The desert wind swirled around the barren landscape as the 19-year-old woman stood, clapboard suitcase in hand, waiting for the bus to take her north toward Capital City. She'd grown up 10 miles west of the bus stop on an inconsequential farm located on the outskirts of a village. The village itself bordered the state's second-largest city, situated placidly on the shores of a deep blue ocean. She couldn't wait to leave.
She was a precocious and diligent girl surrounded by doting parents and two rambunctious older brothers. When not occupied with her chores or attending the one-room schoolhouse a mile from the farm, she'd walk an additional two miles to spend time at the library framing the eastern edge of the town square.
Every book in the modest library was fair game - history, fiction, biographies, ornithology. Even non-traditional volumes, like survey maps of the surrounding areas or minutes of town council meetings from the turn of the century could provide solid sources of entertainment or knowledge. She got to know the library staff - all four of them - and on cold or rainy Saturdays, they'd prepare sandwiches for her marathon sessions in the building after offering her a towel and blanket to warm her up at the end of her three-mile trek.
On sunny weekends, she'd run through the surrounding fields and climb every tree she encountered, undaunted by any army of thorns, cut or scrape that would hinder lesser children. She'd proudly display her long, knobby limbs to her classmates and compare the latest scab or oldest scar with any willing confederate.
At age 10 her hair was a deep chestnut hue, her freckles spread prominently across her face, and she was tall enough to look down on most of the boys in her class. She had long, fine fingers to match her gangly limbs and a wide smile with perfect teeth.
It was the long fingers that caught the special attention of her teacher, Mrs. Polly, a middle-aged widow who lived in town. In previous generations, Mrs. Polly's family had been fortunate enough to squander a significant fortune through a series of misplaced financial adventures. However, one of the adventures resulted in an upright piano sitting in the teacher's parlor years after the family regressed to modest means. Behind it stood a Victrola surrounded by the latest jazz, opera, and classical recordings. Mrs. Polly was an indiscriminate audiophile who'd listen to any genre of music from shores near or far. Her well-trained ear allowed her to play much of what she heard and transpose it for those who were equally interested in music but not as aurally talented.
She hadn't intended to take on piano students but, noticing the girl's voracious appetite for learning anything new, decided to try.
Mrs. Polly's gamble paid off. What the girl originally lacked in natural ability she compensated for with curiosity and a strong work ethic. She studied the great masters from the previous centuries and all of the corresponding major and minor modes. She took a keen interest in an emerging cornetist from New Orleans nicknamed Satchmo and, with the help of Mrs. Polly and the library staff, was able to locate a third-hand trumpet to complement her budding piano skills.
Not infrequently the duo could be heard playing into the gloaming on a weekend, one of them on the trumpet, the other hammering away rhythm and ragtime on the piano.
As the years passed, the girl's curiosity and yearning for freedom didn't wane. When she was younger, the boys used to marvel at her scabs, scars, and gawky height. Now, her dark freckles faded to something more sensual, her chestnut hair had lightened into a shade of late autumn hay, and, while most of the boys now had the height advantage, they continued to marvel at her for completely new reasons.
It was during these years that talent scouts and producers from the city would wind their way through town. The city had supplanted New York as the film capital of the world due to its unending supply of good weather and picturesque backdrops. Filmmakers would drive through the local area in their polished motor cars scouting new locations or simply marveling at an American experience so near to them in distance but rapidly diminishing in recognition from their day-to-day lives.
One of the filmmakers - a large man with a center of gravity set comically low to the ground, a cone-shaped head with dark hair surrounding it on three sides but not on top, and always dressed in poorly fitted tans and browns better matching the Sahara than the local desert - wandered into the library one Saturday to ask for directions to the nearest diner and spotted the girl at one of the large tables near the circulation desk. He decided to take a direct approach, as he always did.
"Hello, sweetness. I'm Louis Buchhalter, producer and silver screen executive. Who are you?"
"I've heard of you," was the opening reply. "You helped usher in the sound era for film. I've been impressed with your efforts." The girl didn't look up from the copy of Vanity Fair she was reading.
Buchhalter cocked his head back, surprised that the girl knew who he was without mentioning any particular pictures. This was going to be far easier than expected. "How old are you honey?"
"Seventeen." The girl thought she saw him lick his lips at the reply.
"Any interest in being an actress?"
"I've done a pretty mean Ophelia at our local community theater."
"Would you like to go for a drive?"
"Not at the moment. I'm busy."
Buchhalter, never one to back away from a challenge, left, and on the way out, asked the librarian about the girl and her habits. The librarian, eager to sing the girl's praises, wasn't shy about providing details.
And thus began the "courtship" between Buchhalter and the girl. He'd send roses to the library or stop by - never bothering to learn the staff's names. She'd arrange the roses politely on the circulation desk or give them away to determined lovers hovering around the town square in need of assistance. He'd treat her to the diner and she'd eagerly wolf down the cheeseburger and chocolate shake that had become her decadent treat. He'd drive her along the seaside and she'd close her eyes, letting her light brown hair float freely, inhaling the salt air.
Every time they met he'd let her know how big a star he was going to make her. She always said she'd need more time to consider.
Until one day, while giving her a tour of the studio lot he asked again, "you sure you don't want to be an actress?"
"Sure," she said, momentarily swept up in the spectacle, "I'd be happy to audition." Buchhalter's grin grew wide as he placed a hand on the small of her back. He ushered her toward his office.
Five minutes later he was standing in front of the couch in his office, naked from waist to ankles, with his tan pants in puddles around his feet.
"This is an awfully unusual audition," quipped the girl.
Buchhalter shrugged dramatically with a wide grin, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
"Funny. That doesn't look like your back and I'm assuming you don't want me to scratch it."
"The options are endless sweetheart," he responded still in the same position.
"No thanks."
Five minutes after that she was walking away from the studio gate with a red-faced Buchhalter screaming at her a few steps behind, "YOU BITCH. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN WHAT I WAS WILLING TO PROVIDE YOU?!"
She continued without breaking stride or turning around, "simple math."
Buchhalter stopped and sputtered before resuming, "FUCK YOU! YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN! NEVER!"
"Guess I'll have to work somewhere else then."
She spent the next few months applying to schools in the state and found a women's college in Capital City willing to provide her a partial scholarship toward dual degrees in English and music.
The day before she left she promised her parents, Mrs. Polly and the library staff that she'd write once a week - not to each of them individually, of course, because a girl, even a prolific one, only has so many hours in the day. But, she promised to mention each of them in every letter.
A day later, Vera shaded her eyes and watched as the bus to Capital City rumbled in her direction from a half-mile down a dusty desert highway.
[Author's Note: I had a lot of fun imagining Vera's background. I wanted where she grew up to be something idyllic like in "The Music Man." However, given the time period, I had to recognize that women had a lot of obstacles to overcome, so I had to temper the chapter somewhat. This chapter's word count: 1426. Running total: 23823]
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