I walked down the white and grey hall to the visitor center; the large, sturdy matron marched behind me. Nancy, the fresh-faced middle-class reporter, looked up when the door opened to brightly wave me over to the steel table like we were friends meeting for lunch at a cafe. She apologized for being late; she had to drop her dog off at the veterinarian before coming to see me. She told me her pug’s name was Lucky and he was having bowel issues.

I barely sat down in the white, plastic chair when Nancy pushed the record button on the tape recorder sitting on the table and bent her head over her notepad. I hoped she would offer me a cigarette, but it seemed she wouldn’t. I began.

The Greyhound bus arrived in Nashville at eleven fifteen the night I left home. I was the last one off the bus and stood back from the crowd while the driver emptied the luggage compartment. When he finished removing all the luggage, I took my worn, hard suitcase and entered the bus station. People met others at the door, hugging and patting each other on the back, while others marched straight for the exit and into Nashville. I hung back, and the crowd in the station soon filtered out, leaving only a few passengers waiting in the rows of plastic chairs for the next bus. I went to a map on the sage-tiled wall that declared “Nashville - Music City, USA” with a red arrow and the words “You are here” pointing where the bus station stood. I looked at the legend on the right side of the map to find what other buildings were listed. I discovered none that were helpful.

“What are you looking for, Miss?” A deep male voice asked.

I turned to find a blue-uniformed policeman standing there, his hands behind him, holding a baton with a leather cord at one end. It was no wonder he called me Miss. I sat in the rear of the bus, where I changed my clothes. I now wore my simple cotton dress, white shoes, and the pink ribbon from the candy box in my hair. I had brushed my hair straight and worn a bit of lipstick. The patrolman mistakenly thought I was a girl and stared down at me as if I was an errant child. I glanced up at him, then back at the map; I didn’t know what to do or say.

“Are you waiting on someone to pick you up?”

“Ah… no, sir.” I pushed my long hair behind one ear.

“Are you looking for a hotel?”

“No, sir.”

“How old are you?” He peered at me.

“I’m eighteen, sir.”

He studied me for a brief moment, nodded, then walked away; his steps echoed off the tiled walls. A few steps later, he stopped, then turned to stare at me. He returned to stand in front of me; he tapped his baton on his free hand.

“The station does not allow anyone to stay overnight,” he stated.

“Yes, sir.”

“On Sutter Street there is a Salvation Army shelter. They take in women. You will be safe there. Go out the front doors and turn right. Go four blocks to Jackson Street, turn right. Six blocks, you will see Sutter Street. It is three blocks on the right.”

I listened to the directions and tried to memorize them. Turn right, four blocks, Jackson Street, turn right. Six blocks to Sutter Street, three blocks on the right. I nodded at him.

“Go on now. The Salvation Army closes its doors at midnight.”

I picked up my suitcase and fled out the bus station’s glass doors. I immediately started to walk to the left, but I realized my mistake and wheeled about. As I passed by the glass doors on my corrected course, I spied the policeman standing like a sentinel watching my progress.

I arrived at the shelter at forty past the hour. A man greeted me at the door and called to Shelly, who took me to the women’s section. Shelly handed me a towel and bed linen from a closet. She helped me make a small bunk in the dormitory. Afterward, she glanced around at the other women in the bunks already asleep.

“Listen to me,” she whispered, “I will let you stay here tonight. Tomorrow morning you will have to leave. I can’t have a young man staying with the women.”

I nodded and whispered thank you. Shelly smiled, kissed me on the forehead, and told me goodnight. After washing, I slipped into bed still wearing the cotton shift, my shoes tucked under my bed.

Early the next morning, there was a breakfast call. The women about me did not chat, but rose, washed, then went silently to the offered meal. After they had left, I quickly entered the bathroom to wash. I donned my white dress and shoes and was leaving the mission when Shelly stopped me. She placed a doughnut, a five-dollar bill, and a small New Testament in my hands; she blessed me and said good luck.

Downtown Nashville was busy even in the early morning. Cars, delivery trucks, and people crowded the streets heading to work, school, or other destinations. I walked around the city until noon, when I passed a small diner advertising dishwasher wanted. I entered the small cafe to speak to a Greek man with a thick mustache. He vigorously shook his head no, but a small woman with kind eyes behind wire-rim glasses put a hand on his shoulder. Instantly, the man stopped gesticulating to glance at his wife. The man turned back to me and said yes. I began work immediately.

For the next nine weeks, I worked at The Pappas Diner. I would meet Nikos and Maria Pappas at the door at six in the morning and work till two in the afternoon. I washed cups, plates, pots, pans, and silverware in a three-compartment, stainless steel sink in the back. If there were no dishes to be washed, I would sweep and mop the floors. I was allowed to pick up extra hours, sometimes working twelve hours a day.

The Pappas were kind to me. I was given a cup of coffee and a pastry in the morning, and I was allowed to eat a lunch plate in the afternoon. Mrs. Pappas would slip me a sandwich after a long shift. Mr. Pappas always overpaid me at the end of the week, saying I could work it off the next week but never remembered to schedule me. They even found me an inexpensive room to stay.

It was a Wednesday night when I was working a late shift when I came out from the back of the restaurant to start sweeping the diner floor. A man at a window booth, having coffee, called to Lorraine, the night waitress, to speak to her in hushed tones. I saw the two glance at me and saw him give her a five-spot, which she immediately pocketed. The middle-aged waitress came over and said the man in the window booth wanted to speak to me. The man was in his early forties, with blue-black hair and a thin mustache, wearing a gray suit.

“Yes, sir?” I asked the man, broom still in my hand.

“Your name is Carter?”

“Yes…”

“My name is Thorn. Why don’t you sit down for a minute?” he indicated the bench opposite him.

I looked around to see if Lorraine was watching. She was leaning over the counter, her eyes focused on a magazine in front of her. I placed the broom against the window and slid into the booth seat. Mr. Thorn smiled at me, took a drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke upward, then knocked the ash off its tip.

“Care for a cup of coffee?” He asked.

“No, sir. I’ve had my break.”

"How old are you?"

"I'm eighteen."

“You don't look that old, but you’re cute. You know that?”

“Thanks," My stomach tightened at the compliment.

“I’m told that you sing. That you’re pretty good.”

“Who told you that?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders and inhaled a long draw; afterward, he knocked the ash off his cigarette again. Mr. Thorn smiled and glanced over at the lunch counter, then back to me. I glared over my shoulder at Lorraine.

“Not really. I just sing while I do dishes.”

“You know there are places where people like to hear boys, like you, sing.”

“What do you mean?” I swiveled my head about, seeing if anyone overheard him call me a boy.

“Come on, kid. I know what you are.”

“I just wash dishes here. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Kid, it’s alright. I understand.”

He reached into his breast pocket, bringing out a card and handing it to me. It was white, with raised black letters embossed on its front. It read “Charles A. Thorn, Theatrical Agent - Leland 3009”.

“I think I can get you a job that pays. My phone number is on the card. Call me.” he stood up and put on his fedora.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a dollar, and dropped it on the table. He winked at me, said goodbye to Lorraine, then walked out of the diner, the doorbell announcing his exit. My fingers traced the raised letters on the card, and I watched him through the diner's window stride confidently down the street.

I called Charles A. Thorn, or Cat as he liked to be called, on Sunday afternoon. I agreed to go with him to an interview he had arranged on Tuesday. He asked if I could look older for the interview, saying there would be fewer questions if I appeared to be older than eighteen. I told him I didn’t have any other clothes. He said for me not to worry, but to be ready Monday afternoon.

After work on Monday, Cat took me to a hairdresser. She balked at first, but he slipped her a ten, and she reluctantly agreed. She cut my hair into a chin‑length bob with the ends flipped upward. The hairdresser called it a “flip”. We went into a department store with lighted glass cases and an escalator. Shoppers moved about while soft music played in the background. Cat purchased me a suit of clothes, shoes, and a matching purse. I told him I couldn’t afford them, but he was adamant. I promised to pay him back, but he smiled at me.

Cat picked me up in the late afternoon the following day in his Buick, in front of the cafe. It was an older black model, a white flare trimmed with chrome, crossed both the back and front door; large fins graced the tail of the car. I was dressed in my new black knee-length sheath with a back V-neckline. My narrow shoulders were hidden by my white jacket, which was patterned with small black apples, pears, and bundles of grapes. It fastened at the top of its sweetheart collar and fell just above my waist. I wore white gloves and black kitten heels, while I held my matching handbag on my elbow. I wore very little makeup: mascara and lipstick. I sat in the passenger seat of the Buick as we headed southeast of Nashville, off Bell Road to The Lakeside Club.

The Lakeside Club had a red-neon sign in script that proclaimed a band played jazz, while another sign on the side of the building announced Bobby Martin was the featured performer this upcoming Friday and Saturday. Cat explained the sign was updated weekly with the headliner's name, usually a singer, dancer, or a comedian. On rare occasions, they might have a fan dancer or a full-on stripper. He continued that on Thursday nights, there was an "All-Male Revue", when "the boys" dressed in their best feminine attire were the stars of the show. He glanced over at me.

We pulled into the parking lot, and after Cat opened the car door for me, he reminded me to walk slowly and gracefully, then escorted me to the leather-covered front door. Cat told me to remain in the foyer while he was shown into the roadhouse by a thin, young man with an outrageously tall pompadour. Mesmerized, I gazed at the publicity photos of the club's past performers on the red-felt walls. There were beautiful women singers in luxurious gowns and handsome men with big smiles dressed in tuxedos.

The young man with the pompadour returned to ask if I would follow him to the stage floor. As we walked, he complimented me on my outfit, saying they didn't get many well-dressed housewives to the Club. He led me to a table in front of the stage, then faded away. Cat sat with a woman dressed in a periwinkle satin dressing gown and a white turban; I heard the couple laughing as we approached.

"Stella, let me introduce Sugar Kain." Cat stood and said to the woman, using the name he had given me.

"Sugar, this is the Lakeside Club's grand dame, Stella Jones."

I smiled and leaned forward to offer my hand.

"No, dear. Ladies do not shake hands."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, sheepishly pulling my hand back.

"Quite alright, my dear. Let me take a look at you." The woman raised her glasses, which she kept on a gold chain around her neck, to peer at me.

"Mmm... Cat, the way you have her dressed, she should be attending a PTA meeting. Is she to be your beard?"

"Oh, Stella! You know, YOU are the ONLY woman for me!"

He chuckled at the thought. The woman glared at him over her horn-rimmed glasses. She raised her chin and tapped her cheek. Cat swiftly bent down and kissed her. Satisfied with his sycophantic kiss, she returned her gaze to me.

"Dear, please take off your jacket and turn around."

I set my purse down on the table and removed my jacket. I folded it carefully and placed it over the back of a chair. I slowly pirouetted for her.

"I see promise, Cat. But you always did have a good eye."

Cat bowed his head at the woman's praise, then he gave me an exaggerated wink behind the woman's back.

"Alright, dear, go on the stage and sing me a number," the woman commanded.

"I... ah... alright." I looked to Cat.

He gave me a thumbs up and urged me to the stage.

"Candi! Candi! Where is that girl? Candi, come here!" Stella shouted.

The young man with the pompadour appeared from the side of the stage, his eyes wide.

"Yes, Stella?"

"I need you to play the piano. Sugar, dear, do you know 'A Little Bird Told Me'?"

I told her I did, then climbed the stairs to the small stage and stood next to the baby grand piano. The boy at the piano looked at me, and I nodded. I practiced this song often. I sang in a high falsetto, getting lost in the music. During the interlude, I felt the music wash over me; I rolled my hips and danced as I had practiced at home. I imagined Calvin leering at me and felt the heat of his desire sear me. Near the end, I flung my arms out and belted out the final note.

Cat stood up and clapped; the boy rolled his eyes at me.

"I think I can use you," Stella said.

I paused and thought; the memories caused me to smile. All these years later, I could still see Maria pouring coffee behind the lunch counter; I heard the hiss of fresh meat hit the grill as Nikos started an order. I saw Stella and Cat flirting and conspiring at the nightclub table, and Candi sitting behind the Steinway. Nancy's head rose from her yellow notepad, her pen still.

"Sugar?"

"Yes?" I woke from the past.

"Everything ok?"

"Oh, yes!" My smile widened. "I hadn't thought about the diner and the club in years. Those times were some of the happiest in my life."