It Had to be Good! - Christmas at Famous-Barr 1929 - 2. III. Week One – Chapter 2: Knickers to a Nudist

III. Week One –

Chapter 2: Knickers to a Nudist

As he rode the elevator down from his 8^th floor room, Lowell Fredricks felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It was one of those do or die assignments, and although he had confidence in his abilities, still, the task was an enormous one.

Ding!

The smiling elevator boy pulled aside the metal screen and opened the elevator doors for him at the lobby level.

"Thank you," Lowell said, touching the brim of his hat for the lad.

"Have a good day, sir."

As he strode across the marble floors towards the front desk, he glanced around. A few young mothers and their well-behaved brood were seated amongst the palm fronds in the waiting area, and uniformed bellboys sat on a bench, scrunching forward with elbows on knees and chatting quietly. One young man's smile – there because of something amusing his companion had relayed – mistakenly lifted onto Lowell's inspection. The teenage boy quickly nodded at the hotel guest and dimmed his grin to be more appropriate.

Fredricks slapped his key on the desk. "Room 814 – any messages?"

A gentleman in stiff collar and silk cravat came up to him on the other side. The front desk man leered banally, picked up the key, and hung it on the corresponding hook. His fingers slipping into the pigeonhole belonging to the guest's room came up empty. "Sorry, sir."

"Never mind. I may receive a telegram from Atlanta, so be sure to have it sent up right away if I do." He glanced briefly at the lad on the bench, the one who was still grinning in his direction.

"Very well, sir." The deskman folded his hands on the heavy wooden counter. "What are our plans for this afternoon, sir? Might you require any recommendations for sites to visit?"

"Well, I've been told to see the big stores, and I reckon I know which way to head." Lowell took wicked delight in how his homespun Georgia accent shone through naturally whenever confronted with Yankee officiousness.

"Very good, sir."

"I may ask you for some tomorrow, if I run out." Lowell was cracking up inside.

"Very good, sir. Have a nice day."

He patted the front desk in parting. "Thank you. You too."

Lowell turned and began walking to the revolving doors, his mind quickly getting lost in thoughts of his problems again.

A soon as he was free of the merry-go-round contraption of wood and glass, his hands instinctively clutched the gap of his overcoat near his collar. It was a bit colder than he had anticipated, but in another moment, after adjusting the urban Stetson on top of his head, he began walking down 8^th Street, knowing some time to walk around would do him good.

The cold was not so bad now; the wind was at his back. An associate back at the ad firm in Georgia was from Saint Louis and had told Lowell all about a certain department store to check out. She said he would not regret it, although he knew he'd have to make a second visit next week as well, for after Thursday, which was Thanksgiving, all the holiday décor would magically appear from seemingly every corner of shop and sidewalk alike.

'After all,' he chuckled silently to himself. 'That's why I'm in town. A holiday trade show next week touting all the best and brightest decorations for Christmas 1930 – one whole, long year away from now. Hell – no, strike that. One whole long year from now, plus five weeks, for Xmas 1929 was still not in the record books.'

And that was his 'problem' – the holidays.

He needed inspiration, and fast. However, the task at hand seemed an elusive one.

Lowell stuck his hands in his coat pockets, dashing diagonally in mid-block.

A splendid federal building from the decade after the Civil War stood across the way in all of its Second Empire grandeur.[1] The columns and statues in gray granite stepped back from the pedestrian way and left room for its blue-gray slate Mansards to breathe several stories above.

An unusual group of people were huddled close together in this 'plaza' right in front of him. First to attract his attention was a three-hundred-pound woman. She wore an undersize hat of the felt variety, and one a person might expect to pick up on the cheap via a clearance day sale.

Standing right next to her, and looking antsy, was a little guy. With his roguish stance, diminutive bowler and lit stogie in his grasp, the four and a half foot tall fellow was clearly not a child.

There were handsome young men as well – two of whom appeared blonde and Nordic; and a third, who looked farm-boy tough with his cabby cab and chiseled ways.

A pretty girl with a hand to hold down the top of her shell hat was looking at him, and Lowell suspected she was none too pleased with her compatriots being ogled. But that consideration was quickly lost as Lowell caught the open glance of one of the two grown men in the group.

This one had light-colored eyes, sandy-blond hair, and an honest and openly appraising inspection of the adman's character.

'Well,' Lowell thought as he mounted the curb a few paces away from the group. 'I see 'our kind' is in Saint Louis as well.' He almost laughed outright at that notion; of course their 'kind' was everywhere.

He sailed on past the party of interesting people, avoiding antagonizing the feisty young woman any further, and holding the handsome man's apert gaze for as long as he dare.

Turning right, Lowell Fredricks strolled along the side of the edifice and suddenly felt the weight of his burden overtake him again. No amount of attractive or amusing distractions would solve his troubles for him.

'Inspiration!' he thought. 'Think inspiration.'

But then, his mind settled again. Sure, the big client presentation would be in the middle of January, and he had pulled ad campaigns together before in less time, so this one should be no exception.

'Hell,' he mused. 'I'm even staying at the Saint Nicholas Hotel, for Pete's sake, and you can't get more Christmassy than that! I'm ready for some holiday spirit to improve my mood and tickle my muse.'

Up ahead of him, just across 9^th Street, was his destination. Through the slightly leaden atmosphere of the late November afternoon, a block-long string of department store windows glowed with cheery indifference. They invited 'the right people' to stop and admire, but discouraged stragglers; to them they said 'Be off,' as the merchandise displayed was going to be costly and dear to purchase.

As he paused at the corner waiting for the cop to halt traffic, and as honking cabs passed one another to get around a slow-moving ice truck and its gray mare, he again thought, 'Just one good idea, that's all I need.'

He bundled up and shot a fleeting look down 9^th Street. Exactly in the middle of the block was the impressive, arched portal to the store; his eyes scaled the heights and noted the structure was also like a civic building, for a skyscraper of about a dozen floors, it too was bedecked with granite-colored pilasters and a cornice to do any twinge of public service proud.

He crossed once the traffic cop motioned for him and the other crowd of people to proceed.

Lowell let himself be lured by the corner window. A Thanksgiving scene was the theme, and a jolly pair of Pilgrims led a bobble-headed holiday turkey by a leash. It was not hard to assume the fowl was being taken behind the woodshed, for a long-handled axe was slung over Mr. Pilgrim's shoulder.

The adman headed towards the store's main entrance, and allowed himself to leisurely peer in upon every window, lingering on his way. Clearly this store – despite it massive size – was luxe, as every item behind glass spoke of understated elegance and money.

Lowell's problem was this: he had to come up with an ad campaign to sell something nobody wanted. 'Coke in winter,' he silently chuckled. 'Of course their sales plummet in the cold-weather months; of course no one wants a frosty beverage when their hands are already cold as ice!'

Anyway, Lowell Fredricks, as the advertising firm's up and coming illustrator and wizard of the hour had been told to produce a proposal by January that would blow the old Coca-Cola executives' socks off. So, now he had to do it; simple as pie.

He scoffed again, nearing the waiting doorman to the store. 'Easy-peasy – it's just like selling salt to a snail, or cabbage to a carnivore – "

Lowell's train of thought was interrupted as the doorman smiled, placed an index finger to the brim of his top hat and opened the heavy brass and glass door for him. "Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to Scruggs, Vandervoort and Barney."

The adman halted in his tracks, lifting his head to see gold-placed, cursive script all across the three double-door entries to this retailer his associate had touted as 'grander than Saks and Lord and Taylor combined,' and now he was expecting not to be disappointed.

"Thank you," he said as he passed through the entry being held open for him. In another moment, and though the inner door propped open by a second uniformed sentry, he was in the store.

Great energy – quiet, self-possessed vitality – seemed to reverberate off of the marble floors and beautifully lit display counters of glass and red flame mahogany.

Widely spaced columns met the plaster box beams of the ceiling with full Corinthian capitals. To the right, and near the doors he had used to enter, a young woman in dress uniform of dark blue stood at a small desk. 'Information' was stenciled in gold leaf across the bow of it, and Lowell stiffen his spine and strode up to her.

"Welcome to Scruggs, Vandervoort and Barney, sir. May I be of assistance?"

"Yes, good afternoon. A female associate of mine suggested I see as much of this store as I can. What are your recommendations?"

"Yes, sir. SVB is a unique place, and we only cater to the exclusive set, as you can see."

She pulled out a brochure with three flaps. Opening it, Lowell was surprised to see the center panel was series of complex-looking floor plans.

The young woman looked him boldly in the eye. "The motto of this store, sir, is a simple one: The best goods for the price, no matter what the price."[2]

Apparently satisfied with the shocked look come over Lowell's cheeks, she gestured to the bottom floor plan. "We are on 1, in the Eastern Annex. This store occupies the entire block via two interconnected buildings. On this side, notable features include the 4^th floor ladies' French Fashion Salon, where dressers stand by to model the latest designs made exclusively for our Paris branch…" Lowell's eye caught the store's logo – a ribbon design he recognized as intimating the British kings' Order of the Garter. Along with the name of the store were its branches, no doubt listed in order of significance: Saint Louis, Paris, New York. The woman continued. "…The fur gallery, the Palm Court Restaurant on the 8^th floor, the Tea Garden on the 7^th floor, and the Fashion Auditorium on the 9^th. I can check the schedule to see which designer is exhibiting in today's fashion show, if you'd like – "

"Oh, you needn't bother. I doubt that I'll be sitting through a runway event today."

"Very good, sir." She began folding up the brochure. "I do hope you have a memorable visit to Scruggs. Please be sure to let me, or any SVB employee, know if we can be of assistance." She handed the guide to Lowell.

Taking it, he informed her sincerely – despite his Southern accent shining forth helplessly – "You've been most helpful. Thank you."

That seemed to delight the young woman, for she folded her hands on the counter and let loose with a professional smile. "My pleasure, sir."

Lowell strolled away, noticing the elevators were on the other side of the store from him, and began heading that way. Not really paying much attention, he fumbled with the brochure in his grasp and felt something hard, at least harder than the paper it was printed on.

Lifting it up and unfolding it, he realized the back flap was actually an envelope. He opened it, and discovered half a dozen postcards. Each one was a souvenir of the store, and each one was a handsome photograph of some site to see within the facility, like the Tea Garden, the Palm Court, and the Fashion Auditorium.

It was a rather pricy thing to be dishing out like glasses of water to every visitor to the store, but with the stock market crash in October, and the rebound recovery being on-again/off-again in the month since, Lowell wondered if uniformed doormen, information girls, and give-away souvenirs were soon to be things of the past. He hoped the 'business depression,' as some economists were beginning to call it in the newspapers, would end as promised and the country come roaring back with the New Year, but optimism might be waning fast.

He pushed the elevator call button, and waited. 'Yes, indeed,' he considered. 'My job, in fact, my whole future may depend upon inspiration, but damn it, why not tell me to come up with an ad campaign to sell coal to Newcastle, sand to Saharans, or knickers to a nudist.'

Lowell Fredricks had his work cut out for him.

˚˚˚˚˚

Bet was bored.

The act on stage was a younger-looking 'Daughter' in old-fashioned hoopskirt, along with a white-suit-wearing 'Colonel' lecturing her in song about the 'right sort of boy.'

She sighed and turned to her right. Singer Martin appeared rapt by the stage act, perhaps picking up pointers on how to keep Bet down on the farm with him.

Glancing left, she was relieved to find Alden's expression was suitably dubious concerting the quality of the entertainment now before them.

She ruffled the program in her hand and raised it up to the light. Flipping through the first few pages of adverts for railroads and places to catch 'first-class' post theater suppers at buffets and lunch counters, she came to a double-paged announcement from the management.

NEW COLUMBIA

SIXTH AND SAINT CHARLES

--------------------

AMERICA'S MOST BEAUTIFUL THEATER

--------------------

Elegance, Comfort, Perfect Service, and Smart Entertainment

for Ladies, Gentlemen and Children

--------------------

THE WORLD'S BEST VAUDEVILLE

As Bettina read about all the Palace, Alhambra, Hippodrome associations the New Columbia maintained with traveling troupes from Europe, her thoughts questioned if Alden's idea was going to pan out. Sure, they needed an actor – one who's daylight hours were unoccupied – but vaudevillians? Really?

She flipped the page pettishly, knowing Alden would catch her cranky attitude. More ads followed; three to a page:

Lippe's

BEST EQUIPPED RESTAURANT IN SAINT LOUIS

Private Dining Rooms. Exclusive Ladies' Dining Room.

Perfect Ventilation.

Plus

See Our New Diamond Pins from Paris

Patrons and Players of the Columbia Theater

Are always welcome and sure of the best jewels at

Jaccard's

MERMOD-JACCARD-KING

Corner of 9th and Olive

And

Busy Bee Chocolates

Across 7th Street from Famous

The Original

Saint Louis Milk Chocolate Bar

Indispensable for Travelers;

"A Luncheon in itself."

Bettina debated internally if she should protest out loud to Alden that this was morphing into a lame concept, but the caterwauling from the stage – now in duet form – meant any attempt to chide her cagy 'uncle' would necessarily be vociferous.

Instead, she flipped the page on her program; she had the vague notion of wanting to find out the name of the current act so she could scrupulously avoid all contact with them in the future. Under an ad with a photograph of the 'Hotel Empire,' in New York, a store name caught her attention.

Nugent's

Our Annual Autumn

Housegoods Sale

Wellston ◊ Downtown ◊ Lafayette

And then the list of routines began. They had already seen the second act of the program, listed as:

B

H I N T O N & W O O T O N

Presenting a Football Match on Bicycles

Referee …………………………… Miss Mabel Wooton

But it turned out the 'football' in question had actually been a soccer ball, and the 'Referee,' a mere six-year-old on a tricycle.

She turned the page. That meant the current act treading the boards must be:

C

The Somewhat Different Singers

HORACE WRIGHT & RENE DIETRICH,

In a repertoire of songs, including their

latest composition, "My Dad's Old Dudeen,"

and "Everybody Acts Like Us When They're in Love."[3]

The performance ended on a horrifying crescendo.

Despite her nerves being on edge, Bettina immediately grabbed at Alden's upper arm and made him lean an ear to her lips.

"Listen, Alden. I think this is a waste of time. These acts are all groups." She glowered momentarily to find her father enthusiastically clapping for 'The Somewhat Different Singers.'

"The one up next is a single."

Her carny uncle had said this with such composure, and with almost a wink in his eye, that she was stymied in her protest.

She righted herself on her seat and turned over the leaf of her program dreading what she might encounter. Right below an ad featuring an old-fashioned lion face and text for the 'Leppert Roos Fur Company,'[4] she knew the main act was coming up next. For over the playbill a flap of paper saying 'Drink Falstaff Bottled Near-Beer' had been pasted as an extra stop. 'Sure is an adman's world,' she thought, moving the gold-framed and red-letter fake-beer advertisement aside.[5]

D

The Blues Singing Cowboy

G L E N C U R T I S

Performing a medley of original tunes

She glanced up just in time to see a tall, handsome, and expertly blue-jeaned young man walk out on stage with a guitar slug over his shoulder. The house fell instantly silent, for the unusual clippity-clop sound of the Shetland pony he also led out with him drew everybody's attention.

"Evenin' folks! I'm Glen Curtis, and I'm here tonight to tell you what it's like to be out on the range, feelin' all lonesome-like."

To Bettina's ears, the young man had a strong but mellow baritone, one that was flecked with just the right inflection of a higher-note Western twang.

She closed her mouth, swallowing her interest, and refused to acknowledge Alden's presumably rich 'told you so' gloat immediately to her left.

Glen hitched his pony to a post, swung his guitar around, and started accompanying his own singing. Unlike the cowboy plunk to his speaking voice, his musical vocal style had blues elements that gave him a unique and unmistakable style. It was a fantastic blend of the range and urban angst; the longing for the simple life colored with the worries and demands of the modern world.

"See the young man on the scrubland

Pickin' chords by the side of his fire,

And though with starry eyes and hopes

He'll soon draw up his bed to him

To dream of rowdy steers and ropes,

The stars above hear out his deft hand

Cuz maybe he'll rustle them nearer."

The strings of the orchestra began picking up his melody-line and carrying it. In the musical reacp, Glen Curtis sent his guitar over his shoulder via a spin on the strap, and walked up to his horse. As the band played, he announced: "This here is old Carmen. She's a good pony, and most nights out on the range, she's my only companion."

As he started singing the second verse, Bet glanced around and saw everyone in the audience was as rapt to the performance as she was – including her father.

"On the lonesome tableland

A cowboy's got no one

To keep him company but his horse and guitar,

And after he's left alone by the sun,

He'll climb down from behind his saddle bar

To sing the night asleep with his sad repertoire."

While he had been singing this second verse, and stroking Carmen as if she were the dedicatee, kids began to gather by the edges of the side curtains on stage. They stood around, enraptured by Glen, and one of them was none other than the little girl who had refereed from a tricycle.

During the musical bridge, now vigorously played by the full orchestra, Glen motioned for and slowly drew the children center stage. As the key shifted and tempo intensified, he finally started to sing the long-awaited chorus. While doing it, he hoisted up a little guy, who must have been no more than three or four years old, and placed him on Carmen's back.

He encouraged all the other kids to gather around and pet 'his steed' while he supported the boy to make sure the boy did not slip off of the pony's back. His mellow baritone wistfully sang:

"I go to my rest strummin' this lullaby

'Bout a blanket of stars and a mattress of prairie,

Hummin' to your babes in the cradle,

And cowpokes in The Big Dipper's ladle,

For the day may be long, but so is my rockaby,

Pullin' up blankets of stars and bedding of prairie."

He and the orchestra finished together quietly.

In the split second that followed, a pin could have been heard dropping, but that spell was instantly broken by thunderous applause. Bet and Alden suddenly had to stand up to see him; yes, a standing ovation greeted the smiling blues-singing cowboy who had lifted the lad from the horse and now held him in his own arms. He pointed to the folks, and the little tike giggled and clapped back.

"Well...?" Alden slipped into her ear.

"All right, Uncle – you might have saved Doershunk-Martin one more time. That is, if he accepts the gig."

˚˚˚˚˚

The show was resuming. From their backstage positions, Bettina, Singer and Alden barely stood out amongst the bustle and commotion.

As the band out in front struck up the obligatory 'overture,' to get the audience to retake their seats, settle in, and shut up the chit chat, Bet sidestepped a line of showgirls in little sequin 'tease and please' costumes gathering to go on next. 'Of course,' Bet thought. 'Act Two was bound to start with a tap dance number. What else?!'

Alden poked her father with an elbow, and when Singer regarded him, gestured to a place near the glowing red exit sign.

While they made their way there, Bet realized Glen Curtis must be good – his horsy number formed the First Act finale, and the crowd had eaten it up all his songs with voracious cheers and clapping.

"Hey?" Bettina pulled Alden down for a confidential question. "How did you know about him?"

Alden reacted slyly, a look of 'aesthetic appreciation' slipping on her canny uncle's face once more. It was the expression Alden himself had named for Bet whenever a handsome young man was pulling at her uncle's heartstrings.

"Easy," he relayed confidently. "I saw the kid in Duluth over the summer, and with a stage name like 'The Blues Singing Cowboy,' he's not hard to remember."

Once they cleared some stage props, they could see what the First Act Finale was doing. Bettina's eyes alighted on Glen's tight blue jeans; he had his back to the party and was climbing the rungs of a small paddock assembled to hold Carmen between shows.

The three carnies stood still and waited for the stage cowboy to finish hitching his pony's reins. Bet felt a flush of heat rise up through her, and quite frankly, she resented it. Now was the time for business – aesthetic appreciation would kindly take a back seat, if you please.

Music, laughter and the sharp rat-a-tat of the showgirls' performance on stage greeted Glen Curtis as he stepped down and turned around to find three strangers confronting him.

In the stymied moment, as Glen placed hands on his hips, but before he could ask anything, Bettina slightly pushed her father forward.

"My name's Singer Martin, of the Doershunk-Martin Carnival Troupe – "

Singer instinctively waited for a signal of name-recognition from the boy in the cowboy hat. None came.

"Anyway, we have a proposition to make you – "

Alden's hand came out to rest on Singer's chest. The message was a wordless 'button up.'

Good thing too, as Bet witnessed the young man's suspicions be raised.

Alden continued in a more straightforward – less stars-truck – tone. "We've got this holiday job at Famous-Barr to entertain the kids in line to see Santy Claus. Thing is, they sprung on us today that we have to provide the Kris Kringle too, and we don’t have one. How would you like a daytime gig?"

Without saying a thing, Glen's hand came up to touch the brim of his hat, grabbed ahold and removed it completely. His glance at the young woman said he knew his manners, and from her eyes, the cowboy's doffed ten-gallon reveled two things: slightly slicked-back but dark-blond wavy hair, and piercingly blue eyes. Bet blinked, and felt a wave of cautious, fatherly warning coming off of Singer.

Once his courtesy to the lady was preformed, Glen shifted his attention back to Alden with more than a slightly bemused expression, and struck an akimbo stance with legs kicked wide apart, and his Stetson hitched by a finger to a belt loop.

"Why me?"

The floorboards rumbled slightly, and the audience took a moment to laugh in the background as Alden told the young man bluntly, "We're in a jam. Why you? Truth is, because you're an actor and you're good with kids."

Bettina noticed that Glen's 'Western' accent was dropped. He spoke in a natural voice betelling of a good background, and perhaps some hoity-toity upbringing as well.

Glen chuckled. "Those are just the kids of the vaudevillians. They love to be on stage."

Singer stepped up. "It don't matter who they are. A kid is a kid, and you're good with them. As Santa, that's a must."

Glen's inspection alighted on Bettina once more; it appeared as if he were making up his mind.

"And," the young woman offered. "Tell him, Father, how much – "

Alden interjected. "How about ten dollars a week?"

"No," Singer immediately corrected him, smoothly playing into the good cop/bad cop routine. "Fifteen dollars a week!" He paused for effect, knowing an extra sixty bucks in his pocket from now till Christmas would tempt any red-blooded American male.

Instead of answering right away, the blues-singing cowboy again let his glance fall on Bettina. For her part, she could simultaneously perceive a heated reprimand warming up in her father's un-looked-at stare, but contrasted by the intriguing curiosity coming off of the young man before her.

The vaudeville cowboy let loose with a smile rich enough to melt chocolate.

His acceptance was simple: "When do I start?"

As it seemed the newly-created department store Santa's inquiry was addressed solely to the young woman, Bettina replied, "This Friday, the day after Thanksgiving."

He un-crooked the angle of his elbows, shifted hat brim from right to left, and extended his hand towards Singer. "That'll work."

While the men shook on the deal, and as that handshake progressed onto Alden, and would eventually end in Bet and Glen making first contact of flesh to flesh, Bettina felt that old flush coming back once more. This time, she didn't resist it; this time she let an Alden-style appreciation wash over her.

As their hands joined, and as she got lost in his azure gaze, a plain-spoken "Glen Curtis" of his was followed by an equally direct "Bettina Martin" of hers, and the young woman expected at this rate she was bound for a rather exciting four weeks until Christmas.