The Green caldron - University Library

October, 1958 13
as they thud against rackets, and of nocturnal insects droning as they swarm
in frantic clouds around the floodlights. Snatches of music come on an oc-
casional breeze from the other side of the park, and now and then, one hears
the swoosh of a five-year-old skimming down a slide. About eleven o'clock,
the lanterns wink "good night," and gathering up their camp chairs, children,
and tennis rackets, the tired citizens leave for home, or for a soda at the inn
on the lake.
But while all this is going on, another part of Danville wants excitement.
Red lights beckon on Green Street as the prostitutes put the finishing touches
on their makeup in anticipation of the evening's trade. The pungent odor of
cheap perfume comes wavering out the plastic-curtained windows and seems
to permeate even the pavement of the streets. Tension runs high. Raids by
the sheriff's office are frequent. Often, grim-faced M. P.'s from nearby
Chanute Air Force Base park their official cars outside the notorious shacks,
returning after a few minutes with some chagrined airman arrested on the
one block that is "off limits" to all military personnel.
And past the barns of sleeping cattle on the South Highway, still more
excitement can be found. "The Lamplighter," "Don's," "The Glass Pitcher,"
and "Alibi Inn" are filled with people seeking excitement. At the "Jungle
Club," tables and booths are brimming with people laughing loudly. Ciga-
rettes glow like miniature phosphorous torches scattered here and there in
the hazy gloom. The only sign of coolness in the stifling atmosphere is the
frosty "sweat" coating the glasses and beer bottles. The dancers contort
violently to the brassy strains of a Negro band. All this is set aside, like a
Rivera tableau, from the outside world and the highway and the sleeping
cattle.
Dawn comes, and the glaring Sunday morning sun melts over the city.
The prostitutes lock their doors and remove their stale makeup, settling
themselves into exhaustion until night returns, bringing with it a new assortment
of airmen, youths from neighboring farms and universities, and unhappy
husbands. And across the other end of town, families gather around their
breakfast tables, immersed in the Sunday paper and thoughts as mundane as
Sunday picnics and washing the family car.
On the square, the bells peal cheerfully, calling the citizens to St. Pat-
rick's and the First Presbyterian church. And some come, hardly aware that
as they pray for the sins of their fellow men, they are praying for those
sleeping on Green Street, and for those waking up with splitting headaches
after a night on the South Highway.
And Danville rests on the Illinois prairie like some strange unknown
phenomenon : by day the ideal home town, by night a city of infamy and sin.