This was also true of Double Indemnity and Serenade, and the question is: Just how unintentional was Cain’s predilection for comedy, burlesque, and humor? If you go back to the beginning of his career, almost 20 years before Postman was published, and search for his roots as a writer, you will find that Cain really began as a satirist and humorist who, at the same time, was always conscious of the tragedy forever lurking on the fringes of our lives.
When Cain graduated from Washington College at the age of 17, he had no intention of making a career of writing. He did, however, write his first published work there — a tongue-in-cheek prediction of what his college classmates might be doing 15 years in the future. It was titled “Prophecy” and is reprinted below.
Prophecy
I had been out of this country since the week after I graduated from college, being a foreign agent for Henizerling Bros., banking establishment. I had left the London office in such shape that I thought I could come back to America for a while and see how things looked, for although I have been abroad for nearly fifteen years I have always considered myself an American. I stepped out from Broad Street Station in Philadelphia and proceeded up to The Walton. I registered, and stood for a moment looking over the register. A familiar signature caught my eye — Edw. C. Crouch, Alaska. That was queer; however, I went up to see him. I found that he had been doing a big job of engineering up there and, like myself, had come down to see what the country looked like. We talked and smoked for a while and then went down to dinner. That done we went for a stroll. Going down Broadway we saw a rather portly and flashily dressed man get out of an automobile and stand for a moment looking in our direction. There was something familiar about him in spite of the bald head and portly dimensions. In a moment Etick and I both yelled “Peejee!” Then he recognized us.
“Hallo, boys. Glad to see you.”
Then followed some small talk, after which he said, “Come in and see my establishment. It’s just around the block.”
We followed him into a sort of marble palace. Above the doorway was inscribed: “J. P. Johnson — Stock Broker.”
Once inside we saw a maze of green tables, roulette wheels, and excited men and women.
“That sign is just to get around the law and make the police have an easy conscience,” said Peejee.
At one table we saw Johnny Hessey looking wild, excited and, truth to tell, rather seedy. He didn’t look very changed.
“Johnny is an awfully good sucker,” said Peejee with a chuckle. “Want to play?”
We declined after sizing up our chances and, as Peejee seemed occupied with a rather florid-looking lady, took occasion to leave.
We returned to the hotel, and going through the lobby encountered Leo Brown, who had just finished lunch. He was looking rather grey, but otherwise was the same old Leo of 1910. After a hearty greeting we sat down and began to chat. We asked what he was doing. He began to laugh and asked if we had heard about it.
“About what?” we queried.
“About the Ruskin Bright Warren Bankruptcy Case,” he replied. “I’m the state’s attorney in this village and court convenes at three o’clock.” After a little thought, he continued, “Ruskin must have taken it hard, for he sneaked away and all trace of him was lost. But old sleuth Massey located him all right, peeling tomatoes with the other Bohics in Langsdale’s cannery.”
Then we asked how Langsdale was getting along.
“Oh, pretty well. He’s quit drinking, and married. Married Reeda Stoops, and they seemed to be having a ducky-lucky time of it when I saw them last. But I understand the apple of discord entered at the same time as the kid. Reeda wanted him named Ruskin, and Corty insisted upon Anheuser Busch. It’s five years old now and as yet has no name.”
We gave our regards to Mrs. Brown (a former belle of Chestertown) and then went out to see the final game of the world championship series between the Athletics and Pittsburgh. We got a good seat and in looking over the Athletics’ outfield, saw a spidery-looking object in center field. A high fly was knocked to him, which he gathered in, gracefully throwing the runner out at home. We heard the grandstand shouting, “Jump! Jump!” Then we knew it was the Kid.
In the ninth inning, with two out, the bases empty, and the score 2 to 3 in the Athletics’ favor, the Pittsburgh second baseman drove a hard ground-ball into center; it went straight through Jump’s legs. A groan went up from the bleachers, for it looked good for a home run. But the Kid sprinted, got the ball and lined it to the catcher, who nabbed the runner in the nick of time. It was a beautiful throw and the fans nearly went crazy.
After supper we went out to the theatre. It was a vaudeville show. A man in a grotesque evening suit came out and began to sing, “Upidee-i-dee-i-da!” and then he forgot the rest. We were in a box near the stage, and when the singer hesitated I involuntarily gave him the cue. Not until afterwards did I realize that it was Jim Turner singing, and that I had been so used to prompting him in the Glee Club at college, that it had become a sort of a second nature with me. The audience thought it was part of the show and applauded wildly. A poor comedian was next, who tried in vain to amuse the audience by making himself ridiculous. Etick nudged me.
“That looks like Soc.”
And so it was! He was hissed off the stage.
The next day being Sunday we decided to remain at the hotel, but glancing at a paper, we saw where “The Great Evangelist” would preach in Philadelphia.
“Let’s go!” said Etick.
So we went to hear him, and it was Johnny Knotts. We went to him after service and congratulated him. When he saw us he dropped his clerical dignity, winked his eye and led us into a small room. There he pulled out a bottle of the “rale old shtuff,” as he termed it, and invited us to drink. We drank to his success and left him, giving spiritual comfort to a group of old women.
Etick proposed that we take the train down and see our College. Accordingly we got aboard, and after having secured our parlor-car seats we made ourselves comfortable. The conductor, an old grey-headed man with several stripes, came down the aisle and punched our tickets. It was his impressive way of talking that made us take a second look at him. It was Gibson. We shook hands, but he seemed to be in a hurry and went on.
When we got on the Chestertown Accommodation, the same old jerkwater as in our college days, we ambled slowly on toward our destination. Finally we reached a little station called Massey. Here, standing with the other loafers, was Maddox. It was unmistakably Maddox, for all the weeks’ growth of beard and seedy clothes. We got out and spoke to him. He took a rusty nail, which served as a toothpick, from his mouth and began his tale of woe. He ended up with the tragic whisper, “Say, got any tobacco?”
We each gave him a box of cigarettes and hopped aboard the train. Arriving in Chestertown we immediately proceeded to my home for the night.
Everybody seemed glad to see us, as of course they should, and after spending the evening relating our experiences, we turned in.
The next morning we went over to see the College. There were several new buildings, but Smith Hall was still the recitation hall.
In the corridor coming out of Dr. Sanborn’s room we met Miss Clough. She did not seem to be so light-hearted as in years gone by, and she had aged considerably. She did not seem especially glad to see us, but in the course of the conversation we found out that she was studying for her Ph.D. in Philosophy. We left her and went over to lunch.
Here the narrative ends, on account of the unfortunate death of Mr. Cain, who was run over by an automobile.