Bon-Bon has a minion!

Hershey the BunBun

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Bonnie O'Neal tossed her newly trimmed flaming red hair and toweled it again. Her flawless pale skin demonstrated it's disapproval of standing dripping wet in the icy cold garage near the laundry tub by raising goose-flesh over her slender arms, buttocks and shapely legs. "Hey legs, you had better look better then this at the audition," Bonnie muttered to herself through chattering teeth as she bent to towel off toes. If her Mom knew that she was running off to the city to audition as a dancer at the Stage Door Canteen, she would be more furious then she was when Bonnie chopped off her long hair. Bathing in the garage so she wouldn't wake anybody up wasn't nearly as fun and daring as she had thought it would be, but she was determined to succeed in her 'secret mission' which included not getting caught out of the house naked.



Bonnie caught her reflection in an old mirror over the laundry tub and she critically examined her figure. At 17 years old she considered herself a 'late bloomer' compared to the other girls in her class, and even though she had a pleasant figure, she was still unsure of her beauty. She cupped her bosom in her hands and shook her head in disapproval, compared to Jean Harlow's Amazonian chest, hers looked like two strawberries on an ironing board. She giggled as she pulled a plain cotton camisole undershirt over her head and stepped into a pair of cotton knickers that tied at the waist with a ribbon. Brassieres, hose, and make up were luxuries that their father just couldn't afford and the war wouldn't allow. Bonnie's only dress was a plaid pleated jumper over a simple white linen blouse that she wore only to church. Lace, ruffles, extra buttons and fancy fabrics were considered 'wasteful' and 'anti-American' during the war, at least when she twirled, the pleated skirt revealed her shapely legs. Her ensemble was complete with her best pair of darned white 'Hobo' ankle socks, brown saddle-Oxfords, a hand-me-down woolen carriage-length coat with a fake fur collar, cotton gloves, a felt hat. In her small clutch purse was her working papers, travel permits, identification, and two dollars and seventy-five cents, enough for the train, ferry and trolly fares and a sandwich at the Pepsi Service Center. There was so much to do and to see in San Francisco and she thinking about all the placed she could visit. There she went again, day dreaming; she had to stay focused.



It was 1944 and the war had continued to escalate, moral was ebbing and Bonnie had felt that she was doing nothing to help as a line worker at a large winery, picking leaves, dead bugs and twigs out of the miles and miles of grapes that cascaded by for inspection before being crushed for making wine. She considered her work there meaningless, it wasn't as if the jug wine they made there had a good reputation, nobody important ever drank California red wines, especially wines from the sticks of the Napa Valley. That's why so many wineries were out of business, she justified. She wanted to sing and dance for the servicemen, meet the movie stars who donated their time at the Canteen, see the world, meet a nice guy.



Bonnie got the job easily and was given the name Bon-Bon by the band leader who loved Bonnie's soulful contralto voice. He chose smoky, sultry songs for her to sing and she became a favorite of the local boys at the Canteen. She loved the singing and dancing, but the life of a performer was a culture shock for her. The hours were horrible, the other performers were snotty, rude, and cruel behind the curtain and many of the men in the audience were crude, often making suggestive comments, or outright filthy remarks to her, and she just was not that type of girl. She was cute, flirty and bubbly for sure, but the men treated her as if she were a sex-object, grabbing her, pinching her, putting their hands in places they shouldn't. After a month of the abuse, Bonnie left show business and returned home to her parents and her job, thankful that she had respectable work.