3. FEEL MY MUSCLE
TYPE:
The man of action, of firm convictions and a limited sympathy for anyone who does not agree with him. Timid or sickly persons are advised to avoid this method.
SUBJECT:
An old-fashioned girl, apt to get a thrill when forcibly reminded of her comparative weakness.
APPARATUS:
1 Bathing Beach
1 Life-saving Uniform
2 Hot Dogs
REMARKS:
We all have some primitive instincts, even now. A crude exhibition of brute strength is fascinating to most of us, deny it as we will. The psychological basis for the reaction of the subject is probably a feeling that she will not have to bear the responsibility for whatever may happen.
FEEL MY MUSCLE
The holiday crowd is thinning out. Dusk shrouds the less decorative elements of the beach—the ragged holes left by children and the empty, soiled paper lunch boxes. Those revelers who are left see only the long curving line of the shore and a mysterious intermittent foaming as the lazy waves crash slowly against the sand.
Eloise lounges on the beach, watching the slow ebb of the Sunday gaiety. She thinks vaguely of going in for one more dip before she gets dressed; thinks of the shock of cold water on her already-dry bathing suit; thinks of the damp, dank-smelling dressing-room, and decides to postpone the whole thing for a few minutes. There is no hurry and she isn’t cold. She runs her hand through her fuzzy hair and yawns. She is a slim girl with a slightly bored expression, and she is younger than she looks.
It has been a pleasant Sunday, withal rather dull. She hasn’t come to the beach alone; she and the other file-clerk in the office have ventured out together. But Bessie has met up with a boy-friend and disappeared. Eloise does not hold a grudge against her for her desertion; it is understood that such accidents are likely to happen on Sunday afternoon. But she surveys the long lonely ride home with distaste. She chews her wad of Juicy Fruit dreamily and gives to the ukelele clutched to her diaphragm a pensive plunk.
It is at this moment that you sight her. You are strolling along the beach on your way in, after an arduous day of life-saving. Not that anyone has needed his life saved, but three blondes and two brunettes have required swimming lessons and all of them have been plump. By this time you prefer them slender; all the ladies tattooed on your arms are very slender indeed; and two of them wear red bathing-suits of the same shade as Eloise’s. You stop short when you see her and wonder if you haven’t seen her before somewhere. You decide that you haven’t; and regret the fact. You wonder if she has noticed you. If she has, she doesn’t show it. Not a missed beat has interrupted the mastication of her chewing-gum.
True to your vocation, adopt a nautical method of approach. In other words, tack. First walk along a line inclined at forty-five degrees to the most direct approach to Eloise. Somewhere at her right pause suddenly and examine a sand-crab. Then look up quickly, obviously under the impression that someone is calling you. After carefully looking at everything else on the beach, drop your eyes to Eloise, who blinks and turns away.
Sigh loudly and drop heavily and prone on the sand near her feet. Startled, she looks at you again. Grin and flip a pebble at her.
“Say!” says Eloise, indignantly.
“What do you say, girlie?” you counter. Then raise yourself in sections and redrape your lean length on the log next to her. “Ain’t you lonesome?” you add.
It is a rhetorical question purely, but she does not want to play. She chooses to take you literally.
“Not much,” she retorts. “I’m waiting for a guy.”
Answer promptly, “Not any more, you ain’t.”
She compresses her lips and ignores you, fingering the strings of the ukelele in an abstracted way. It has no effect. Pat her arm and say:
“Give us a tune, kid?”
“Fresh!” she says scornfully. “Who you crowding?”
“Aw, don’t be mean,” you plead. “Give us a tune.”
Eloise shakes her head quickly and decisively. “I didn’t ask you over!” she reminds you. It is a warning that she is on her guard; that she is a difficult proposition; that she is a Nice Girl.
“Well, gee, can’t a guy try to be human?” Your voice should be petulant and youthful. “I was just trying to be human. I was lonesome.” It is a plaintive speech, and you look plaintive. But nevertheless you are a masculine being, strong and undefeated. Probably it is the bathing suit, or perhaps the air with which you light your cigarette. Eloise gazes at your profile in uncertainty. End the pause by casting away the match and turning to her.
“So when I seen you I couldn’t help talking. If you don’t like it I’ll go away. I got my pride, too.”
This is a little better. “Oh, well, if you didn’t mean to be fresh. You know a girl has got to be careful.”
“Sure,” you say, nodding. “I bet you do, all right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aw, you know what I mean!” say to her ardently. “Anybody ever tell you your eyes are pretty?”
“Fresh!” She starts picking at the ukelele again, slightly confused.
“Come on now, babe,” you plead again. “Give us a tune.”
“I don’t know anything new,” she apologizes in advance. “Do you know that one ‘I Can’t Give You Anything But Love’?”
“Go ahead,” you murmur.
She plays the song, and then another, and another. The sun approaches the horizon and the ocean turns dark and green.
“Gee,” says Eloise in low tones, “I got to go.”
“Wait a minute, babe.” Stand up and rumple her hair affectionately before leaving. Eloise shrouds herself in her bathrobe and waits. Presently you come back through the night, carrying two hot-dogs dripping mustard.
“Surround that,” you order, proffering one. “It’s a swell night. Anybody worrying about you? You cold?”
She shakes her head hesitantly. “N-no. But I’ll have to go soon; it’s awfully late.”
You munch hungrily while the breeze dies down over the water. Then shift, disposing yourself more comfortably, and grunt contentedly. Eloise gives the head in her lap a little push, but it rolls back. She decides to ignore it.
“Gosh,” you say at last, “a night like this is enough to make anybody feel soft. Even a guy like me.”
“Yeah, I bet you’re a hard guy!” she cries.
Lift your head and prop it on your hand. “Say, listen, babe! Anybody who says I ain’t, don’t know me! Does anybody ever bother you? Some of these drugstore sheiks ever get fresh?”
She hangs her head. “Well....”
“Well,” cut her short, “if they do, send ’em around!” Make your voice ominous. “Don’t let anybody tell you different. Look here.” Raise your arm and clench your fist. “Feel that. There.”
Eloise puts out a tentative and timid finger. “Ooo!” she cries. “Yes, I guess you could hit. I guess I wouldn’t ever try to get you sore!”
“Baby,” murmur tenderly, “you couldn’t get me sore if you tried. I knew the minute I seen you you was a sweet kid. If anybody ever bothers you again, tell me. A nice kid like you hadn’t ought to go around without somebody taking care of you. I remember once....” Here you stop. Somewhere down the beach another ukelele plays softly. You sigh and grope through the dark. She tries futilely to dislodge you.
“I really got to be going,” she protests, somewhat frightened. She is always somewhat frightened when the fellows get too fresh.
“Now listen, babe. You ain’t afraid of me, You needn’t be. Don’t go away yet; you’re all right. Just a little longer.” And yet, as before, for all your pleading tones there should be a hint of strength in your speech. Eloise yields, but whether to your imploring or your strength she does not know.
“Well,” she says, “if you’re nice.”
Silence lives on the beach, except for the tiny wailing of the ukelele. Silently the water undulates and the moon creeps over the edge of it.
“Quit it!” says Eloise, giggling nervously. Do not answer. “Aw, quit!” Still you do not answer. “Please! You’re too strong. Oh, quit!”
The other ukelele still plays, spreading over the night a sweet layer of romance; singing of exotic love on a whiter, warmer beach in a more delicate world; singing of love, as though love were a thing to be sung.