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The crowds at the Temple Theatre in Rochester, New York were easy enough to please.

She soaked up the applause, arms out like an angel, and wearing a grin so wide it showed off the new bridgework on her back teeth.

Whenever you needed a solid four curtain calls, you always wheeled out the old Maggie Taylor Waitress Act.

The punchlines always landed smack like belly flops, and the tunes had more hooks than a butcher's window.

The curtain came down for the third time and she glanced across to Henry, the stage manager,

who strained gently towards the sound of the applause beyond.

One more curtain call and he'd owe her a dollar.

You chewed anxiously on the smoldering cigar, clamped back there between his molars, and then groaned in defeat as the curtain rose again.

She flashed him a wink, and then raised the sides of the grin one more time.

She flung a kiss from her lips to the stalls, then up past the eerie stratosphere of tobacco fumes to the dress circle.

Two to the nickel-seaters in the rafters pour souls.

Respectful boughs to the china dolls in the boxes, and before she knew it, the curtain had fallen with a swish to her toes.

She grinned and pinched at the fingers of her gloves as she strode to the wings.

...