THE GAY LIFE OF THE LAKE SHORE
Then came Ashtabula with another such scene as that at Conneaut, only
somewhat more picturesque, since the road lay on high ground and we had
a most striking view of the lake, with a world of coal cars waiting to
be unloaded into ships, and ships and cranes and great moving derricks
which formed a kind of filigree of iron in the distance with all the
delicacy of an etching.
These coal and iron towns of Ohio were as like in their way as the
larger manufacturing centers of the East in theirs. Coming into this
place we passed through a small slum section at the end of the bridge by
which we were entering, and because there was a water scene here which
suggested the Chicago River in its palmiest days before it was renovated
and practically deserted, I suggested that we stop and look at it. Three
bums of the “Chimmie” Fadden—“Chuck” Connors type were standing in a
doorway adjoining a saloon. No sooner did they see us pause than they
nudged each other and whispered. Franklin and I passed them to look at
the scene. Coming back we climbed in the car, and as we did so the
huskiest of the three stepped up and, with a look of humility assumed
for the occasion, whimpered: “Say, boss, could you help a poor
down-and-out to a mouthful of food?”
I looked at him wearily, because the bluff was too much.
Franklin, however, reached in his pocket and gave him fifteen cents.
“Why fifteen cents, Franklin?” I enquired.
“Oh, well,” he replied, “it’s an easy way to get rid of them. I don’t
like the looks of this place.”
I turned to look at the recipient back among his friends. His mouth was
pulled down at one corner as he related, with a leer of contempt, how
easy it was to bleed these suckers. He even smiled at me as much as to
say, “You mark!” I leered back with the greatest contempt I could
assemble on such short notice—a great deal—but it did not cheer me any.
He had the fifteen cents. He was of the same order of brain that today
can be hired to kill a man for fifty dollars, or will undertake to rob
or burn a house.
And after Ashtabula, which was as charming as any of these little cities
to look at, with wide shady streets of homes and children playing gaily
on lawns and in open lots everywhere, came Geneva-on-the-Lake, or Geneva
Beach, as it seemed to be called—one of those new-sprung summer resorts
of the middle west, which always amuse me by their endless gaucheries
and the things they have not and never seem to miss. One thing they do
have is the charm of newness and hope and possibility, which excels
almost anything of the kind you can find elsewhere.
America can be the rawest, most awkward and inept land at times. You
look at some of its scenes and people on occasions, and you wonder why
the calves don’t eat them. They are so verdant. And yet right in the
midst of a thought like this you will be touched by a sense of youth and
beauty and freedom and strength and happiness in a vigorous, garish way
which will disarm you completely and make you want to become a part of
it all, for a time anyhow.
Here lay this particular beach, high up above the lake, for all along
this northern portion of Ohio the land comes close to the water,
retaining an altitude of sixty or seventy feet and then suddenly
dropping, giving room for a sandy beach say sixty or seventy feet wide,
where a few tents may sometimes be found. And on this higher land,
facing the water, are strung out all the cottages and small hotels or
summer boarding places, with occasionally some stores and
merry-go-rounds and restaurants, though not as a rule the gaudy
rumble-jumble of a beach like Coney Island.
And the costumes! Heaven bless and preserve us! The patrons of this
beach, as I learned by inquiry, come mostly from Pittsburg and points
south in Ohio—Columbus, Dayton, Youngstown. They bring their rattan bags
and small trunks stuffed to bursting with all the contraptions of
assumed high life, and here for a period of anywhere from two days to
three months, according to their means, associations, social position,
they may be seen disporting themselves in the most colorful and bizarre
ways. There was a gay welter of yellow coats with sky-blue, or white, or
black-and-white skirts—and of blue, green, red or brown coats, mostly
knit of silk or near-silk—with dresses or skirts of as sharply
contrasting shades. Hats were a minus quantity, and ribbons for the hair
ranged all the way from thin blue or red threads to great flaring bands
of ribbon done into enormous bows and fastened over one ear or the
other. Green, blue, red and white striped stick candy is nothing by
comparison.
There were youths in tan, blue and white suits, but mostly white with
sailor shirts open at the neck, white tennis shoes and little round
white navy caps, which gave the majority of them a jocular,
inconsequential air.
And the lawns of these places! In England, and most other countries
abroad, I noticed the inhabitants seek a kind of privacy even in their
summer gaieties—an air of reserve and exclusiveness even at Monte
Carlo—but here!! The lawns, doors and windows of the cottages and
boarding houses were open to the eyes of all the world. There were no
fences. Croquet, tennis, basketball were being played at intervals by
the most vivid groups. There were swings, hammocks, rockers and camp
chairs scattered about on lawns and porches. All the immediate vicinity
seemed to be a-summering, and it wanted everyone to know it.
As we sped into this region and stopped in front of a restaurant with a
general store attachment at one side, two youths of that summering
texture I have indicated, and both in white, drew near. They were of a
shallow, vacant character. The sight of a dusty car, carrying a license
tag not of their own state, and with bags and other paraphernalia
strapped onto it, seemed to interest them.
“From New York, eh?” inquired the taller, a cool, somewhat shrewd and
calculating type, but with that shallowness of soul which I have
indicated—quite vacant indeed. “Did you come all the way from New York
City?”
“Yes,” said Franklin. “Is there a good restaurant anywhere hereabout?”
“Well, this is about the best, outside the boarding houses and inns
around here. You might find it nicer if you stayed at one of the inns,
though.”
“Why?” asked Franklin. “Is the food better?”
“Well, not so much better—no. But you’d meet nicer people. They’re more
sociable.”
“Yes, now our inn,” put in the smaller one of the two, a veritable quip
in his ultra-summer appearance. “Why don’t you come over to our place?
It’s very nice there—lots of nice people.”
I began to look at them curiously. This sudden burst of friendship or
genial companionship—taking up with the stranger so swiftly—interested
me. Why should they be so quick to invite one to that intimacy which in
most places is attained only after a period—and yet, when you come to
think of it, I suddenly asked myself why not. Is chemistry such a slow
thing that it can only detect its affinities through long, slow formal
movements? I knew this was not true, but also I knew that there was no
affinity here, of any kind—merely a shallow, butterfly contact. These
two seemed so very lightminded that I had to smile.
“They’re nice genial people, are they?” I put in. “Do you suppose we
could introduce ourselves and be friendly?”
“Oh, we’d introduce you—that’s all right,” put in this latest Sancho.
“We can say you’re friends of ours.”
“Shades of the Hall Room Boys!” I exclaimed to myself. “What kind of
world is this anyway—what sort of people? Here we ride up to a casino
door in the heart of a summering community, and two soufflé youths in
white offer to introduce us to their friends as friends of theirs. Is it
my looks, or Franklin’s, or the car, or what?”
A spirit of adventure began to well up in me. I thought of a few days
spent here and what they might be made to mean. Thus introduced, we
might soon find interesting companionship.
But I looked at Franklin and my enthusiasm cooled slightly. For an
adventure of any kind one needs an absolutely unified enthusiasm for the
same thing, and I was by no means sure that it existed here. Franklin is
so solemn at times—such a moral and social mainstay. I argued that it
was best, perhaps, not to say all that was in my mind, but I looked
about me hopefully. Here were all those costumes I have indicated.
“This seems to be quite a place,” I said to this camp follower. “Where
do they all come from?”
“Oh, Pittsburg principally, and Cleveland. Most of the people right
around here are from Pittsburg.”
“Is there very good bathing here?”
“Wonderful. As good as anywhere.”
I wondered what he knew about bathing anywhere but here.
“And what else is there?”
“Oh, tennis, golf, riding, boating.” He fairly bristled with the social
importance of the things he was suggesting.
“They seem to have bright colors here,” I went on.
“You bet they do,” he continued. “There are a lot of swell dressers
here, aren’t there, Ed?”
“That’s right,” replied his summery friend. “Some beauts here. George!
You ought to see ’em some days.”
“They’re very glorious, are they?”
“That’s what.”
The conversation now turned back to us. Where were we going? What were
we going for? Were we enjoying the trip? Were the roads good?
We told them of Indiana, and rose immediately in their estimation. We
finally declined the invitation to be introduced into their circle.
Instead we went into this restaurant, where the reception room was also
a salesroom of sorts, and here we idled, while awaiting dinner.
I was still examining picture postcards when a young man, quite young,
with a pink face and yellowish hair—a Scandinavian, I took it—came up
beside me and stood looking at the pictures—almost over my shoulder I
thought, though there was plenty of room in either direction. After a
few moments I turned, somewhat irritated by his familiarity, and glanced
at his shoes and suit, which were not of the best by any means, and at
his hands, which were strong and well formed but rough.
“Nice pictures of things about here,” he observed, in a voice which
seemed to have a trace of the Scandinavian in it.
“Yes, very,” I replied, wondering a little, uncertain whether it was
merely another genial American seeking anyone to talk to or someone
desirous of aid. You never can tell.
“Yes,” he went on a little nervously, with a touch of strain in his
voice, “it is nice to come to these places if you have the money. We all
like to come to them when we can. Now I would like to come to a place
like this, but I haven’t any money. I just walked in and I thought maybe
I might get something to do here. It’s a nice brisk place with lots of
people working.”
“Now, what’s his game?” I asked myself, turning toward him and then
away, for his manner smacked a little of that unctuous type of religious
and charitable emotion which one encounters in side-street missions—a
most despicable type of sanctimonious religiosity and duty worship.
“Yes, it seems to be quite brisk,” I replied, a little coldly.
“But I have to get something yet tonight, that is sure, if I am to have
a place to sleep and something to eat.”
He paused, and I looked at him, quite annoyed I am sure. “A beggar,” I
thought. “Beggars, tramps, and ne’er-do-wells and beginners are always
selecting me. Well, I’ll not give him anything. I’m tired of it. I did
not come in here to be annoyed, and I won’t be. Why should I always be
annoyed? Why didn’t he pick on Franklin?” I felt myself dreadfully
aggrieved, I know.
“You’ll find the manager back there somewhere, I presume,” I said,
aloud. “I’m only a stranger here myself.” Then I turned away, but only
to turn back as he started off. Something about him touched me—his
youth, his strength, his ambitions, the interesting way he had addressed
me. My rage wilted. I began to think of times when I was seeking work.
“Wait a minute,” I said; “here’s the price of a meal, at least,” and I
handed him a bit of change. His face, which had remained rather tense
and expressionless up to this time—the face that one always puts on in
the presence of menacing degradation—softened.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said feverishly. “I haven’t eaten today yet.
Really I haven’t. But I may get something to do here.” He smiled
gratefully.
I turned away and he approached the small dark American who was running
this place, but I’m not sure that he got anything. The latter was a very
irritable, waspish person, with no doubt many troubles of his own.
Franklin approached and I turned to him, and when I looked again my
beggar was gone.
I often wish that I had more means and a kindlier demeanor wherewith to
serve difficult, struggling youth.
I could not help noticing that the whole region, as well as this
restaurant, seemed new and crudely assembled. The very management of
this restaurant, the best in the place, was in all likelihood not the
same which had obtained in the previous year. A thing like that is so
characteristic of these mid-western resort atmospheres. The help (you
could by no means call them waiters, for they were untrained in that
branch of service) were girls, and mostly healthy, attractive ones—here,
no doubt, in order to catch a beau or to be in a summer resort
atmosphere. As I have previously indicated, anybody, according to the
lay mind west of the Atlantic, can run a restaurant. If you have been a
cook on a farm for some hay workers or reapers, so much the better. You
are thereby entitled to cook and to be hailed as a restaurateur. Any
domestic can “wait on table.” All you have to do is to bring in the
dishes and take them out again. All you need to do to steak or fish or
fowl is to fry it. The art of selection, arrangement, combination are
still mysteries of the decadent East. The West is above these things—the
new West—God bless it! And if you ask for black coffee in a small cup,
or potatoes prepared in any other way than fried, or should you desire a
fish that carried with it its own peculiar sauce, they would stare at
_you_ as peculiar, or, better yet, with uncomprehending eyes.
But these girls, outside and in—what a contrast in American social
relationships they presented! During our dinner the two youths had
departed and got two maids from somewhere—maids of the mildest, most
summery aspect—and were now hanging about, pending our return, in order
to have more words and to indicate to us the true extent of their skill
as beaux and summer gentlemen in waiting. As I looked through the
windows at those outside and contrasted them with those within and now
waiting on us, I was struck with the difference, class for class,
between the girl who chooses to work and the girl of the same station
practically who would rather do something else. The girls outside were
of the gum-chewing, typewriter brand of summer siren, decked in white
and blue dresses of the most feathery, flouncy character, and sport
coats or jackets in broad, heavy stripes, one black and white, another
orange and blue, and the usual ribbon in their hair. They seemed to me
to be obsessed by the idea of being summery and nonchalant and sporty
and preternaturally gay—indeed, all the things which the Sunday
newspaper summer girl should be—a most amazing concoction at best, and
purely a reflection or imitation of the vagrant thoughts of
others—copies, marsh fire. Incidentally it struck me that in the very
value of things they were destined to be nothing more than the toys and
playthings of men—such men as they might be able to attract—not very
important, perhaps, but as vigorous and inconsequential as themselves.
On the other hand, those on the inside were so much more attractive
because they lacked the cunning or silly sophistication of these others
and because, by the very chemistry of their being, apparently, they were
drawn to routine motherhood, legitimate or otherwise.
Personally I am by no means a conventionalist. I have never been able to
decide which earthly state is best. All life is good, all life, to the
individual who is enjoying himself and to the Creator of all things. The
sting of existence is the great thing—the sensory sting, not its vocal
theories—but that shuts out the religionist and the moralist and they
will damn me forever. But still I so believe. Those girls outside, and
for all their fineness and fripperies, were dull; whereas, those inside
(some of them anyhow) had a dreamy, placid attractiveness which needed
no particular smartness of speech or clothing to set them off. One of
them, the one who waited on us, was a veritable Tess, large, placid,
sensuous, unconsciously seductive. Many of the others seemed of a life
they could not master but only gaze after. Where are the sensible males
to _see_ them, I thought. How is it that they escape while those others
flaunt their dizzy gauds? But I soon consoled myself with the thought
that they would not escape—for long. The strong male knows the real
woman. Over and above ornament is the chemic attraction which laughs at
ornament. I could see how the waitresses might fare better in love than
the others.
But outside were the two youths and their maids waiting for us and we
were intensely interested and as genial and companionable as might be.
One of these girls was dark, svelte, languorous, rouged—a veritable
siren of the modern moving picture school—or rather a copy of a siren.
The other was younger, blonde, less made-up-ish, but so shallow. Dear,
kind heaven, how shallow some people really are! And their clothes!
The conversation going on between them, for our benefit largely, was a
thing to rejoice in or weep over, as you will. It was a hodge-podge of
shallow humor and innuendo, the innuendo that conceals references to sex
and brings smiles of understanding to the lips of the initiated.
“Lelah here is some girl, I’d have you know.” This from the taller of
the two summer men, who was feeling of her arm familiarly.
“How do _you_ know?” This from Lelah, with a quizzical, evasive smile.
“Don’t I?”
“Do you?”
“Well, you ought to know.”
“I notice that you have to ask.”
Or this other gem from the two men:
“Ella has nice shoes on today.”
“That isn’t all Ella has on, is it?”
“Well, not quite. She has a pretty smile.”
I gathered from the many things thus said, and the way the girls were
parading up and down in all directions in their very pronounced
costumes, that if sex were not freely indulged in here, the beholding of
it with the eyes and the formulation of it in thought and appearance
were great factors in the daily life and charm of the place. There are
ways and ways for the natural tendency of the world to show itself. The
flaunting of desire, in its various aspects, is an old process. It was
so being flaunted here.