You rob my pocket of silver and gold
WITNESSES OF MYSTERY IN SLUSH PROBE
Philadelphian Beaten to Death in His Room
the men who the workers had been told a short year before were fighting their battle for democracy upon the bloodstained fields of France and whom they had been urged to support by giving the last of their strength to the work of production — these men were coming to teach them democracy and with them came their instruments of murder, their automatic rifles, their machineguns, their cannon that could clear a street two miles long in a few minutes and the helmets that the workers of Gary had produced
Yes we have no bananas
We have no bananas today
TRACTION RING KILLS BUS BILL
Drunken Troops in Skirts Dance as Houses Burn
GIRL SUICIDE WAS FRIEND OF OLIVE THOMAS
Kills Self Despite Wife Who Goes Mad
SEEKS FACTS OF HUNT FOR CASH IN THE EAST
the business consists in large part of financing manufacturers and merchants by purchasing evidences of indebtedness arising from the sale of a large variety of naturally marketed products such as automobiles, electrical appliances, machinery
Charley Anderson
“Misser Andson Misser Andson, telegram for Misser Andson.” Charley held out his hand for the telegram, and standing in the swaying aisle read the strips of letters pasted on the paper: DOWN WITH FLU WIRE ME ADDRESS SEE YOU NEXT WEEK JOE. “A hell of a note,” he kept saying to himself as he wormed his way back to his seat past women closing up their bags, a greyhaired man getting into his overcoat, the porter loaded with suitcases. “A hell of a note.” The train was already slowing down for the Grand Central.
It was quiet on the grey underground platform when he stepped out of the stuffy pullman and took his bag from the porter, lonely-looking. He walked up the incline swinging his heavy suitcase. The train had given him a headache. The station was so big it didn’t have the crowded look he’d remembered New York had. Through the thick glass of the huge arched windows he could see rain streaking the buildings opposite. Roaming round the station, not knowing which way to go, he found himself looking in the window of a lunchroom.
He went in and sat down. The waitress was a little dark sourfaced girl with rings under her eyes. It was a muggy sort of day, the smell of soap from the dishwashing and of hot grease from the kitchen hung in streaks in the air. When the waitress leaned over to set the place for him he got a whiff of damp underclothes and armpits and talcumpowder. He looked up at her and tried to get a smile out of her. When she turned to go get him some tomatosoup he watched her square bottom moving back and forth under her black dress. There was something heavy and lecherous about the rainy eastern day.
He spooned soup into his mouth without tasting it. Before he’d finished he got up and went to the phonebooth. He didn’t have to look up her number. Waiting for the call he was so nervous the sweat ran down behind his ears. When a woman’s voice answered, his own voice dried up way down in his throat. Finally he got it out: “I want to speak to Miss Humphries, please… Tell her it’s Charley Anderson… Lieutenant Anderson.” He was still trying to clear his throat when her voice came in an intimate caressing singsong. Of course she remembered him, her voice said, too sweet of him to call her up, of course they must see each other all the time, how thrilling, she’d just love to, but she was going out of town for the weekend, yes, a long weekend. But wouldn’t he call her up next week, no, towards the end of the week? She’d just adore to see him.
When he went back to his table the waitress was fussing around it. “Didn’t you like your soup?” she asked him. “Check… Had to make some phonecalls.” “Oh, phonecalls,” she said in a kidding voice. This time it was the waitress who was trying to get a smile out of him. “Let’s have a piece of pie and a cup of coffee,” he said, keeping his eyes on the billoffare. “They got lovely lemonmeringue pie,” the waitress said with a kind of sigh that made him laugh. He looked up at her laughing feeling horny and outafterit again: “All right, sweetheart, make it lemonmeringue.”
When he’d eaten the pie he paid his check and went back into the phonebooth. Some woman had been in there leaving a strong reek of perfume. He called up the Century Club to see if Ollie Taylor was in town. They said he was in Europe; then he called up the Johnsons; they were the only people left he knew. Eveline Johnson’s voice had a deep muffled sound over the phone. When he told her his name she laughed and said, “Why, of course we’d love to see you. Come down to dinner tonight; we’ll introduce you to the new baby.”
When he got out of the subway at Astor Place it wasn’t time to go to dinner yet. He asked the newsvendor which way Fifth Avenue was and walked up and down the quiet redbrick blocks. He felt stuffy from the movie he’d killed the afternoon in. When he looked at his watch it was only halfpast six. He wasn’t invited to the Johnsons’ till seven. He’d already passed the house three times when he decided to go up the steps. Their names were scrawled out, Paul Johnson — Eveline Hutchins, on a card above the bell. He rang the bell and stood fidgeting with his necktie while he waited. Nobody answered. He was wondering if he ought to ring again when Paul Johnson came briskly down the street from Fifth Avenue with his hat on the back of his head, whistling as he walked. “Why, hello, Anderson, where did you come from?” he asked in an embarrassed voice. He had several bags of groceries that he had to pile on his left arm before he could shake hands. “Guess I ought to congratulate you,” said Charley. Paul looked at him blankly for a moment; then he blushed. “Of course… the son and heir… Oh, well, it’s a hostage to fortune, that’s what they say…”
Paul let him into a large bare oldfashioned room with flowing purple curtains in the windows. “Just sit down for a minute. I’ll see what Eveline’s up to.” He pointed to a horsehair sofa and went through the sliding doors into a back room.
He came back immediately carefully pulling the door to behind him. “Why, that’s great. Eveline says you’re goin’ to have supper with us. She said you just came back from out there. How’d things seem out there? I wouldn’t go back if they paid me now. New York’s a great life if you don’t weaken… Here, I’ll show you where you can clean up… Eveline’s invited a whole mess of people to supper. I’ll have to run around to the butcher’s… Want to wash up?”
The bathroom was steamy and smelt of bathsalts. Somebody had just taken a bath there. Babyclothes hung to dry over the tub. A red douchebag hung behind the door and over it a yellow lace negligee of some kind. It made Charley feel funny to be in there. When he’d dried his hands he sniffed them, and the perfume of the soap filled his head.
When he came out of the door he found Mrs. Johnson leaning against the white marble mantel with a yellowbacked French novel in her hand. She had on a long lacy gown with puff sleeves and wore tortoiseshell readingglasses. She took off the glasses and tucked them into the book and stood holding out her hand.
“I’m so glad you could come. I don’t go out much yet, so I don’t get to see anybody unless they come to see me.”
“Mighty nice of you to ask me. I been out in the sticks. I tell you it makes you feel good to see folks from the other side… This is the nearest thing to Paree I’ve seen for some time.”
She laughed; he remembered her laugh from the boat. The way he felt like kissing her made him fidgety. He lit a cigarette.
“Do you mind not smoking? For some reason tobaccosmoke makes me feel sick ever since before I had the baby, so I don’t let anybody smoke. Isn’t it horrid of me?”