Let’s go back in time to 1922 to see what our girl Doris is up to.
Women were pushing barriers in economic, political, and sexual freedom. Alice Guy-Blanché was just finishing up 20 years of being the first female filmmaker. Women’s rights to birth control were just becoming a thing and the ladies of the day had only been allowed to vote for two years at this point! Two wonderful steps forward, paired with the ridiculous step backwards known as the 18th Amendment, AKA PROHIBITION!
A SOCIAL EXPLOSION was about to occur! With big band energy, the uprise of jazz, Henry Ford’s progress in developing affordable automobiles, and all the fun of sneaking around to sip on some of that sweet Satanic alcohol, shit was poppin’!
The Victorian morality of earlier generations was starting to go down the tubes. The chicas partied! They swayed those hips, and for anyone reading this that was offended by J. Lo and Shakira’s 2020 Pepsi Super Bowl LIV Halftime Show, you should probably climb back into your chastity belt and throw away the key, because we’re here to celebrate feminine sexuality, not shove it back into the Dark Ages.
By day, Doris was a filmmaker – but, by night, as with all of the most successful people of the time, she was one of the first snake charmers (female bootlegger… although she could actually charm snakes too [wink]). Her bathtub gin recipe was the most famous concoction in all of Montgomery, Alabama where she was born and raised. It was the cat’s pajamas (meaning “the absolute best” in 20s slang— we’re about to bring back a bunch of fun sayings from this era, buckle up!).
One night Doris was awarded the pleasure of stocking her local speakeasy. It was QUITE the process. She scooped up her bathtub gin, one 20 gallon bucket at a time, and hauled it sneakily down the street in the wee hours of the morning, under the cover of darkness. She didn’t mind the heavy lifting. She loved sharing her creation with scofflaws (illegal drinkers) and it made her arms look toner than any other flapper in a 100 mile radius. 42 buckets later, Doris finally was able to close her eyes and get some rest in preparation for the big night. Nothing made her more happy than getting the drunks drunk.
She arrived looking fierce AF. Triceps tiighhht. Father time (a man over the age of 30) sparked up a conversation with Doris immediately. She welcomed it. She liked his distinguished silver fox look. A businessman. She didn’t need an alarm clock (chaperone), she knew when to open her mouth and say, “The bank’s closed!” …a clever way of saying “no kissing.” The band started to jam and she was thankful that the conversation was forced to turn into dancing. Boy, did Doris love to dance!
It was at this time that other sharpshooters (good dancers that don’t hold back on spending money) started to swarm Doris. She had a natural glow about her, only enhanced by her homebrew. She didn’t hate the attention. It was fun. So what did she do? She demanded a dance off amongst the suitors. They slammed down shots– shots after shots, and requested the Charleston.
One man, likely in his early 30s, clearly also loved to dance. It was almost as if he’d been acting his entire life. He had a way of charming the people around him. He was captivating and owned his environment. Doris was over the businessman from earlier. She got really close to his ear, asking his name in a sultry tone. He wrote down Charlie C. on a cocktail napkin.
Nobody really knows what happened after this point of the evening. It’s rumored that several of the men danced themselves into oblivion, never to return. Two of the men wound up going home with trotzkies (old ladies with a moustache and chin whiskers). And Doris? Oh, she brought a man home with her that evening. Charlie. What a mistake. He refused to talk to her, as if he took a vow of silence. A few drunken scribbles on a notepad beside Doris’ bed was as far as they got. And like that, on to the next catch. Why? Because it was the 1920s and she could do whatever the fuck she wanted. THE END.