The 40s: The Story of a Decade (39 page)

· · ·

Miss New York State took only an hour to get dressed for the opening night. I stopped by her room before dinner. She was studying herself in a mirror. She wore an ice-blue satin evening gown, her hair was shining, she had on very little makeup, and her face was smooth and pale. She put on a rhinestone necklace, looked hard at herself, wiped a bit of lipstick from a front tooth, and shrugged. “I’m so vain,” she said.

“We’d better go down to dinner,” Miss Neville said. “You’re due at Convention Hall at eight.”

The hotel dining room was filled, mostly with elderly ladies in high lace collars, canes hanging from the backs of their chairs. Several of them applauded as Miss New York State made her entrance, and one later sent her a note wishing her good luck. Miss New York State ordered onion soup, filet of sole, a caramel-nut sundae, and tea with lemon. After she had finished her fish, she waited placidly for her sundae, which was not served until almost eight.

I found a seat at the press table at Convention Hall, abreast of the ramp, as Mr. Russell, wearing a dinner jacket, skipped out and announced that the parade was going to begin. Miss Alabama and the fifty-one others came onto the ramp, smiling but shaking with nervousness. My seat was not far from where Miss New York State stood on the ramp, and I could see her trembling with a kind of sick, forced laughter. The judges, all in evening dress, were introduced: Vyvyan Donner, women’s editor of Twentieth Century–Fox Movietone News; Ceil Chapman, dress designer; Clifford D. Cooper, president of the United States Junior Chamber of Commerce; Guy E. Snavely, Jr., who was described as a husband, father, and executive secretary of Pickett & Hatcher, an educational foundation in Birmingham, Alabama; Paul R. Anderson, president of Pennsylvania College for Women, in Pittsburgh; Mrs. Barbara Walker Hummell, Miss America of 1947; Conrad Thibault, baritone; Vincent Trotta, art director of the National Screen Service, a company that makes posters and billboards for motion pictures; Coby Whitmore, commercial artist; Hal Phyfe, photographer; and Earl Wilson,
columnist. Voting was by ballot, with two certified public accountants acting as tellers of the ballots. From the press table I picked up a brochure about Convention Hall and read that it is 488 feet long, 288 feet wide, and 137 feet high, and that it could be transformed in a few hours into a full-size football field or into the world’s largest indoor fight arena. “The place dwarfs,” a gentleman seated next to me said with finality.

After the parade, the group competing in evening gowns that night came onstage one by one, modelled before the judges, and walked down the ramp. Then they came out in a group and lined up in front of the judges, who sat in their enclosure, which adjoined the ramp. Miss Illinois, a pert girl with green eyes and blond hair, fixed in a Maggie (Jiggs’ Maggie) hair-do, winked saucily at the judges. She wore a strapless white gown with a rhinestone-trimmed bodice. (Height, 5’6¼; weight, 118; bust, 35; hips, 35½; age, 19. Reason for entering the Pageant: “I entered with the sincere hope of furthering my career.”) Mr. Russell urged the girls to give big smiles and urged the judges to pay attention to coiffure, grooming, and symmetry of form. The contestants faced front, turned to show their profiles, turned to show their backs, turned to show their other profiles, then faced front again, and retired. The tellers collected the ballots. Next, a group in bathing suits came out, led by Miss Arizona. Miss California, the tall blonde, came next. Miss Florida followed, and, after a few other contestants, Miss New York State. As they stood before the judges, the M.C. asked them to examine the girls’ figures carefully for any flaws. For example, he asked, did the thighs and the calves meet at the right place. Miss New York State stood rigidly, once grasping at the hand of Miss North Dakota. The audience of nine thousand, who had paid from $1.25 to $6.15 for their tickets, sat patiently and stared. The bathing-suiters retired, and Mr. Russell announced that he would do impersonations of Al Jolson, Bing Crosby, Eddie Cantor, and Enrico Caruso. After this demonstration of versatility, he said that the curtains were about to open on “our beautiful old-fashioned Southern garden.” The curtains parted. All the girls, in evening gowns, were seated in chairs on simulated grass. Here and there were potted palms. For some reason, Miss New York State sat behind one of them.

The talent competition began. Miss Alabama, a mezzo-soprano, led off by singing “ ’Neath the Southern Moon,” accompanied, more or less, by a pit orchestra. Miss Nevada’s talent, it seemed, was raising purebred Herefords; she had wanted to bring one of her cows, she said in a brief
speech, but the officials wouldn’t let her. Miss Colorado gave a monologue from
Dinner at Eight.
Miss Hawaii danced a hula. Miss Indiana showed a movie demonstrating her talent in swimming. Miss New Jersey sang “Mighty Lak’ a Rose.” Miss Minnesota, a small version of Be Be Shopp, played some gypsy airs on a violin. While the judges marked their ballots, Miss Shopp entertained by playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” on her vibraharp, evidently not handicapped by the thirty-pound gown. Then the preliminary winners were announced: Bathing Suit, a tie between Miss Arizona and Miss California; Talent, Miss Minnesota.

The contestants got back to their hotels late, because Miss Michigan was given a party backstage in honor of her nineteenth birthday. This had come about because she had decided early in the evening that she wanted to drop out of the Pageant and go home at once. I had been advised of the circumstance by an official of the Pageant. “This little brat wants to run out on us,” he had said, stuffing some chewing tobacco into his mouth. “We’re taking a gamble and blowing a sawbuck on a cake for her. It better work.” It worked. Miss Michigan decided to stay in Atlantic City. Everybody appeared to enjoy the party, and everybody made a determined effort to be Miss Congeniality. Miss New York State showed no disappointment at not having won first place in the swim-suit competition. “California is so
tall
,” she said to me.

· · ·

At my hotel the next afternoon, I ran into Miss Arizona’s chaperone in the elevator. “I thought I would die last night before they announced that my girl had won,” she said. “I’ve been with her ever since she won her first contest, three years ago, but I’ve never been through anything like
that
before.” Three years ago, she told me, Miss Arizona had won a teen-age beauty contest sponsored by Aldens, a mail-order house in Chicago; she had then attended a modelling school and had modelled teen-age clothes for Aldens catalogue. The business people of Arizona (Arizona has the largest man-made lake in North America and the largest open-pit copper mine in the world, and it is great to live in Arizona, a brochure entitled “Miss Arizona, 1949—Jacque Mercer,” put out by the contestant’s sponsor, the Phoenix Junior Chamber of Commerce, and handed to me by the contestant’s chaperone, said) had given her twenty-five hundred dollars to prepare for the Atlantic City contest. The chaperone invited me to come up to her room to look at Miss Arizona’s wardrobe. It was a spectacular wardrobe, put together with taste. Miss Arizona was
an only child. Her mother had married at fifteen and had named her daughter Jacque after a doll she had had. “Jackie’s parents are here, but I’m making them stay away from her,” the chaperone said. “They’re schoolteachers. Schoolteachers don’t know what to do with children.” Miss Arizona came into the room.

“The Pageant asked Jackie what kind of car she likes and I said to put down Nash,” said the chaperone.

“I like Cadillacs,” Miss Arizona said. She opened a shoe box and stared at a pair of high-heeled button-strap shoes.

“Your mother went right out and bought a pair just like them,” the chaperone said to her.

I told Miss Arizona and her chaperone that I had to get along, in order to look in on Miss New York State. Miss Arizona immediately said she liked Miss New York State. “
She
doesn’t giggle, the way some of the others do,” she explained. “I don’t care for girls who giggle.” She flicked a speck of dust off one of her new shoes. “I’ll be glad when this is over and I can frown at people if I feel like it,” she said. “I sometimes feel as though my face is going to crack. But I keep that bi-ig smile on my face.” She laughed.

When I joined Miss New York State, she was wearing her nurse’s uniform—white dress, white stockings, and white shoes. She was going, she said, to the Atlantic City Hospital. Two photographers covering the Pageant had heard that she had no way of demonstrating her talent, and had arranged to make a movie short showing her in professional action. She looked crisp and efficient. She had had a busy morning, she said, having been examined for personality at the first of the two breakfasts with the judges. The contestants sat at small tables, with a couple of judges at each. After each course, a bell rang and the judges changed tables, which gave them an opportunity to talk with all the contestants. Miss New York State said that most of the girls had trouble getting their breakfast down but that she had had orange juice, bacon and eggs, toast, marmalade, and tea. “I wasn’t going to sit there and let all that good food go,” she said. She didn’t know whether she had made a favorable impression on the judges. “I told Conrad Thibault I had never heard of him,” she said. “He didn’t seem to like that.”

· · ·

Before the Pageant’s second-evening program began, some of the judges wandered about Convention Hall, presumably judging the new Nash
waiting in the lobby for the winner and judging the audience, which was approximately the same size it had been the first night. Earl Wilson stopped at the press table and said he had been reading an essay on beauty by Edmund Burke. “He says that an object of beauty should be comparatively small and delicate, bright and clear, with one section melting neatly into the other,” he said. “The essay didn’t affect me any. I like ’em big.” He was joined by a gentleman from Omaha, who listened to him impatiently for a while. “I tell you what you’re gonna pick, Earl,” he finally broke in. “You’re gonna pick the kind of girl
I
would pick for my own wife or daughter. That’s what we got this contest for.” Mr. Wilson nodded respectfully and moved on.

In front of the dressing room, Miss Florida was taking leave of her mother.

“Smile, now, honey,” said her mother.

“Ah
am
smilin’, Mama,” said Miss Florida.

Inside, Miss New York State was standing with her back right up against an ironing board while a lady attendant pressed the skirt of the gown she was wearing for the evening’s competition. It had a white net skirt and a white satin bodice. She had bought it at a New York wholesale house for $29.75. She looked around admiringly and objectively at the dresses of the other girls. “What beautiful
gowns
,” she said.

Miss Florida was smiling at no one in particular. The city of Tampa had given her her gown—ruffled champagne-colored lace (a hundred and fifty yards)—and matching elbow-length gloves. Miss California sat gravely before a mirror in a dress of blue satin trimmed with black lace on the bodice and a black lace bow at the waist. Miss Arizona stood in a corner, a tense smile on her face, in a gown with a hoop skirt of ruffles of white organdie eyelet (a hundred and sixty yards) with a bouquet of red carnations at one side.

Miss Missouri came in, and Miss New York State waved to her. “Missouri is going to dance tonight,” she told me. “I like dancing. It always makes me feel good. You know,” she went on rapidly, “I found out today I’m photogenic. One of those photographers told me I could be a model, and my picture is in all the papers. One of the papers said I was
outstanding.
” She grabbed my arm. “Nobody ever called me
outstanding
before.”

Mrs. Shermer, the chief hostess, called out that the girls were to line up in the wings, and that they should be careful not to step on each other’s dresses. Miss New York State took her place in line and the contestants started to move onto the stage, big smiles on their faces.

“Mind my horse!” Miss Montana said cheerily to her hostess.

“I
would
get the one with the horse,” the hostess said to me.

I went out front and again sat down at the press table, next to a man whose badge said he was Arthur K. Willi, of R.K.O. Radio Pictures. Throughout the evening-gown and bathing-suit parades, he held a pair of opera glasses to his eyes, then he put them down with a groan. “I look and I look and I look, and what do I see?” he said. “If Clark Gable walked out on that stage right now, he would fill it up, or Maggie Sullavan, or Dorothy Maguire. There’s nothing here, nothing—not even when I look at these kids with the eyes of the masses.”

The M.C. brought out two platinum blondes and introduced them as Miss Atlanta of 1947 and Miss Omaha of 1947. They did a tap dance to “I Got Rhythm.” “Those poor kids,” Willi said. “Those poor, poor kids. Look at them. They look as though they had been knocking around Broadway for fifteen years.” When the talent session began, he put the glasses back to his eyes. Miss Kansas, who was twenty-two, sang “September Song” with a deliberately husky voice. Miss Canada sang “Sempre Libera” from
La Traviata.
Miss Connecticut recited “Jackie, the Son of the Hard-Boiled Cop.” Miss Montana, wearing a conventional riding coat and frontier pants, rode her horse, a nine-year-old mare named Victory Belle, out onto the stage. Miss Illinois grinned confidently at the judges, and in a strong soprano sang “Ouvre Ton Cœur” as though she meant it. Miss Wisconsin wound up with a baton-twirling act. The winners: Bathing Suit, Miss Colorado; Talent, Miss Canada.

“The Pageant wants publicity in the Canadian papers,” a newspaperman near me said.

Willi put his opera glasses in his coat pocket. “They’ve all lost their youth already,” he said. “They come down here for what? To lose their youth!”

· · ·

Miss New York State’s picture was in the New York, Philadelphia, and Atlantic City newspapers the next morning. She was shown at the Atlantic City Hospital, wearing her uniform and holding a two-year-old girl who had just had her tonsils out. Photographers from the wire services had accompanied the moviemakers to the hospital, and pictures of her had been sent out across the country. Miss Arizona had dark circles under her eyes when I encountered her in our hotel lobby after lunch, and she said that she was going to spend the afternoon thinking about
Shakespeare and listening to a recording of Tchaikovsky’s
Romeo and Juliet
overture, to get in the mood for her talent demonstration that night—Juliet’s potion scene. She had stayed up all the night before talking about it and other Pageant matters with her chaperone. Miss Arizona had played Juliet at Phoenix Junior College, having been chosen from five hundred girls who had tried out for the part. She wanted to be an actress; she wouldn’t go to Hollywood until she had attended drama school and spent several years in the theatre. “Hollywood would try to make me be something
they
wanted me to be,” she said. “I won’t do that. My grandfather always said that you can have anything you want in the world, any way you want it, if you want it enough to work hard enough for it.”