There are few in the world who, once seen, can never be forgotten; fewer whose words repeat in your mind, ringing with the same severity as when first uttered. But there is only one, one who makes others seem circumstantial, trivial; causes gods to appear so bland, so disposable, so unpolished: my friend, the stranger, Miss Alexandra Claire. Her features handsome, lips the color of stained redwood, almond eyes half-hidden by lashes curled like pulled sugar. Fluttering milk-white hands interrupting the steady stream of smoke gushing from the tip of a long black cigarette placed in between her fingers. Her shoulders draped with a tassel of fur, and her body dressed in a plum satin gown.
In the early twenties I was working for my Uncle Edwin; 23 and new to the chaos that was city life. Edwin always joked, “Liam, there are things in this day and age people will pay anything for: power, information, and alcohol.” Then he would smile. “And here in my place, we may only serve one, but what we gain are the other two.” In the morning my uncle’s store posed as a bread shop, named Against The Grain, but the true business was a flight down in the cellar where my uncle ran one of the most exclusive speakeasies in Chicago history. We served the rich, the poor and all who wandered in between. And I, Liam Porcher, saw and observed the beauty and pain behind the world of dresses and desire.
Friday evening attracted the most eccentric crowd of the week. Worked to the bone, people needed an escape, a place where the music bellowed and the drinks were anything but dry. Customers rushed through the bread shop towards the back door, pressed their lips to the small oval opening and said the three words that granted them a place to disappear into the amber lighting: rye, wheat, barley. And that night, that unforgettable night, men stopped searching their empty glasses and stared at a woman with a cigarette, coyly flicking clumps of ash into a shallow tray. I stared too. This was a woman, I thought, a real woman. She strolled towards the bar where I was wiping glasses and serving drinks.
“Champagne please.”
“Of course, ma’am.” I hurriedly poured honey colored alcohol into a glass, the miniature bubbles frantically rising to the top.
Miss Claire slowly drank, her deep golden eyes searching the room for anything interesting.
“You’re from the country,” she mused.
“I—yes; how did you know, ma’am?”
She smiled, “I always know. And my name is Miss Claire.”
“Well, it’s an absolute pleasure, Miss Claire.”
Miss Claire’s long fingers followed the polished patterns on the side of the table and stopped at the edge. “It is, isn’t it.”
“Liam, why don’t you let me handle our special guest?”
I turned around to find my Uncle Edwin.
My Uncle Edwin was a character. Raised in the same town as me, he had left one day for a brief vacation to Chicago. 40 years later, my uncle had still not returned. He called me three months ago and insisted I come work for him. So my family saved up all our money to buy a car and I drove down to the city. My uncle was, ironically, the opposite of the speakeasy culture, which was dark, dramatic and wonderfully calculated. At 160 pounds, mostly made up of happy rum and depressed gin, my uncle wasn’t exactly as velvety as our seat cushions. He was a nice man, a good man, but unlike his customers he lacked the smoothness, the refined polish that others inherently possessed. Uncle Edwin had become old, passé, like an iced wine left in the mid-afternoon sun.
Tonight, however, Uncle Edwin refused to give in to his age, sporting his slicked-back hair, a brown suit, and curved, combed mustache. And when he saw Miss Claire with jewels layering her skin like pastel on paper, he hurried to introduce himself.
“You must excuse my nephew for the poor introduction he may have made. He is very new to Chicago and,” he leaned forward to whisper, “to the beautiful women who come along with it.” Uncle Edwin was right; there are many beautiful women in Chicago, but none so aware of their allure as Miss Claire.
Miss Claire’s eyes twinkled. “Nothing to apologize for.”
Uncle Edwin’s smile grew wider, “Another drink then, Miss…?”
“Claire.” She considered. “I suppose another drink will do.”
Uncle Edwin playfully furrowed his brows. “And you’re sure your husband won’t mind if you stay later?”
Miss Claire laughed, in the type of way where only the person laughing knows what’s funny. “I’m sorry to say, Mr…”
“Mr. Edwin,” my uncle said proudly as he expertly adjusted his dark blue handkerchief.
“Yes, Mr. Edwin, that there is a very long line for that answer.”
“Ah,” Uncle Edwin smiled mischievously, “I can understand why, although I promise you, that most men aren’t as persistent as me.”
Miss Claire shook her head, “You’d be surprised. Now if you excuse me, I should be heading back now.”
Uncle Edwin began to mumble, but before he could form a sentence, she had left, leaving a trace of lavender and smoke.
I was in a state of disbelief. Never had I seen a lady so uninhibitedly gorgeous, or heard one as undoubtedly smart. And years later, as much as I have searched, I still haven’t found another Miss Claire.
Thankfully, Miss Claire did return, and when she did, it was almost as if Against The Grain breathed again, as if without Miss Claire our speakeasy was drowning, gasping for air as it had never done before. When she returned, we were pulled to the surface, ripped from the water and taken towards the air.
Miss Claire walked through the door, in a long silver silk and lace dress that cloaked her slim arms.
“A sidecar please,” she said.
Sidecars were oddly similar to Miss Claire in regards to ingredients. Cognac, known to be highly flammable, as Miss Claire was filled with fire; orange liqueur, as sweet as Miss Claire when she was at her finest. And then a squeeze of lemon for the sourness that comes with loving a person such as Miss Claire. Yes, love. For women like Miss Claire can only and automatically be loved.
Uncle Edwin, seeing Miss Claire, rushed towards the bar.
“Miss Claire, lovely to see you again.”
Miss Claire glanced up from her drink. “And a pleasure to see you too, Mr. Edwin.”
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
Miss Claire’s cigarette sputtered. “Dance?”
“I insist.”
Miss Claire smiled. “Well, in that case.” She got up from her seat as Uncle Edwin offered his hand.
I was once told of a man named Ptolemy, and from what I understood this mathematician had a theory where Earth lay in the center of our universe. As the surrounding planets orbited the Earth, they also themselves had an individual rotation. That is what it was to waltz in the 1920s. The act, as most things start, was hesitant. The song leads; sweet and subtle, filled with woodwinds, flutes and muted trumpets. The orbit begins, with small steps and closed elbows; there are quarter turns, slow and rigid. But like all things, the steps become strides and the upper body becomes loose, arms extend, women twirl and at last a smooth voice arrives. Violins and violas roar, legs are thrown into the air and bodies spring up and down. There is motion, there is music, there is life. This is the essence of the 1920s, the core of the speakeasy craze, and at the center of this dance, the Earth to our universe was my uncle in his salamander suit and, of course, the ever present Miss Alexandra Claire.
When it ended, bodies separated, the boom of music subdued, and everything returned to the dark lights of Against The Grain.