Beverly Mayfield’s head throbbed incessantly against her skull, triggering an aching sensation to vibrate throughout her slender body. Countless hours of waiting on tables that involved men who had one too many drinks started to take a toll on her young body and soul.  Sure the bathtub gin did provide her with some relief, but her thoughts were too exhausting to process. Sometimes it was just easier to drown the pain with a bottle of white lightning. Beverly leaned her fatigued body against the worn-down brick wall in the shadows of the alleyway adjacent to Fredrick’s, the local bar that she worked at, famous for being a juice-joint during the days of the Prohibition. She took a swig of whiskey and glanced down at her tattered, faux leather watch. Memories flooded her hazy mind as she remembered her late father who had scraped together ten dollars to buy her the watch for her fifteenth birthday. Realizing that her shift that started five minutes ago, Beverly panicked and her stomach dropped. She dreaded walking through the weathered wooden “employees only” door only to be greeted by the corpulent bar manager, Mr. O’Brien. Her expectations weren’t disappointed.

“Bev, you’re six minutes late and this ain’t the first time, baby!” he shouted in his punitive tone. She nodded her head as she pushed past the doors in an attempt to avoid conflict. “Are you ignoring me, missy?” he said derogatorily. “Cause if you is, you ain’t gettin’ none of those tips for your pretty face tonight.” His bloodshot face blazed with anger and his sharp steel eyes glared right through her soul, pushing her back a few paces.

            “No sir, I just lost track of time,” she said hesitantly.

Mr. O’Brien stalked off into the bustling bar, winding his way through the congested round tables, disappearing into the vulgar voices of tipsy, drunken men. Beverly quickly rushed over to the bar and heard Lucy, a fellow waitress, mumbling words under her breath. Beverly silently said to herself, if you’re gonna say something concerning me, honey, say it to my face. Beverly just couldn’t find the strength within herself to say that to Lucy out loud. Lucy was a divorced mother of two young children. She worked late hours, sometimes filling in for one of the dancers. Times were harsh. The Depression forced people to take measures they would have never even considered before, just to keep their heads above water and put food on the table.

Beverly slipped on her white waitress apron and hastily picked up a tray of drinks, swiftly rushing over to the jam-packed tables. Enduring the stares and the occasional grope, she quietly collected the menial tips inconsistently left by customers.

As Beverly approached the bar to drop some off empty whiskey-reeking shot glasses, Lucy complained about a customer who ordered a martini.

“Ugh. Now I gotta go get the olives from outta the pantry. Can you cover for me and make a martini?” She asked. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”  

“Who orders a martini in the middle of the Dustbowl?” Beverly questioned, wondering who would order such a sophisticated cocktail. Lucy nodded over to a barstool facing the timeworn window. Beverly glanced over. All she saw was a set of broad shoulders, a tailored suit, and slicked-back hair. He stood out in the crowd like a peacock in a flock of crows. Intrigued, Beverly speedily prepared the martini and glided over to the barstool occupied by the mysterious stranger. She carefully set down the drink and gazed upon his striking face. He looked up as the moonlight poured through the window, illuminating his spellbinding features. Her heart skipped a beat. His broad jawline, angular nose, and hypnotic hazel eyes entranced her. All his features sang in harmony like a melodic symphony.

“Thank you,” his flawless voice broke the silence.  

Caught off guard she replied, “No problem, call me over when you need a refill.” He winked. Dazed, she slowly walked over to the bar and began to dry off the shot glasses. She heard nothing. All she could sense was the tall and mesmerizing man.

***

It was midnight, and every Tom, Dick, and Harry cleared out. Beverly was locking up like she did every Saturday night. She rotated the key until she heard the click-click noise. Shivering, she slipped on her worn-out sweater and waited for her ride with Lucy. Beverly stood in the shadow of the bar and gazed upon the eerily quiet Main Street, wondering what the future held. Late night laughter echoed through the cool breeze; a light bulb flickered in the apartments directly above the local drug store. She could hear the reverberation of a revving engine. Glancing to the left, Beverly saw him. Him. His shiny hair glistened in the moonlight. He sped up to the curb right in front of her.

“What are you doing out at this hour?” he asked.

“I’m just waitin’ for my friend to give me a ride home,” she replied.

He got out of his car, slammed the polished door shut, and strode towards her. Her heart skipped a beat. Again.

“What’s your name?” he inquired.

“Beverly…Beverly Mayfield,” She paused.

“Are you always this pretty?” His eyes twinkled.

“Maybe. You ain’t from around here,” Beverly replied, brushing off his question.

“How could you tell? The martini give me away?”

“Sorta.” She shifted her body weight, quickly wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt.

“Anyways, I’m a film producer from Hollywood and was wondering if you’d like to come out West? You’d do great on the big screen,” he said.

Lucy abruptly appeared and beeped her horn. Beverly quickly glanced over and gestured to wait.

“I don’t know…I’ll have to think about it. I don’t even know you.” She said.

“My name is Larry Goldstein. Here’s my card.” He reached into the satin lining of his suit pocket and drew out a black business card.

She took it, nodded her head, and hastily trotted towards the car rubbing her arm trying to brush off the cold.

***

That evening, Beverly stood in front of her distressed wooden framed mirror; the words are you always this pretty echoed through her head. She never assumed herself as pretty. Sure, her mom always said she was attractive, but that’s what moms always say. She stroked her hair with her brush. Surprisingly, some of the brush’s old bristles were still intact. She took a long, hard look at herself. Silky chestnut hair, big dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, petal lips. She flounced on to her mattress and let her thoughts wander into an abyss.  

Two months later…

Jazz and laughter bounced off of the wallpapered walls. Waiters slithered between mingling guests, offering an array of bubbly champagne and intricately garnished hours d’ oeuvres. Beverly Mayfield stood on the veranda of Mr. Goldstein’s estate. Her ivory gown cascaded down her slim figure. She took a sip of the intoxicating champagne and gazed off into the distance, the picturesque view of the iconic Hollywood sign made her feel minuscule in comparison. She stepped back into the boisterous gallery feeling refreshed. Larry spotted her and waved for her to come over.

“Beverly! This is Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay. Mr. Ramsay and I work at the same film studio, MGM.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Beverly said as she shook their hands and grinned.

As the uninteresting conversation unfolded between Mr. Ramsay and Larry, her mind wandered. She slipped away and went upstairs to her lavishly furnished room. She had been staying at Larry’s home in Brentwood for the past two months.

Once she entered her room, she headed straight to the bathroom for an unwinding soak in the granite bathtub. She knew deep down that she should be downstairs entertaining guests, but it was the third party she’d been to in the past week and socializing was beginning to take way too much effort.

She began to drift away from reality. Painful recollections bombarded her head. Finding her father with slit wrists in their tiny tub back in Oklahoma. Her mother encouraging, almost forcing her, to go to Hollywood for a better future. Her younger sister sobbing as the locomotive rolled away. She opened her eyes in hopes that the images would disappear. They didn’t.

Beverly stepped out of the bathtub into her plush white robe; the warm soapy water was quickly absorbed. She took a swig of whiskey. The stinging warmth slid down her throat. She put on her silky nightgown on and slipped under the posh covers. The Dust Bowl and the Depression seemed a world away.

***

The late morning sun poured in through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. A pungent aroma of lavender and peach wafted through the room. Beverly quickly ran a comb through her recently dyed blonde, knotty locks. She stepped outside and saw a woman in her mid-twenties closing the door to Mr. Goldstein’s office. The sun’s powerful rays caused her goldish-red hair to gleam. Beverly wasn’t surprised. There were so many actresses and women that visited in a day that she lost count. She headed down the spiral staircase through the long hallway and into the marble-countered kitchen. Lizzie, the housekeeper, was preparing an appetizing plate of crispy bacon and fluffy eggs. Beverly salivated, suddenly feeling her stomach rumble, and realized that she was famished.  

Beverly took her steaming hot plate outside to the poolside backyard. She sipped on a cool, refreshing glass of freshly squeezed orange juice as she flipped through an old issue of a magazine.

After finishing up breakfast, Beverly went upstairs. She walked down the long corridor that stretched from the coiled staircase to the enormous glass windows where the Southern California sun streamed in. She wandered down the hall. Mr. Goldstein’s office door was slightly ajar. She glanced at the opening to ensure he wasn’t there. Placing her hands on the door’s exterior, she gradually pressed it open.

The interior of the room was different than she expected. Files, folders, and documents were strewn over the dark stained wooden desk and velvety couches. The room reeked of mold and cologne. She took a few steps towards the desk and came across a gray folder labeled “Oliver Kneely”. She flipped through the discolored pages and found documents, full of birth certificates, IDs, and other confidential information. The birth certificate said that Oliver Kneely was born in Denver, Colorado. Larry mentioned he was born in Denver, she thought.

The door flew open. A gust of wind ran through the room, sending a shiver down her spine.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Goldstein said. His voice was harsh.

“I, I was just looking for y-you.” Her voice stammered as she quickly flung the file out of her hand.

“Out. Get out of my house, and never return.” He said furiously.

She tried apologizing but he wouldn’t budge. He stalked out of the room. Leaving only his sharp voice buzzing in her ears on repeat.

She dashed out of the office and sprinted down the hall to her room. She scrambled for her suitcase, tears were pouring down her face. She tried to stifle her sob but didn’t succeed. She tossed all of her clothes violently into her luggage, wiped the salty teardrops off her face, and flew down the staircase.

*** 

That night, Beverly roamed around town in search of a place to spend the night. She had a few bucks she saved from working at Fredrick’s back in Oklahoma. She came across a motel that was in her price range on the seedy edge of town. She wandered the hazy streets; the only source of illumination came from a sporadic street lamp. Her stomach growled like a beast who had been let loose. Her heart ached. Home. She wanted to go home.

A familiar face rushed by her. The redhead from yesterday morning. Today she wasn’t dressed in the same classy, fashionable attire. Instead, she wore a skimpy shirt that was tied up in a knot, and a short skirt that rode right above her thigh.

Beverly hurried back to the motel, took a cold shower, put on her pajamas, and cried herself to sleep.   

*** 

The afternoon sun lit up the room, casting a thin ray of light. Beverly’s heavy eyelids peeled back lethargically. She rolled out of bed. She winced as her bare, chapped feet came into contact with the icy flooring. She got dressed in a shabby outfit, not putting any effort into deciding what to wear, and made her way to the upstairs lobby. Waiting for the rickety elevator, a tall brunette brushed past her. That’s the actress I saw a week ago leaving in the middle of the night. That’s strange. I need to see Larry immediately, Beverly said to herself.

Beverly took the public bus to Brentwood. She swiftly walked to the front porch of Mr. Goldstein’s lavish estate. She rang the doorbell persistently. Her heart pounded against her chest. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Lizzie unlocked the door and greeted her. The fragrance of lavender and peach filled her nostrils. 

“Where’s Mr. Goldstein?” She insisted.

“He’s out back. Why?” She inquired in her thick Latino accent.

Without replying she rushed through the kitchen and slammed open the patio door. He was basking in the afternoon sun.

“Are you Oliver? Oliver Kneely?” She blurted out. 

His eyes flew open and he shot up. His eyes were wide, his posture rigid, and his words harsh. “What do you want? I thought I made it clear for you to never come back here.”

“Are you pimpin’ women?” She exclaimed. 

 “N-no!” he stuttered.

He slowly paced towards her. His handsome face morphed into a demonic contortion. She never realized how much taller he was than her. His frame seemed broader than ever. Beads of sweat ran down her temple. He locked his strapping forearm around her collar. She shrieked but nothing came out. She wriggled her lean frame out of his burly arm. She managed to break free from his snug grasp. He scowled.

Beverly banged her knee against the garden hose. She limped in an attempt to escape.

“You think you can escape me?” he sneered.

He pulled her body in, locked his arm around her frail neck, and pressed. Pressed. Pressed. She made a silent prayer as she fell to the floor. The sun’s light went dim as she inhaled her last breath.