She was so confused! Weren’t those people supposed to be hot-blooded? How had she fallen for the only Mediterranean since the lotharios of the House of Borgia who was a cold cookie? Just her luck. But she didn’t have to take it, not one more minute, not one more city, not one more gig, not anymore.
Gladys Overby was a Minnesota girl. She knew when the fish weren’t going to bite, when it was time to cut bait, pull in the rod, the reel, and the rig, row back to the shore, and call it a day. She had done her level best to snag this fellow, and he had no intention of swallowing the hook. Enough. She would move on. Her mother in Hibbing would have to understand.
* * *
Saverio again stretched his leg down the aisle, tugged the brim of his hat over his eyes, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes once more. Soon, he was asleep, like any regular Joe, who didn’t know from trouble, like any man with a clear conscience. He did not stir until the bus turned into the circular driveway of the Jefferson Hotel in downtown Richmond. When the bus driver shook him, he woke up. The bus was empty; all that remained was the faint scent of Gladys Overby’s perfume, faded gardenias.
“Are we here?” Saverio rubbed his eyes.
“You’re here,” the bus driver said. “Here’s your bag and your ukulele.”
“Mandolin,” Saverio said, taking them.
“That’s right. Eye-talian boy, aren’t you?”
“All my life,” Saverio said as he got off the bus and walked to the entrance of the hotel.
4
Accelerando
(Push)
July 1938
Chi Chi fixed the straw boater on her head as Mariano pulled into the parking lot of the WBAB radio station in Atlantic City. She flipped open her compact and powdered her nose quickly.
“We’re going to make it, Cheech! This is a sign,” her father assured her. “This is why you never give up. We may have missed the bus, but we’re gonna make the golden chariot!”
Chi Chi jumped out of the truck and ran for the entrance door of the station. She pushed through the glass doors with high hopes and the freshly pressed 78 of Mama’s Rolling Pin in her hand. She got on the line in front of the reception desk as her competition dropped off demo records into a basket outside the window. Chi Chi was about to place her record on the pile, but thought better of it. Instead, she poked her head through a small open window in the waiting area. “I’m here to see Mr. Gibbs.”
“Put it in the basket.” The receptionist, thin and wizened, was slumped over her typewriter like a melted candle, tapping the keys without looking up.
“It’s not just any demo. It doesn’t belong in the basket,” Chi Chi said over the clatter of the keys. “See, I’m Chi Chi Donatelli of The Donatelli Sisters. I’ve got a new record by my sisters and Saverio Armandonada of the Rod Roccaraso Orchestra.”
“You reciting the lunch menu at Sunny Italy?” the receptionist joked, spinning in her chair to face Chi Chi. “You here for the contest?”
“Yes. He said the deadline is five o’clock. It’s ten till. This is my submission. It’s special, and I’d like to speak with him, please.” Chi Chi checked the nameplate on the desk. “Please, Miss Schlesinger.”
“I’m not Miss Schlesinger. I’m Miss Peterson. I’m the weekend girl,” the receptionist said wearily. “They don’t make nameplates for weekend girls.”
“Forgive me. And I forgive you for the crack about Sunny Italy. By the way, real Italians don’t eat there. We go to the Vesuvio.” Chi Chi looked at the clock over her desk. “May I please speak with Mr. Gibbs?”
“He’s on the air.”
“I’ll wait.” Chi Chi stuck her hand through the window with the record. “This has to be in his hands by five o’clock.”
Miss Peterson took the record inside the studio. While Chi Chi waited for her to return, she scanned the wall of fame in the reception area. Some of the musical radio stars of renown who had visited the WBAB studio were featured in a series of framed photographs on the wall. She studied the glamorous photos of singers: Lisa Kiser wore a dramatic picture hat in black velvet; Valerie McCoy Kelly wore sunglasses and a courant houndstooth swing coat; and the incomparable Helma Jenkins dazzled in a faux diamond headband. They were the pinnacle of high style to a factory girl who was running around in the heat in a cotton sundress, her frizzy beach hair in a ponytail tucked under a boater. Chi Chi imagined her own image on the wall someday, and wondered what ensemble she would wear. She was certain it included a mink coat.
“Mr. Gibbs is not taking any more demos today.” Miss Peterson handed the record back to Chi Chi.
“Why not?”
“He’s up to his ears in vinyl. He can’t listen to another homemade record. Those are his words.”
“This isn’t homemade. It was pressed in Newark at Magennis. Professionally.”
“Look, kid. I’m going to give you a tip, which you can take or leave. You don’t have a shot here. We only play name bands and the singers that front them.”
“But Rod Roccaraso—”
“Is Rod Roccaraso. You can’t sing with his sideman at a cookout, cut a single in a carnival booth, and expect air play here. We got sponsors. We stay on the air because they pay the bills. Even I get paid because of sponsors.”
“What about the contest?”
“He’s already made his decision.”
“But that’s not fair!”
“You’re right. It’s not fair. But this isn’t a game of softball at Saint Mary’s of Notre Dame, where the playing field is level and the nuns keep score. It’s show business. And it’s brutal. Better luck next time.” Miss Peterson closed the window with a snap.
Chi Chi went outside and climbed back into the truck. “They wouldn’t take it. Gibbs made his decision before I walked in the door.”
“Give it to me.” Mariano took the record and went into the radio station.
* * *
In the waiting room, Mariano rapped on the receptionist’s window. Miss Peterson slid it open with one hand while holding the receiver of the telephone with the other. She held up her hand before signing off on the call.
“I’m here to see Mr. Gibbs,” Mariano said.
“Who shall I say wants to see him?”
“Mr. Mariano Donatelli.”
“You’re related to the kid in the hat,” she said wearily.
“I’m her father.”
“I just explained to your daughter that we are not accepting any further submissions for the contest.” She reached up to close the window.
“I’m paying.”
“One moment, sir.” Miss Peterson left the glass window open and went inside the studio.
Mariano stood at the window, keeping his eye on the studio door. He caught his reflection in the mirror behind the secretary’s desk, and was not pleased with the image he saw. The manager of the Donatelli Sisters was dressed to pour concrete, not conduct business on behalf of his clients or make deals with disc jockeys. He smoothed what was left of his hair with his hand and straightened the collar on his work shirt.
“Come in.” Miss Peterson opened the door to the inner office.
Mariano followed her into the office outside the studio. Through a small glass window in the thick door that separated the studio from the office, he could see the renowned Mr. Gibbs, the disc jockey/host/radio announcer, his young male assistant, and a secretary as they broadcast live.
Mariano was taken aback by Gibbs’s appearance. He was at least twenty years older than his photograph on the billboard on the boardwalk advertising his radio show. Mr. Gibbs wore thick eyeglasses; his dyed black hair was combed in a center part and slicked down with Brilliantine. His ensemble—a shirt, bow tie, vest, pocket watch, chain, and the sailor-leg trousers of the flapper era—dated him more than the pomade. The DJ advertised himself as the Sultan of Swing, but he was of another era, when the gramophone was hand-cranked.
The console, over which Gibbs had total control, was a complex force field of levers
, buttons, and lights that twinkled, pulsed, and went dark as he touched them. Three felt-covered turntables twirled evenly on metal platforms.
Gibbs’s assistant loaded the vinyl discs onto the turntables. He wore short white cotton gloves and delicately held each record by its edges before placing it on a turntable. The secretary logged the title and number by time code. When a song was finished, the assistant removed the record from the turntable, slipped it into a paper sleeve, and placed it onto a rack where it was cataloged.
Gibbs riffed on air with ease. His voice had a smooth, deep timbre as he introduced the band, singer, and interesting trivia about the artists. He operated a lever that placed the stylus and needle onto the grooves, thus controlling the show. As the song played through, Gibbs marked the next record in the queue. Behind the trio of turntables on a platform was a stack of 78 records so tall, it resembled a black top hat. Mariano was determined to get Mama’s Rolling Pin on that stack and placed on the turntable by the kid in the white gloves.
There were hundreds of hours to fill on the radio; why not two minutes to feature the sensational Donatelli Sisters? Why not this song?
Mariano was surprised when Mr. Gibbs himself nodded at him from inside the studio. “He’ll be out in a moment,” Miss Peterson said as she breezed past him and returned to her desk.
Gibbs pushed the door to the studio open, grinning. “May I help you?” His teeth were even, square, and porcelain-white.
“Mr. Gibbs, we enjoy your show.”
“Appreciate it. What can I do for you?”
“I want you to listen to this record. When you do, I think you’ll feature it on your show. It’s a hit.”
“You have a nose for hits?”
Mariano puffed his chest a bit. “I think so.”
“We have hundreds of records to play. We have more records than airtime to play them.”
“I can appreciate such a dilemma. But we cut this record just for you. Just for your contest.”
“I chose the winner already, so I’m afraid I can’t be of help.”
“You can pick whatever record you wish—it’s your contest. But we played by the rules and we made it in time. Right under the bell, don’t get me wrong, but we made it. The truth is, I don’t really care about the contest.”
Mariano had worked for the largest marble company in New Jersey since he was a young man; he knew all about legitimate business. The owners of shops and gas stations, the suppliers of all types of goods and services—they were the backbone of the local economy, even one suffering through the Great Depression. But Mariano was also aware that there was another way to do business and achieve results, which involved conducting deals on the side for additional compensation.
Under the table was a concept Mariano understood. It meant a worker could make money without reporting it, while the employer named his price when setting a wage. The worker could put a few extra dollars in his pocket, doing work no one else would take, or accept overtime for an enterprise that couldn’t keep up output during regular hours, thus making the operation profitable faster, and without the encumbrance of rules or obligations to the worker. It was a way for the worker to advance, build up his personal savings, and add to his compensation without being taxed. It was also a way to cut in line, if you could not get a break any other way. In Mariano’s mind, there were worse ways to get ahead.
Mariano handed Gibbs Mama’s Rolling Pin. “I’d like you to play this song during Shore Hour—when you play the selections you chose for the Stars of Tomorrow. It’s the last day of vacation week, and all of Sea Isle Beach will be listening.”
“I don’t have time to play it.”
Mariano knew the powerful never scratched another’s back unless their own itch was attended to first. He kept his gaze on Mr. Gibbs as he reached into his pocket and put money into the other man’s hand. “Make the time.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You do that. Mama’s Rolling Pin. Don’t forget it.” Mariano walked out of the studio.
* * *
Mr. Gibbs looked at the record, and then unfolded the bill in his hand. He went back into the studio.
The secretary looked up. “How much?”
“One dollar.” Gibbs gave the money to the secretary.
“To play a record?” The secretary was mystified.
“It gets better. He requested Shore Hour.”
“Somebody needs to tell the old man that he’d be better off buying bologna with that buck,” the assistant piped up. “At least he would spend it, and he wouldn’t end up hungry.”
“Poor soul,” the secretary said under her breath.
“Mama’s Rolling Pin. And he wasn’t joking.” Gibbs shook his head. He took the Donatelli Sisters’ freshly pressed phonograph record and threw it under the console onto a pile with the rest of the 78s that had come in unsolicited over the transom.
He handed Mariano’s dollar bill to the secretary. “For pencils.”
* * *
The Jersey Miss factory, housed in a powder-blue saltbox on Landis Avenue, had a storefront entrance, with windows rolled open to let in the summer breeze on the street side.
The operation was nestled between the bakery and butcher shop, and across the street from St. Joseph Church. The devout attended daily mass before the first bell at the mill at 7:00 a.m., while others often made a quick visit later, stopping in to light a candle, offer an intention, and bless themselves with holy water before walking home.
Inside the old mill, the weathered floorboards buckled under the weight of the machines. Overhead a dense tangle of electrical wires hung like circus ropes from the ceiling. Additional rooms had been built onto the back, railroad style. From the front of the factory, you could see clear through to the finishing department.
The factory produced women’s and children’s blouses. Neat rows of sewing machines, with their sleek black enamel cases and brass bobbin and needles, filled the main room, separated by a single main aisle.
The pattern pieces arrived in bundles, tied with string, delivered in rolling bins, from the cutting room located down the street. At the sound of the start bell, the bundles were promptly untied by the runners and the pieces dispersed row by row, operation by operation, down the line to the seamstresses in the main room.
As a seamstress completed her task on the garment, she passed it to the next operator, until the assembled blouse made it back into the bin. The blouses were bundled in counts of twelve, and wheeled into the next room, where operators who mastered the specialty machines added buttonholes, bound welting and loops, embroidery, and branded stenciling. Labels were stitched into the collars. The final stop was the finishing department, where the pressers ironed the finished garments, and placed them on spin racks while a small team of finishers lifted them off the racks, folded the garments, and pinned size and sales tags to the sleeves according to the buyer’s specifications.
At the end of the line, the runners stacked the empty bins and rolled them back up the street to the cutting room to be refilled. The process was repeated until a shipment was complete.
The blouses, either bagged on hangers for immediate display or folded in boxes, were carried to the sliding door, counted, and loaded onto a Freightliner. The truck drove the shipments into New York City during the night, in just under two hours, to be dispersed to middlemen in the garment center on Thirty-Fourth Street.
The machine operators assembled the garments expertly; repetition had made them masters of their machines. The Donatelli girls began working during the summers when they turned thirteen. After high school, they went into the factory life full time. Once Isotta raised her daughters, she followed them into the mill.
Returning to work in the heat was a particular sacrifice. The ladies longed for the ease of their vacation week as they stood on the line to punch their timecards. Chi Chi tied her hair back with a bandana and followed Rita as they took their seats at their machines, adjusted the work lights, and gently p
umped the foot pedals. Chi Chi was pleased that the machinist had greased the gears. At the sound of the forelady’s whistle, the operators flipped the power switches. The machines hummed in unison like the run of scales before a song.
The factory roared in full operation as the air clouded with a haze created from a combination of the fine dust from the electricity that juiced the machines and the fibers from the fabric. By lunch break the air would be thick with it, as thread and fabric were snipped, sewn, and hemmed through each station until the bundled garments were wheeled into finishing at the end of the line.
The women made sailor blouses, white cotton with blue-and-white-striped ties, attached underneath a Peter Pan collar. It was an over-the-head style with a single button loop at the neck. The collar lay flat in a placket. The demand had been high for this style as the child star Shirley Temple had been seen wearing one, causing a fashion frenzy.
Rita’s machine had a thread jam. She flipped the bobbin on the base, snipped the knot, threaded it, snapped the closure, and picked up the first garment that lay on her feeder shelf.
Chi Chi swiftly attached the fabric loop in a half-moon motion on the blouse. The needle pulsed up and down evenly, the stitches disappeared into the cotton. Chi Chi pulled the blouse from under the machine and snipped the thread before passing it off to the collar setter.
As Chi Chi looped blouse after blouse, she aimed for accuracy and speed. She took some interest in the design, noting color combinations and feel of the fabric, but never lingering long enough to stop what she was doing and examine the garment in full. By midmorning, her mind began to wander, and she created costumes in her mind’s eye to get her through the long workday. She dreamed up ensembles for her sisters and their act, or men’s novelty shirts for the orchestra that would back them for special numbers in a nightclub, engaging her imagination as best she could in a place that did not require it. The drone of the machines became a musical baseline for her theatrical ideas. She pictured herself onstage in a costume she had made, in a sketch she had written, leading into a song she had composed. Ambition was her constant companion as she looped the sailor blouses.
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