Evening star., 1943-06-10

Until Cinderella Zone Of the
Grimm girls) finally got her foot
shod in that glass slipper the exist
ence she led was one OF crushing
uncertainty, . morass Of frustra-
ton. There she was. hapless little
chimney sweep by day, waved by the
magic wand into q beautifully be-
dizened princess-for-a-night, only at
stroke OF midnight to be summarily
reverted by fate's dangling digit to
her daytime status quo. Readers
shan't soon forget Cinderella's eli
mactic night when, awakened from
her bliss by the clocks relentless
tolling, she must needs rush the
heck out Of the palace lest prince
charming find a ragamufnn in his
arms, or on his hands.
This, incidentally, IS not a book
review, but merely the establishment
Of q parallel. Night club patrons,
whose greatest avocation Is being
night club patron, should recog-
nize it instantly. The drudgery OF
daylight hours, the intent pursuit for
gayety In the after-dark and In
evitably the arrival Of the 2 am.
witching hour when all thoughts Of
pleasure are dissipated in the mad
scramble for the last streetcar home
That these habitues are Cinderella
like in their make-belief has made
firm impression on this department,
which, after all, is supposed to serve
as an observation and impression
post for whomever parties may be
concerned. So firmly, in fact, has
the impression become lodged in
our departmental subconsciousness
that it has been the cause Of
dream, one Of those half-waking
flights peculiar to the am. period
OF slumber.
Through the swirling mists smell
ing of cigarette smoke and having the
clammy consistency Of air-condition-
ing gone beserk appeared a streetcar.
This conveyance was Streamllned to
resemble a near exhausted teardrop,
and it was bursting with the strug-
Cling forms of people. A figure clad
in a combination zoot suit and tux
edo-Mr. Average Habitue-leaped
into the rear of the vehicle. where
there were plenty OF seats. The
streetcar, which was helicopter,
sailed into the air and promptly
landed on the dance floor of Herb
Sachs Del Rio. Except that the
beaming person who greeted the zoot
tuxedo had sign on his back,
welcome ION the house, to Ell Sa-
chic de los Rios sus Caporales." ;"
Rio Reischauer was standing on his
head, groaning and throwing batons
at a non-existent orchestra. Hun
dreds of head walters named Theo.
Leo and Rio were milling up and
down the corridors asking patrons
how to prevent the undulating CELL
ing from getting completely out of
control.
Suddenly, the opening chords of
This Is the Rio. Mr.. Bones, whis-
tied fortissimo by Rio Reischauer,
crumbled a wall, and the fellow in
the tuxzooto found himself plodding
up the stair of Flower of the Orient
Cafe through heaving masses of
chow mein. Having reached the
top. an endless pack of Japanese
walters, kissing with forked tongues
and brandishing daggers, confronted
him. He yelped and tried to flee,
but the chow mein had already
started twining about his legs, hold
ing him firm while the kissing grew
louder and the knives closer. A
corps Of soldiers resembling Chang
Kai-shek materialized, and chorus
of chorus girls on roller skates. Be-
between them they cut swath
through Jap and chow mein alike,
and our man stepped free man,
onto the street once again.
But the street promptly opened
up. sending him down creased
chute of a stairway, at long last to
crash into doorway labeled with
"823-Skidoo!" He struggled to get
in, for the roar of hundreds of other
patrons descending the chute was
growing louder. He picked up a
discarded stein and beat a steady
tattoo on the door: 100 times, 200, |
600, 300, 1923. 1t flung open and out
rushed torrential flow of beer with
a fine head and mingled with the
strains of old songs.
All was dark and soundless for
while, except for the swish of liquid |
in motion. Then gradually the
pump and squeal of a carrousel be-
came apparent, and little Mr.. Tux
with the reat pleat knew he was
lost in the Old Mill at Old Sir Echo |