photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
Acting Class
by Judy Goddess
When my best friend Marilyn and I were 15, we noticed older men had begun to appraise us with covetous eyes. Delirious with the power of our budding sexuality, we decided to become active participants in the game.
Marilyn and I were not only best friends; our earnest parents, in an attempt to ease the awkwardness of adolescence, had enrolled us in classes with an acting coach, well-known in certain small, left-wing circles.
Once a week after school, the two of us boarded a train for the Fine Arts Building in downtown Chicago. At the time the escapade took place, we were rehearsing The Children’s Hour by Lillian Hellman, and I remember being delighted that I had not been cast as the girl with the lisp.
The game, which we only played after our acting lesson, went like this. The two escalators in the train station crossed so that riders were always in sight of one another. We started the game by taking the down escalator to the train platform. One of us would then mount the up escalator. By the time the escalator had ascended a few steps, the player would have selected a man riding the down escalator on whom to practice her skills of seduction: the “come hither” look, the pout, and the defiant gaze. When she had finished her ride, it was the other one’s turn to play.
We never discussed how we chose our targets. We seemed to tacitly agree that the man had to be younger than our fathers and older than the boys at school. Sometimes the poor fellow got so flustered he’d trip as he stepped onto the platform. Some would give us questioning glances; others would turn their heads toward us and say hello. Few refused the invitation by looking away.
After about five rounds, we’d begin laughing hysterically and collapse into each other’s arms. Then we’d take the escalator down and board the train for home, careful not to get on the same train as any of “our” men. Sometimes, when it looked like the object of our seduction might be ready to take us up on our offer, we’d head for cover in the shelter near the ticket agent’s booth and wait there until the man had boarded a train and left the station.
This escapade went on all spring, until acting classes ended and summer vacation began. The following fall, when acting classes resumed, we had begun dating boys our own age, and escalators resumed their given function: a way to get up and down.
Marilyn and I were not only best friends; our earnest parents, in an attempt to ease the awkwardness of adolescence, had enrolled us in classes with an acting coach, well-known in certain small, left-wing circles.
Once a week after school, the two of us boarded a train for the Fine Arts Building in downtown Chicago. At the time the escapade took place, we were rehearsing The Children’s Hour by Lillian Hellman, and I remember being delighted that I had not been cast as the girl with the lisp.
The game, which we only played after our acting lesson, went like this. The two escalators in the train station crossed so that riders were always in sight of one another. We started the game by taking the down escalator to the train platform. One of us would then mount the up escalator. By the time the escalator had ascended a few steps, the player would have selected a man riding the down escalator on whom to practice her skills of seduction: the “come hither” look, the pout, and the defiant gaze. When she had finished her ride, it was the other one’s turn to play.
We never discussed how we chose our targets. We seemed to tacitly agree that the man had to be younger than our fathers and older than the boys at school. Sometimes the poor fellow got so flustered he’d trip as he stepped onto the platform. Some would give us questioning glances; others would turn their heads toward us and say hello. Few refused the invitation by looking away.
After about five rounds, we’d begin laughing hysterically and collapse into each other’s arms. Then we’d take the escalator down and board the train for home, careful not to get on the same train as any of “our” men. Sometimes, when it looked like the object of our seduction might be ready to take us up on our offer, we’d head for cover in the shelter near the ticket agent’s booth and wait there until the man had boarded a train and left the station.
This escapade went on all spring, until acting classes ended and summer vacation began. The following fall, when acting classes resumed, we had begun dating boys our own age, and escalators resumed their given function: a way to get up and down.