerie quirked an eyebrow, "Should we walk on it?"

      "Lightly." She answered airily. "You'll have the grand tour after we eat."

      Valerie coughed fiddly, still trying to adjust to this new and polished version of Sophie Lennon. "You live in a wonderful neighborhood, by the way."

      "Thank you." Her lips fluttered upward, though not into a full smile. Her whole face, from Valerie's perspective, seemed like it was made out of clay and changing her facial expressions from anything other than stoic politeness caused disingenuous cracks. "We're north of Little Italy. I used to have a brownstone a couple of blocks south, but there were so many immigrants coming in and out, it felt like living next to Ellis Island. They should really put a cap on that." Sophie sucked in air steeply, eyes narrowed as she tsked. "Those people are too loud."

      Without much thought to keeping up agreeable appearances, Valerie's face dropped, a little stunned by the bold admission. Usually, when people wanted to attack immigrants, they had enough tack to be more subtle. Midge was wearing a similar expression of shock, glancing between Sophie and Valerie as if expecting a fight to break out, especially for the younger blonde to make the first move. Sophie didn't seem to notice the change in the atmosphere, or how tense Valerie's posture became. 

      Dawes stepped into the room, "Ready for tea, ma'am?"

      "Yes, Dawes! Let's seat." Sophie gestured to three chairs with stiff backs that surrounded a tiny table near the large windows. Holding back on snapping out a biting response to Sophie's previous offense, Valerie followed Midge and sat down, praying that the rest of this lunch date would go better for Susie's sake. 

      One by one, well-dressed employees strode through, balancing trays of various dishes. Valerie couldn't help, but stare at every meal that came steaming in, dazed by the sophiscated displays. Sophie began rattling off details about the food: "So the bread for the finger sandwiches is from Provence. The macaroons are French, too. Clotted cream is from London, of course, and the scones." 

      "I would never eat a domestic scone." Midge uneasily quipped, unfolding the napkin from the table onto her lap. 

      "Shall we prepare your plates, madams?"

      Valerie nodded up at the butler, "Yes, please." As he walked off, the blonde took another analyzing look at the older comedian sitting across from her, still feeling skeptical. "So — this is you."

      "This is me." confirmed Sophie. "Surprised?"

      "A little."

      "You were expecting Sophie Lennon, weren't ya?" She questioned, her Queens accent make a brief appearance towards the end. She chuckled heartedly, "It's a very successful charade, isn't it?"

      "It's amazing." Midge answered, dumbfounded. 

      Sophie grinned proudly, "It's all fat suit and makeup."

      "How do people not know? I've never seen a picture of you out of character."

      "I pay the publicists, I pay the rags. I paid for Walter Winchell's summer home, for Christ's sake." She explained dispassionately. "Fans don't want to see this, they want the hausfrau from Queens."

      The slew of butlers surrounded their table, pouring tea into little China cups and sliding their plates in front of each woman. Less for satisfying her hunger and more for occupying herself, distract her from the simmering annoyance, Valerie took a large bit out of a orange macaron. Abruptly, Sophie started to laugh. Valerie paused mid-chewing, one brow raised, "What?"

      "You are so refreshing." Sophie acknowledged. Noticing that the blonde was still puzzled, she added: "Eating a macaron like that." 

      "What? Am I not eating it right?" She asked nonchalantly, though privately, her irritation began to rise. She wanted to tell her where she could shove her fancy French food that apparently she didn't know how to eat properly, but that would mean losing the Jersey gig, and the last thing Valerie wanted was to disappoint her manager. To her left, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Midge had taken a bite out of one too, but stopped once Sophie began speaking. 

      "No, no, no...you're eating it." She explicated, as if amused by her lack of understanding. Finishing the macaron had become bitter at this point, but Valerie did it just to prove something. She watched with disclosed disbelief as Sophie picked up a single wedge from her plate, sucked the juice on it, and then put it back down. She patted the corners of her lips like she had just finished a messy meal.

      Now, Valerie wasn't ignorant when it came to being a woman and having a complicated relationship with food. She had a whole host of family members who constantly reminded her of her curvy figure and how she needed to slim down. There were stacks of fashion magazines in every woman's clothing department reminding her that an hourglass figure was the only appropriate body type. She even knew about Midge and the diary she tracked her measurements in. But, seriously, a wedge? One single lemon wedge for lunch?

      "My goodness, you're both so pretty." Sophie remarked, sounding more condescending than what was probably intended. "Why comedy? Can't either of you sing?"

      Valerie cleared her throat and sipped tea in order to stop a brutal insult from slipping past her lips. Midge gently answered for both of them, "No, neither of us can. The comedy thing is something we both just fell into, I guess."

      Sophie hummed, "Me too. I went to Yale Drama School."

      "You're kidding?"

      "Yes, I wanted to be the next Laurette Taylor. Then I graduated, and I starved, so I started doing this character Sophie from Queens. And look what it paid for." The older woman gestured to her grand surroundings, proudly. "Dawes?"

      The butler stepped forward in automatic obedience, "Yes, ma'am?"

     "Isn't that marvelous?" Sophie rhetorically inquired, leaning forward towards both comedians, not even acknowledging her employee. While the woman seemed amazed by all the money and privileges her extensive comedy career brought her, Valerie remained uncomfortable. She had never been fond of butlers or stewards personally waiting on her. She wasn't used to it. Sophie's gaze narrowed, "So, tell me, what are your gimmicks?"

      Midge and Valerie glanced at one another, confused. The former raised her brow, "Our...?"

      "Your personas! Your Sophie!"

      "Oh, we don't have personas." answered Midge swiftly. "We're just us."

      Immediately, she shook her head, tsking in disapproval, "Oh, no, no, no, that will not work."

      "It won't?"

      "No! No one wants that!" replied the incredulous comic.

      Valerie bit her bottom lip angrily to stop herself from openly scoffing. Her patience towards this woman was running thin. If she wanted advice about her blossoming comedian career, there were about a thousand other more-talented entertainers she'd rather go to, ones that wouldn't be condescending or inauthentic. Lenny Bruce came to mind as the top contender. 

      Midge still seemed flabbergasted by the lack of acceptance on Sophie's part, "We've been doing pretty okay —"

      "Honey, you give a downtowner a swig of gin, and he'll laugh at a sponge." She smirked, making the younger blonde's blood boil. "The mainstreamers, the people from Pacoima, the people who buy the dish soap and the dog food, who pay for the Modigliani's — they want a character."

      "Bob Hope doesn't have a character." Valerie blurted out, her tone thankfully still steady despite the sedated hardening of her expression. "Lenny Bruce doesn't have a character."

      "They have dicks." Sophie bluntly intercepted, momentarily dropping the honey-dripped smoothness of her voice. "Do either of you have dicks?"

      Valerie was too stunned by the question to respond (though seconds later, a few unseemly retorts that would surely get her ass thrown out of this mansion popped into her mind). Midge, on the other hand, though taken aback, managed to stutter out: "Not last time we checked."

      Sophie tutted patronizingly, "Oh, darlings, look at the pair of you. Men don't want to laugh at you two, they want to fuck you."

      Involuntarily, the blonde flinched at the abrasiveness, of the surety in her tone. By no definitions was she a prude and she had been told many times that as a woman, her value to men was through sex and childbearing, but to have it be said by Sophie Lennon, one of the pioneers in the comedy industry, one of the few females in the business who made it, was mind-blowing to say the least.

      To no one's surprise, Midge was equally stunned, her body taunt and rigid in the curved chair. Sophie carried on casually, as if she hadn't offended the two comedians. "You can't go up there and be a woman. You've got to be a thing," Daintily, she lifted up her tea cup and narrowed her gaze over the rim, "You want to get ahead in comedy? Cover up those holes!"

      "Another macaroon, ma'am?" Valerie jumped as a plate of pink deserts disrupted her view of Lennon. She glanced up at Dawes, before shaking her head mutely. The thought of eating another macaroon when her entire body was simmering with disbelief and anger made her stomach recoil.

      Out of the corner of her head, she saw Sophie nod in approval, almost appearing proud. "You're learning."

      The rest of the evening went by stunningly fast, much to Valerie's silent delight. They finished their teas in the Blue Room, before Sophie ordered Dawes to give the two ladies a thorough tour of the townhouse. Admittedly, Valerie had little interest in viewing the master bedroom where a light-dappled painting of Claude Monet's Woman with a Parasol hung above the king-sized bed, or the 16th century silk animal carpet dawning the middle portion of the drawing room (where they were absolutely not to allow their heels to touch). Still, the almost forty-five minute long tour meant no Sophie and plenty of time for the blonde to cool down. She had to keep reminding herself of the importance for this meeting to go smoothly, for her future relationship with Sophie and Harry Drake to be cordial. Easier said than done, obviously. 

      After the extensive route around the house was completed, Sophie greeted them as they graced down the spiral staircase to the foyer. "So, you got the grand tour?"

      "My feet hurt, we walked so much." Midge quipped with a weak smile. 

      Sophie laughed, "I love that you love kitchens."

      "I do." replied Midge, still struggling to understand where the humor lied. "You should visit yours sometime. It misses you!"

      "Oh, and you both have macaroons to take home." She noted, gaze drifting towards the narrow cases filled with the sweet treats in either woman's hands. 

      "And now we don't have to shop for desert tonight." Valerie chuckled with only half of her heart in it. Truthfully, it was a pitiful joke, but all she wanted was to end this evening amicably and get the hell out of this townhouse. When the three women reached the entrance hall, they turned to one another. The blonde struggled, but managed to keep a polite look across her face. "This was very nice. Thank you, Sophie."

      Sophie nodded, smirking. "I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other in the future."

      "I hope so." Valerie lied through her teeth. Inside her head repeated the words: please just let it all end at the New Jersey opening.

      "Well, good luck tomorrow night!" smiled Sophie genially, "Say hello to Harry and make him laugh!"

      "We'll do our best!"

      With that, Dawes came over from the linen closet with their coats limping over each of his arms. Just as the two women were moving to shrug them on, Sophie stopped them dead in their tracks, her eyes narrowing on both articles of clothing. "What is that?"

      Midge's brows furrowed, "Those are our coats."

      "These flimsy things? It's freezing out!" Her face scrunched as she shook her head, "Jenkins!"

      She yelled for the other butler, who scurried into a different closet down the hall. Midge and Valerie were left in suspended torture over what he was going to bring. While they waited, Sophie leaned over to share conspiratorially, "A fat suit is very warm, by the way."

      Less than a minute later, Jenkins was heaving two oversized brown coats made of thick fur. They quite literally looked like the coats of bears, and despite her muttered protests, Valerie found herself swallowed inside the outerwear. It came all the way down to her knees, and the collar wrapped around her entire neck. The wool was, however, very warm and soft, even if the blonde felt like she was being smothered by a fat Grizzly. Midge, who had also been forced into an identical coat, wore the same type of discomfort on her own face. 

      Once Sophie was pleased with their new wardrobe, she allowed Dawes to escort the comedians out. Before they could even step off the porch, Midge was whipping back around, gesturing helplessly to the expensive coat and macaroon treats. "This was really not necessary."

      "Miss. Lennon was unhappy with your coats." Dawes replied easily, as if that was an adequate excuse for dumping exorbitant fur on the two ladies. 

      "How should we get them back to her?"

      "She's worn both items twice each. It's both of yours now." Dawes rose a brow, "Do you need a car?"

      "No, thank you, Dawes." Valerie awkwardly intervened, looking up at the monotoned butler. "This has been a wonderful evening."

      "It has, Mrs. King" He said, deadpan, before closing the front door behind him. 

      Valerie blinked rapidly, staring at the mahogany wood for a moment, before turning to Midge, flabbergasted, "What the hell was that?"

      "I have absolutely no clue." Midge replied, still stunned herself as she padded down the steps carefully. 

      The blonde followed, tugging uncomfortably at her new coat. Despite the oncoming November chill, the thick fur was becoming too much and sweat was building underneath her collar. "What kind of animal even is this?" She sniffed it, sensing a vague sense of flowery perfume. "Is Yellowstone missing a couple of brown bears?"

      "It's so heavy!" complained Midge, struggling to balance her purse and desert box under the coat's weight. 

      Valerie shook her head in disbelief, "You know, if New York gave every person one of these coats, we would have far less homeless people dying in the winter."

      "Did you hear what she said?" Midge abruptly asked, face lashing towards her friend, incredulous, "About Little Italy?"

      "Oh, loud and clear." Valerie muttered, her agitation evident. However, when she glanced over at Midge, who went quiet as they trudged down the sidewalk seconds after her response, she noticed that the brunette's exasperation was beyond rudimentary. She looked well and truly vexed, not to mention bewildered. Valerie rose her brow, skeptical. "Don't worry about it. You wouldn't believe how many people in New York don't like immigrants, even if the city's entire infrastructure and markets are built on it."

      "Did it not bother you?" exclaimed Midge, eyes wide with anger-laced passion. "How could it not bother you? Your father is from Ireland, your mother was from Italy, your husband —"

      "Hey, I don't need an oral presentation about my family history, okay?" Valerie interjected quickly, trying not to sound impatient. "I'm well-aware of where I come from and who I married. But I've heard that kind of talk my whole life! My father had to move to an all Irish neighborhood, because no other places in Boston would hire him. My mother had to get me to translate for her when we went to stores in town, and people use to make fun of her accent right in front of us. Mark couldn't even get into some clubs to play music, despite the fact he was a fucking American!"

      "And doesn't that make you mad?" questioned Midge, her passionate drawl dimming, replaced by a sympathetic softness.

      Valerie gave her a slightly pitying look. "Of course it does, but like I said, I'm used to it; and I can't throw fists or scream at somebody every time I hear something bigoted. I'd be kicking ass and getting my own ass kicked a lot if I chose to react in that way." 

      She remembered growing up in South Boston and wanting to rail against the world, to fight back with fists and loaded words. Like her forefathers, her temper was built-in and her drive for justice was strong. She wanted to retaliate against the judgmental bible-thumpers in her community, against the bigots and name-callers, and the bullies. She resented that her father was so submissive, so kind, and just took the harsh condemnations everyday; she wished her mother would have utilized her inner anger to defend herself and act like the outspoken woman she was when she was at home, safe and within four walls. But as Valerie grew up, and she realized what kind of world she was living in (one that wouldn't change on her whims or prayers, that wouldn't react kindly to her desires for fairness and equality), she became more understanding, and just like the people who came before her, she learnt some patience. 

      That's probably half the reason why she became a writer, if she was to analyze her longtime occupation half-heartedly. The pen was mightier than the sword, and Valerie tried to abide by the powers of ethical journalism and creative writing to give her feelings voice in the world (most of the time anyway, and excluding nights where her grief and rage dictated that her asshole boss needed to be punched). 

      The blonde stared at the side of Midge's face, noting the way her friend stubbornly remained troubled and irate. "Not to point out the obvious, or veer out of my lane, but did you forget you're Jewish and that your people have had a couple of thousand years of persecution?"

      "No, smartass, I did not forget that I'm Jewish." Midge snarked, thankfully showing some sense of humor, despite her indignation. She shrugged impassively, "I guess I've just never had to deal with that kind of prejudice before, at least not to my face." At Valerie's noticeable skepticism, she continued to explain: "I've grown up around Jews my whole life! I went to a Jewish private school, I got to an all-Jewish resort in the summer, and a lot of the girls at Bryn Mawr that I hung out with were Jewish! Really, the only gentiles I know are you, Susie, Imogen, and Astrid."

      "Don't let your sister-in-law hear that. She might have a nervous breakdown." Valerie easily quipped, but her friend's words did give her a lot to consider. She supposed it made sense. The Weissmans had surrounded themselves only with people who were like them in almost everyway, minus Astrid's begrudging inclusion into the family. Midge had always been trapped in a bubble thanks to the money bestowed upon her by her parents and it didn't help that her ex-husband's family came from that same upper-class tier. Valerie knew that that bubble neglected to inform her of how the real world worked when you weren't rich and you weren't white, but she never would have considered it would have shielded Midge from how most Jews are treated in America. She would have expected Abe at the very least to educate her on those fronts, given he was probably the most educated member of that family, but perhaps he never took the time too. 

      "Money really does hide you from everything." Valerie mumbled to herself, before refocusing back on Midge, a little exasperated. "Okay, moving past my un-American background and your isolated life in the Upper West Side, this doesn't change the fact that we need to be on our best behavior for Harry tomorrow night. God forbid we make some comment about Sophie's secret high-class life in Lower Manhattan. All of her supporters from Queens will organize a lynch."

      "You lecturing me to be on my best behavior?" Midge cheekily questioned, grinning. "From what I recall, you were the one who was arrested for punching your boss and stripping down in front of your co-workers."

      "And you were the one who drunkenly got on stage at the Gaslight and flashed half of the Village, but that's neither here nor there." Valerie bantered back, but cut the joke short to be serious. "Potentially getting this opening gig in Jersey, having a good relationship with Harry Drake, all of that means a lot to Susie. We need to try to be professional tomorrow when we perform. Alright?"

      The mention of their manager's ambitions took some of the wind out of Midge's outrage. With pursued lips, the brunette reluctantly nodded, "Alright, I'll try to be professional tomorrow night. Good behavior only."

      Valerie made a point to catch her eye, the sternness on her face hard to miss. "You promise you'll try?"

      "I promise I'll try." 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

     While the meeting with Sophie had lead to calamitous consequences to Valerie's conscious, that didn't stop the blonde from planning her stand-up routine for the Gaslight to a tee. She was able to push Sophie's hoity-toity and offensive attitude to the back of her mind, not even spiraling into a feminist rant to David when he came home later than evening (which was a more difficult than Valerie had initially imagined). By the time tomorrow night arrived and Valerie was walking into the Gaslight, her prepared ten-minute routine replaying meticulously in her head, she felt pretty confident, albeit a little dejected. Despite the excitement that curdled in her stomach at the prospect of leaving the Gaslight and performing as Sophie's opening act in Jersey, it didn't quite tamper the disappointment that came with that opportunity at having to see that woman again. Still, she wouldn't let that stop her from performing fantastically in front of Harry, and she sure as hell wasn't going to give anything away in front of Susie.

      "You ready?" Her manager said first, greeting her by the open doorway of the club. She was trying to hide it, but Valerie could tell Susie was a bundle of nerves by the slight shakiness of her hands when she reached up to take off the blonde's jacket. "Feeling good? Feeling fresh?"

      "One-hundred percent." Valerie remarked breezily, whipping off her coat in fast succession as Susie led her to the bar, following the older woman's quick pace. "I put a horseshoe and a shamrock under my pillow last night so I'm feeling lucky."

      From the amused glint in her eyes to the wide smirk curving her lips, her teasing was crystal clear. Her manager, in all her exasperated anxiety, just rolled her eyes and began the process of making her a Manhattan. "You're your own four-leaf clover."

      While the rye, bitters, and vermouth were being poured within earshot, Valerie swirled in her stool and took a hearty glance around. The club was packed with people, all bustling with energy and excitement, fingers being snapped mid-air for drinks, chatter and cigarette smoke filling the room from corner to corner. It was the perfect visual representation of how most nights where when Midge and Valerie were notably performing, and the blonde couldn't be anymore pleased that this was the night Harry had chose to see them implement their talent.

      Quicker than she originally expected, she caught sight of the man himself sitting at a reserved table, practically located in the sweet spot of the club's main floor. Flushed with that humming anticipation, Valerie spun back around to face Susie. "Harry Drake's here."

      Her manager topped off her drink with cherries, before reaching forward to get a good look. The nervousness on her face from before increased by tenfold. She wiped her sweaty hands over her trousers once and clenched her jaw in determination. "Okay, I'm going to go over there and say hi. Be on the lookout for Midge."

      "Understood, captain." Valerie half-jokingly responded, watching as Susie made a confident b-line towards Harry. In the meantime, she did exactly as Susie instructed and kept a watchful eye for the brunette by the door, all while sipping her Manhattan dry. Thankfully, a few minutes later, by the time the whiskey was gone and all her cherries had been readily ate, Midge appeared. 

      Valerie met her halfway across the floorplan. "Women's or men's?"

      That had become their ritual before every performance: a homemade drink from Susie and a dual makeup check. Midge cocked her heads towards the men's restroom, before leading the blonde there. Inside the narrow confinement, there was nobody there so both women wasted no time in arranging their purses across the wide sink and refurbishing their makeup.

      "How are you feeling?" Valerie asked while reapplying her sharp shade of garnet-hued lipstick. 

      "Pretty good." replied Midge, one side of her face ducked closer to the mirror as she fluttered her eyelashes towards the wing of her mascara brush. "All things considered."

      "Was that a Joel-related 'all things considered' or a Sophie-related 'all things considered'?" The blonde questioned.

      Midge chuckled, a little bitterly. "Great, I can add Sophie Lennon, of all people, to the list of individuals that are creating havoc to my life."

      "Just remember about that Jersey gig." Valerie gently reminded. "We'll be riding a ferry across Arthur Kill in no time to open for her, and then we'll start getting even better opening gigs!"

      Midge hummed through pursed lips, still appearing displeased, and returned to her makeup. Valerie tried to ignore the sudden bundle of dread forming in the pit of her stomach. She buried that feeling deep underneath the nervousness and enthusiasm, and motioned to adjust her hair. A hard knock coming from outside the vicinity startled them both.

      "Occupied!"

      "It's me!" Susie called out.

      Valerie clasped the handle and yanked it open. "Come on in!"

      Susie narrowed her regard with Jackie standing behind her, looking equally confused. "What are you two doing in the men's room?"

      "Getting ready." answered Valerie. "The women's restroom is disgusting."

      Immediately, Susie snapped her head towards the older man, "Jackie, how disgusting is the women's room that the men's room is less disgusting?"

      "I don't know. I don't go into the women's room!" He gruffly retorted, "Must be foul though."

      He stalked off, and that left Susie staring at both of them in apprehension. "You guys ready? Crowd is clamoring."

      Both women gave one final review of themselves in the mirror, before individually nodding. Susie led them away from the bathroom and across the foyer, shouldering past busying bodies. "Midge, I was thinking you should go back to starting with the stuff about your parents first. Then go to your work stuff like you used to."

      "I was thinking the same thing." remarked Midge, who briefly raised her hand and waved towards Harry Drake. Valerie mimicked her movements, adding a beaming smile for effect. All three women landed off to the side of the stage, feet away from where the stage steps were.

      "And Valerie, remember to not wander off from the center stage for too long after you take the mic from the stand." Susie instructed, waggling her finger sternly. "I'm serious about avoiding cord-related injuries."

      "I'm serious too." teased Valerie. "The last thing I want reported in my obituary is how I died by falling off the stage after getting tangled up in a microphone cord."

      "Good girl. Jackie, do your thing!" Susie clapped her hands together and rubbed them excitedly. "Okay, I'm going back with Harry. Break a leg."

      It was a simple three-worded phrase, but it was the most meaningful pep-talk Midge and Valerie were going to receive. Valerie didn't even feel that desperation for her manager's approval and encouragement; her confidence for her performance tonight was solid. Nevertheless, she still couldn't wait for it to be over so that Jersey gig and the prospect of leaving the Gaslight was right in the palm of her hand. 

      Jackie stepped up from the bar and gestured towards the stage, "You up first, Valerie?"

      "Yes, I am." The blonde nodded, pressing her lips together, elated. She glanced back at Midge, who grinned brightly and squeezed her forearm in reassurance. 

      Jackie stepped on stage and immediately, the applause arrived. He waved them off flippantly, "Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa! Don't applaud me, I'm nobody! Applaud the young lady coming up. Along with her partner, she has been killing it these past few weeks right here at the Gaslight; and tonight, you are witnessing a very special showcase."

      Valerie took a deep breath and subtly shook her hands down at her sides, banishing the tingly nerves coursing through her body. 

      "So give it up for our hometown girl: Valerie King!"

      Right on cue, Valerie curled a delightful smile across her face and went up. When she stood in front of the microphone, basking still in the wave of applause and whistles coming from the crowd, she felt more aligned with the earth since forever. This was the type of feeling she had been chasing for months now. This was the kind of feeling she wanted to have every night.

      Once the claps died down (which took a minute, much to her flushed ecstasy), she began with that signature look of hers, one that caught people's attention right away: the smirk, the curious eyes, the mischievousness threaded into her voice. "Does anyone in here oppose interracial marriage?"

      No movement or sound came from the audience. Valerie pretended to be relieved, "Whew! Otherwise, the next ten minutes would have been really awkward!" A couple of light chuckles scattered across the room. "The last relationship I was in ― which was, in other words, my marriage ― was an interracial one, so I was the white one ― obviously."

      She could feel the rise of amusement from the audience.

      "And my husband was Latino. Cuban, to be more specific, which meant that I was always getting screamed at by his family and I got free refills of rum and coke in bars over in Spanish Harlem. The only downside was occasionally we would have U.S. immigration services knocking on our door and my husband would have to duck behind the couch in case there was the slightest chance President Eisenhower decided to negotiate with Fidel Castro."

      Valerie grinned brightly when almost everyone erupted into laughter, some a bit lower than others due to the slight darkness of her last joke. She waved her hand mid-air, flippant. "On a serious note, him being Cuban and me being Irish-Italian never had a big impact on our relationship, at least when we were alone. However, on occasion, I would get people ― a lot of them white men ― who would come up to me and say, 'I just don't understand how you don't love yourself enough to be with a white man'."  

      "And my response would always be, 'I'm with him, because he loves me, understands me, ― and bought me a Guinness on draft three years ago'." Valerie asserted swiftly, beginning to feel the heavy mirth from the people sitting below her. She knew she could raise it up a level though. "My love was two-dollars on a Tuesday so where the fuck were you? Not only am I easily swayed, but I'm a cheap date, so clearly you fucked up somewhere!" 

      Now, the whoops and cheers came flying through. Valerie paused for a second to sneak a glance towards the way back. Despite the blocking overhead light, she could see vague satisfaction on Harry Drake's face. Susie, sitting next to him in a rigid posture, wore a proud grin. The blonde felt no better encouragement than that to keep going. "It's the weirdest thing though, being in an interracial marriage! Whenever we used to go out, people would stop and stare at us like we were two albino dears humping in the woods!"

      "And that's how you know the people of this state have fucked up views about mixed race couples, because I thought no one was surprised about anything out of the ordinary in New York!" Valerie exclaimed with flourishment. "New Yorkers won't bat an eye when it comes to stabbings, carjackings, homeless people carving their names into park benches, Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio, cats in bodegas ― you ―" She paused dramatically, exaggerating her bewilderment while clasping the mic stand. "― you guys have fucking cats in bodegas, crawling all around your food, and your milk, and your deli meats, but the action of a brown man and a white woman holding hands is enough to get you people to stop and fucking stare! Really?"

      "Now, I don't want this to be an entire bit about cracking on New Yorkers. My husband and I have ― had ― problems socializing with the rest of the country as well. Some of you who have been coming to see me for a while may know that I'm originally from the southside of Boston. To compare the two groups of people: if New Yorkers are just low-level, 'stop and stare' type racists, then Bostonians are a racially-charged riot away from forming their own Ku Klux Klan."

      "Don't get me wrong, the Southerners still win the whole damn pot, but Bostonians are pretty brutal too." continued Valerie. "I had a cousin who asked me, 'well, can you tell if he's Hispanic?'" She paused, wearing bewilderment on her face as the audience laughed. "Like if he was light-skinned, we could put him in the back of the family photo, and tell people that he's not actually Cuban, he's actually just a Sicilian who goes out in the sun a lot!"

      "I had another family member who gave me, what he called, essential marriage advice." She smirked. "I was expecting it to be, 'don't go to bed angry' or 'save blowjobs for special occasions' ― you know, the usual stuff for married couples ― but he looked at me and said, 'never make any of your arguments about race'." She paused again, "And I sort of just stood there like an idiot and stared at him for a while, because I was trying to wrap my head around that. Like, what trigger in our lives would call for some big blowout racial argument? I leave the house, come back, there's a sign on the bathroom saying 'no micks allowed!'"

      Another swarm of laughter. " ― in the dead of the night, I take out all of the rum and plantains, and replace em' with a bottle of Jameson and a block of cheese." In the midst of the howling, she added teasingly. "This is a whole separate point, but white people are way too obsessed with cheese."

      Valerie grinned brightly, gaze wandering across the foyer, watching as people tipped their heads back and opened their mouths wide in pure gaiety. She waited until their attention was back on to her, before cocking an eyebrow teasingly and bantering into the microphone: "Have I been talking too much?"

      The entire crowd hollered loud 'no's' from afar and began urging for more. Valerie blushed pleasantly, before calming the audience down, "Alright, alright, put your dicks back in your pants and relax!" She grinned widely, "It's nice to know I'll be missed, but I have an equally funny friend who's also dying to get up here. Without further introduction, here is one of the funniest Upper West Side divorcee that I know: Amanda Gleason!"

      Valerie giggled and patted Midge on the arm as they past one another, the brunette confidently striding towards the microphone while the blonde weaved through the audience. She stopped to shake hands with a couple of people who were particularly impressed with her performance and wanted to express so. She joined Susie and Harry in the back, sliding next to her manager in an unoccupied chair. 

      Almost immediately, Harry was leaning towards her, face wrinkled with lingering amusement, eyes gleaming gratifyingly. "I've go to say, I was not expecting such an engaging show. You've got guts, kid, to go up there and say that kind of stuff. Not to mention, you're funny as hell."

      "Thank you so much, Mr. Drake." replied Valerie, trying not to let the full effect of his words shine through so transparently.

      "Please call me Harry." His eyes met Susie's and he nodded as if she had stuck the landing. "I have a feeling we'll be working together soon enough to be on a first name basis."

      With that, he turned back towards the stage, eagerly awaiting for Midge's performance to start. Before the two women mimicked his movements, Susie glanced at Valerie and grinned widely. She even reached over to briefly squeeze her hand. She looked proud, and there was nothing that could dim the amount of joy Valerie felt from that. 

      On stage, Midge cocked her head and surveyed the audience, appearing inquisitive. "Do you ever think you're parents having sex?"

      The audience laughed on instinct, feeling the build-up of a good joke and instantly became hooked. Valerie had heard this set over a dozen times during the past couple of weeks, but still awaited in anticipation for the whole routine. She knew Midge was just going to knock it out of the park for Harry.

      "Yeah, even Freud is like 'you know what? I'm gonna pass on that one'! But I was at my parents' house one morning recently, and I heard this sound ― this scraping noise ― so I want into their bedroom, and there were my parents, struggling to separate their twin beds ―"

      She drifted off, eyes glazed and off-center. Despite the fact that the routine was carefully planned, Valerie could tell, even from her distance, that Midge was putting all of her heart into telling this joke. The brunette came back from her pause and waved a hand lazily in the air. "You know what, I'm gonna give my parents' sex life a night off! I'm gonna give my mother a night off from me, from my mind."

      At her side, Valerie felt Susie tense up. The blonde couldn't help, but react similarly, starting to shift in her chair anxiously. Both women knew that Midge working on spontaneity could be wonderful or disastrous, depending on what the hell she was talking about. They also knew that when Midge was working off-the-book, she had a tendency to be even more impulsive than normal. Harry Drake didn't know that though, of course.

      "I love my mother, I really do." assured Midge. "I just wish that sometimes she would just relax, not worry about things. I mean, it's not her fault. She just wants everything to be perfect. No, no, she wants everything to seem perfect, to look perfect. She's like a Jewish Dorian Gray."

      "She's so focused on me, and I don't understand it, because so what if I work? So what if I get divorced? So what if I'm alone? Why do women care about how people look at them or see them? All women. Beautiful women, successful women!"

      The audience was responding well so far, nodding along and clapping to some of her remarks. Harry also seemed intrigued by what she was riffing. Valerie felt herself relax a little, a breath of relieved air slipping past her lips. Perhaps she had no reason to worry in the first place. Midge knew how important this gig was. Maybe she was just getting bored with the old set and wanted to try out new material. No harm, no foul. Valerie's last bit of anxiety tapered off as she reached for a cigarette and reclined in her chair.

      Midge paused for a moment, before a look of determination crossed her face. Angry determination, almost. "Do you know Sophie Lennon?"

      The cigarette nearly dropped from Valerie's clasped lips. Susie shot her a bewildered look, before glancing over at Harry, who also became rigid in his seat and looked confused. The blonde's heart began palpitating in an uneasy measure. No one, other than Valerie and Midge, knew how horrible Sophie turned out to be when the two comedians went to visit her. They didn't even relay to Susie about the tricks in her gimmick or the terribly offensive stuff she spewed without hesitation; and clearly, Midge hadn't let go of the anger she felt from that meeting. 

      The remaining minutes of Midge's set went as horribly as one could have expected. Truthfully, when Valerie thinks retrospectively of this moment, she doesn't recall many specific details. There was the fact that Midge exposed every lying aspect of Sophie's persona and life in a spectacular combustion: the fat suit, the lack of residence in Queens, the maids and butlers. Interwoven in the exposure was a thickly-laid lecture on feminism (which, on any other night, Valerie could appreciate) and a stern defense of Little Italy ("And you know what, Sophie can go shove it, because those immigrants and the children of those immigrants are what keep this city running!"). Harry, who had been glued to his seat in utter shock over the turn of the events, became enraged and marched out of the club. Susie hurriedly trailed after him, begging and pleading, but Valerie didn't' follow, her entire posture unwilling to move out of her seat. All she could do was stay where she was at and watch the stage with wide eyes, even when she heard the words, "you're dead in this business" and "you double-cross me, you don't come back!" from Harry in the hallway.

      Midge's set went on for much longer than the planned ten minutes, but Valerie basically didn't hear anything past the passionate shout from Midge towards the crowd: "Fuck you, Sophie! Put that on your plate!"

      Valerie desperately wished she had blacked out in that moment, because then the following events after that horrific set at the Gaslight wouldn't have happened. There wouldn't have been the booze, and the Guinness, and the impulsive cab-ride to the Morningside Herald, and that fucking article. That goddamn fucking article that nearly put her career on the line.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

AUTHOR'S NOTES.

✱ So it's been a little over two months since my last chapter and I want to apologize. I actually expected to pump out this chapter relatively quickly considering I have over a half of it done two months ago, but I go stuck a couple of times regarding what I wanted to include so I had a harder time finishing it. Also, I've been working a lot at my new job. Basically, I'm working as a bartender at a local concert venue within a state park and while it's exceptionally fun, it's a lot of hard work and more often than not, I'm exhausted through out most of the week. On the upside though, I did quit my other restaurant job, which I hated, so that feels pretty good. 

✱ I was admit that some of my bias against Sophie was reflected through Valerie. I remember watching episode seven for the first time and being mind-boggled that Midge and Susie thought Sophie was funny when I didn't at all. Literally, there wasn't a single line or moment from her stand up that I found humorous. Furthermore, as the episode continues and you find out the real Sophie does not resemble her character at all, I kind of found the entire schtick and how Sophie was making money offensive. I mean, here we have a woman who is very upper-class and living in an expensive townhouse yet she makes her fortune putting on the caricature of a poor, working class woman from a lower income area. And of course, if you notice the type of people who are in the crowd during her performance (as Valerie notices), it's all rich-looking people who find it funny. Despite my own feelings on it, I do think Valerie could see through the act very easily and find it offensive as well since she came from a working class background.

✱ Valerie's family plays a much larger part in her deeper trauma, and that will be explored from season two onward. The reason why it wasn't explored much during season one, was because there were already many topics being discussed, namely Valerie's grief over Mark, laying down the foundation of who she is as a character, and the start of her career in comedy. I didn't want to overwhelm you guys with the amount of shit Valerie's going through in just the first act.

✱ I think it was important to have Valerie and Midge have that conversation about fighting back when it comes to people's prejudices about ethnicity. This is set in the 1950s where discrimination against the Irish and Italian, especially those native born who immigrated, was at a high. Valerie does have experience dealing/witnessing this considering she is both Irish and Italian, and both her parents were immigrants. This kind of hits home for me as I'm a Mexican-American woman who is bisexual and I've had to encounter various types of prejudice in different environments. All situations are different and some reactions are more required than others, but if you are a woman of color or queer, then you know that if you ever react to someone's prejudice with anger or outrage, things can easily be turned around to make you seem like the 'hysterical' or 'irrational' one. It's an unfair reality and it puts way too much pressure on minorities to always be the 'bigger person' in scenarios, but unfortunately, that's just the kind of world we've been living in for literal centuries.

✱ I am also going to touch on the type of discrimination all immigrations get when in America. Obviously, it's worse if you're an immigrant of color, but immigrants in general do face xenophobia all the damn time, especially if your first language isn't English. My grandmother on my mother's side, who I'm very close with and always have been, is from Scotland and immigrated in the 1970s after marrying an American man. She was constantly ridiculed for her accent and for coming to this country. Even today, at the age of seventy-one, I have witnessed people bully her for her accent. It's absolutely ridiculous and it's something that needs to be discussed more.

✱ It's quite clear in canon that Midge lives in her own bubble due to her upbringing and is oblivious to other people's struggles. I would sort of bring up the fact that her obliviousness extends to racism and bigotry as well. I also made some inferences that Midge probably is somewhat ignorant about the type of discrimination against Jews in the US considering she's only ever been surrounded by upper-class Jewish Americans. It's kind of reflective of that one scene between Midge and Abe in season three where Abe informs her about who Phyllis Schlafly is and how she shouldn't be doing a radio commercial for this person.. It's very clear to Abe, who despite being rich and sheltered in his own way, used to live a completely different lifestyle and is very educated. He understands how anti-Semitic Phyllis Schlafly is just by reading her speech and understanding the dog-whistles. Midge doesn't, because she's a lot more sheltered and doesn't have a rounded understanding of how minorities are treated, even her own people. Antisemitism isn't shown a lot in the show (which I don't quite get since this is 1958 and our main protagonist is a Jewish woman in the comedy world, but whatever), but realistically speaking, Midge was probably have an even harder time moving up in the comedy world 

✱ With that being said, we have one last episode until we're done with season one and officially starting season two. There will be two more chapters and an interlude that shows you snippets of the article Valerie writes later that night that nearly costs her her career.

HISTORICAL FOOTNOTES.

✱ The 46th Street Theater is a Broadway theater on 226 West 46th Street in Midtown Manhattan that is currently being called the Richard Rodgers Theater.

✱ John Dillinger was a notorious gangster who operated in the United States during the Great Depression. He was the head of the Dillinger Gang, which was a group known for their string of bank and police station robberies. The media exaggerated stories about him, labeling him as a 'Robin Hood' type, causing him to become a folk story of sorts despite his criminal activities and one murder charge. In 1934, he was fatally shot dead in the back by a police officer after hiding out at a theater.

✱ West Side Story is a musical by Jerome Robbins that had its original Broadway run begin in 1957. It's also one of Stephen Sondheim's most famous musicals he's written songs for. The story is a modern take of Romeo and Juliet, where two teenagers of different races (one's Polish-American, the other is a Puerto Rican migrant) fall in love despite associating individually with rival gangs. In 1958, it was possible that WSS was still on Broadway or at least on tour in the US. Considering Valerie is a white girl who fell in love with a Cuban, I imagine she would be quite taken with the plot of WSS. Also, this is one of my favorite musicals and I adore the recent movie adaptation by Stephen Spielberg, so don't be surprised if this isn't the last mention.

✱ Sophie Lennon's opening joke references American President William McKinley's assassination. In 1901, McKinley was shot by anarchist Leon Czolgosz at the Temple of Music (a concert hall built for the Pan-American Exposition) in Buffalo, New York. The Pan-American Exposition was a World's Fair. Due to McKinley's murder, Congress formally charged the Secret Service with the primary responsibility to protect the president.  

✱ Mae West was a comedian, actress, and screenwriter who became the first "Blonde Bombshell" in the Hollywood circuit. She was considered an iconic sex symbol in the media, and overall, enjoyed a very successful career in various forms of art (movies, comedy shows, music albums, ect). She was known for having clever one-liners, mainly of a sexual nature, and for being quite controversial due to many violations of censorship laws of that era. Since a lot of comedians are influenced or sometimes even mimic other famous comedians, I figured that one of Valerie's unknowing influences would be other women in the comedy field. Her and Mae West actually have a lot in common (they're stunning blondes, they're sexually independent, they push the bounds of societal norms through their comedy, ect), and I like the thought of Valerie having a female comic to look up to growing up. I hope to slip in more parallels between the two ladies in the future. 

✱ W.C. Fields is another comedian Valerie mentions admiring as a youth growing up. He was a comic known for performing on the radio, silent films, speaking-films, and vaudeville. His persona was that of a hard-drinking, arrogant man who disliked children, animals, and people in general.  

✱ Claude Monet's Woman with a Parasol is an actual oil-on-canvas painting that Monet created in 1875. It depicts his wife and son walking while in Argenteuil, Paris, France. It's a stunning painting and you should really Google it if you've never seen it. 

✱ 'Mick' is a derogatory slur for Irish-Americans

✱ Marilyn Monroe, famous actress and iconic sex symbol of Old Hollywood, and Joe DiMaggio, center fielder for the New York Yankees and nicknamed 'The Yankee Clipper', were a incredibly famous couple in this era. They were married in 1954, but divorced nine months later. Nevertheless, they still had close contact with each other until Marilyn's death and there were rumors that they were on the verge of remarrying. Still, even after her death, Joe DiMaggio remained completely devoted to her and never remarried; famously (and sweetly), he would send half-dozen red roses to her crypt three times a week for twenty years.

✱ The 'cats in bodegas' reference in Valerie's standup only makes sense if you're from NYC or you've watched a lot of movies that take place in NYC. Notably, there are many bodegas (convenience stores/delis) in NYC that have unofficial working cats in their vicinity. These cats are sometimes strays or domesticated. The reason for these cats is for easy pest control, but it's become a staple point for New York City culture (even if it breaks some health code violations). 

VALERIE'S STAND-UP.

✱ Jasmine Ellis talks about her own difficulties being in an interracial marriage and some of the responses/questions she's received that are just very offensive. She's very funny and I highly recommend you check out her original act on YouTube from the channel Dry Bar Comedy. 

✱ Clips from Tracey Ashley's comedy album was also on YT and she has a very funny bit discussing her own interracial relationship. The bit about having a big blowout racial argument comes from her. She's very clever and funny as well.

✱ The stuff about Boston is original jokes by me, but I was inspired by a field piece from the Daily Show that (humorously) investigated why POC and statistics believe Boston is one of the most racist cities in America. It's a hilarious and mind-boggling piece by Roy Wood Jr that really does prove, kind of, that Boston is a racist city. Again, check it out on the Daily Show YT channel.