June 10, 1914

After two days, I know the layout. The café is for the walk-in traffic, cowboys, and the railroad crew. The upstairs entertains more established and respectable patrons. Gentlemen are rarely seen on the back stairway in the daylight. Nellie, my first waitress runs the café with young Fran. Their job is to keep the clientele happy and drinking. The Spaniard, Jose primarily cooks. Freddie helps, but his main task is keeping the place orderly. As an example, last night a fellow blew cigar smoke into Fran’s mouth as she attempted to kiss him. A total surprise for her, she coughed and coughed. Tears ran from her eyes filled with hate. That rotter’s abusive joy rankled me, and I stood to defend her, “She’s just a girl you cad!”

He whipped his pistol out and pointed it at my nose, “Is it worth dying for blondie?”

Freddie leapt up, holding a wooden bat, and shouted, “Put it away, this is a classy joint.”

“Dry up.”

“Put it away, JJ,” He shouted again and pushed the Colt 45 down slowly from my face.

Madame appeared and snarled, “If you do it again in my place, you’ll wake up with a serving fork twisted several times in your throat.” Peace was restored.

I digressed, there is an inside stairway to a room on the second floor for men with lust and more money to spend. That room has another door, which is usually locked, but opens to the lavishly decorated parlor, bar and sitting area of the second story. More rooms are discretely located around the parlor. The furniture and tall green plants are arranged in such a way to prevent those sitting from seeing who is going in and out of the rooms. It can be seen but apparently bad form to look.

Madame Ollie rules the upstairs, charms clients and is all business. She always wears a hat, indoors and out. They usually have assorted colored feathers, though predominately black. Occasionally, she sports a modern, smart one. The identical twins, Syl and Phyl are difficult to distinguish. I believe they continually switch their names as a lark. Edith is a singer, older and refined. Flo acts crazy most of the time. Ollie’s girls have class. The others working from shanties are like cooks dressed for a carnival.

The Madame considers her business much like a milliner or dress maker. She believes there is less prejudice of prostitution in a small town compared to contending with the zeal of the righteous in larger municipalities. She keeps a harem of fast women and treats them much like schoolgirls. Weekly, she takes them in a brake carriage to a park to run races, play field hockey and enjoy childish games. They kiss her with thanks in return and she keeps the jealous rivalry at a slow simmer. The trips down Lincoln Avenue are a form of advertising because the men folk see the gaily dressed women and it is a reminder of the fun available in Brooklyn.

Gentleman wink and say, “I’ll meet you after dinner at Ollie’s.”  They smoke cigars, drink liquor, and discuss politics. Madame nightly collects information, gossip, and local opinion. She is a powerful lobbyist and influences government simply by working in the shadows. The elite regulars arrive around 9:30 and depart for home and family at 11:00.

This morning I arranged my walking attire in the glass and stepped out for a stroll in Brooklyn. I had not reached twenty steps when svelte Nellie rushed out the café door and walked directly to me saying, “He promenades the coterie in his bowler hat, silver tip cane and camera.”

“I am a tenant,” I retorted.

“But are you a member of this select circle of society?”

“I chose to be here.”

“You wished to be an inmate of Brooklyn?”

“It just turned out that way.”

“I sat on your lap and you waved me away,” she snapped, arms akimbo and placed firmly on her hips.

“With a smile,” I answered with another one and a wink.

She just looked at me and then gazed at the river in mock fury.

“I think you are being a bit hard on me. I truly enjoy your company.” Then I added, “I have my reasons.”

“The loser of the debate resorts to slander.”

“Socrates,” I mentioned.

She looked at me seriously and pleaded, “Don’t tell anyone I said that. The money improves when I act illiterate.” She turned and started walking down the street with me. I admired her caramel highlighted skin in the morning sun. I mentioned, “You are a woman with hidden knowledge and confidence.”

“Soit silencieux.” In front of the café she asked, “When are you going to take naked pictures of me?”

“Whenever you wish.”

Her coquettish smile flowed over me. “We’ll have to talk about that.” Then Nellie stepped through the door and disappeared.

It seemed like a good, unique thing. I was tired of photographing quaking aspens, wildflowers, and the river.