A Hotel Room, Spiked lemonade, and Harry Belafonte

The gusty wind blew the hat off my head onto Wabash Avenue. I stared at it as it flew up in the air, then landed smack in the middle of the oncoming traffic. I stood helpless for a moment as the cars rolled over and over it.

Damn! I liked that hat! Now I had to walk hatless for four blocks in a Chicago snowstorm.

I was a Muriel Abbot dancer at the Palmer House, Chicago’s legendary hotel. We were required to live there while performing nightly in the elegant Empire Room. For me, living at the hotel was both an honor and joy. Sometimes during the day, I would stroll through the opulent lobby, admiring the Tiffany chandeliers, the Italian marble, and the majestic ceiling filled with exotic mosaics. I felt as if I was living in a turn-of-the-century mansion.

On the contrary, the hotel’s only backstage dressing room was a teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy, dishwater-gray cubicle that we had to share with the star of the show. There was no place to sit or put on make-up. We were lucky if we had enough air to breathe.

One night, I was suffering from a horrible cold, no doubt the result of walking in the snowstorm without my beloved hat. I was sniffling and wheezing and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. The dashing Harry Belafonte was the star that month. While we stood in line waiting to go on, he looked at me and in that incredible voice he crooned, “Oh, honey, it looks like you’ve got yourself a real doozy of a cold.” He paused, then added.” If you’d like, after the show, I’ll come up to your room. I have something that I think will make you feel much better.”

Well, my poor little heart started throbbing, and I thought it was going to pop right out of my sequined bodice! My face felt feverishly hot. Harry Belafonte was coming up to my room, and he was going to make me feel better! Yikes! I think I muttered something as the music started, and I stumbled out onto the dance floor in a daze.

After the show, I hurried to my room, and about 15 minutes later there was a knock at the door. I panicked. “What if it really was Harry Belafonte? Bizarre thoughts raced through my head: “Does he like me?” “What does he want?” “What’s going to happen?” Have I gone insane?”  I dragged myself to the door and opened it. And there, standing in the doorway, was Harry. “Get in bed,” I heard him say. Now I was feeling completely bonkers, and about to faint! As I crawled in bed he tucked three blankets over me, handed me a thermos of hot lemonade and rum and said. “Drink all of this and do not get out of bed until morning, no matter how sweaty you get. I promise you; you’ll feel better in the morning! Sleep well.”

And then he left. And I lay there in shock!

Next morning my heartbeat was normal, the thermos was empty, and my cold and fever were gone. Hallelujah!!!! 

Now, when I catch a cold. I think back fondly to those amazing days when I was a dancer at The Palmer House and had a “one nighter” with Harry Belafonte.