by H. T. Tsiang
In the newspaper clippings, such terms as “Sweetest charm,” “Marvelous personality,” “Exclusive intelligence,” “Psychological reincarnation,” “Technological and Crazyological Consultations” were mystically printed.
Mr. Wiseguy had a literary appearance. But he was too practical to be sentimental.
Poetry seemed to him to be no more than the yearning of a sex-starved idiot. His address book, from A to Z, was filled with names and he was not in the least hungry.
As to novels, he would say that they were the riskless adventures of an uncourageous maiden, or the companions of a lonely and wealthy wife whose husband was away at a Directors’ Meeting.
All Mr. Wiseguy needed was a five-cent telephone call, or a peep across a half-curtained window into another man’s lighted apartment where a censor-unreached chapter was coming to a climax.
However, Mr. Wiseguy was too wise to go against the tide of convention, so most of the time he carried books as conventional culture-decorations.
* * *
—
Vocationally, Mr. Wiseguy was too light for heavy work and too heavy for light work. So he practically never worked.
* * *
—
Politically, he was too stupid to be a Conservative and too wise to be a Communist. His being a Socialist was the policy of The Bureau of Exploitation. Since Mr. Thomas had become the favorite dish of Mr. Morgan and was passionately admired by General Pershing,5 Mr. Wiseguy accepted the Bureau’s suggestion wisely and executed the Bureau’s policy swelly.
VI:
IF MISS DIGGER CAME
“A ten-cent check,
I had my coffee an’
I have only a nickel
In my hand.”
Mr. Nut was worrying how he could get out of the cafeteria. He was worrying still more as to whether Miss Digger would come in, while he was a nickel short. That would be embarrassing.
* * *
—
After Miss Stubborn left the movie-house two years ago, Miss Digger wrote her many letters. She sent her many packages of chewing gum. And occasionally a pair of imitation-silk stockings.
Miss Digger wrote her that when she was her age, she had had the same bad temper and the same stubbornness. But one could not live by one’s temper and stubbornness. This was a realistic world.
—What can a girl do? (Miss Digger wrote) This world has plenty of girls. And nowadays one seldom sees a pock-marked one or one with a harelip.
One way or another, each girl can be her own type.
A fat girl can be developed in a hot-baby style. There is a hot summer, a tropic sun, but there will also be a chilling winter night.
A skinny one can be developed by nature without any laborious reducing, or starving herself to death into a slender darling, who will be good in a Palm Beach, summer, moonlight evening.
If she is neither too fat nor too skinny, God’s will made her good for the season of balmy Spring and days of gay Autumn.
Each type has its attraction and each style has its market.
For food, some like beef, some like fish, and some like pork. So in the field of women, also, there will be customers having every taste.
But the trouble is (Miss Digger wrote) that the number of customers who have Dough is rather limited. And according to the Law of Supply and Demand (which Miss Digger learned about in college and from her father’s sermon in the church) there is strenuous competition.6 And, still according to the theory of the struggle for existence, the first thing a girl needs to be conscious of is that she should get rid of her stubbornness, as part of a ceaseless effort towards adapting herself to her environment.
Miss Digger never received any reply. But she was satisfied with the fact that she had done her part in serving humanity.
* * *
—
While Miss Digger was working in the movie-house, every week she had a chance to see a free show.
Every time, after seeing a free show and before going to work in the little ticket-box, she faced the mirror in the ladies’ room for a long, long time.
She looked at herself from head to foot and made a comparison between herself and the heroine in the show.
Miss Digger did not hate herself in the least.
Miss Digger had a square face, round at the end.
She had a pair of attractive blue eyes, with eyelashes grouped and waxed together by sevens or eights. These looked like circles of needles with their points up and down.
When the eyelids closed and separated, these moving needles gave the opposite sex a mysterious feeling of “Oh Baby!”
The eyelids were outlined with dark blue, which made the eyes look deeper and the eyebrows more striking.
Miss Digger’s blond hair was permanently waved and combed back. That made her forehead large enough for four people to play a card game on.
Her lips were painted sufficiently to give a few dozen love-marks with no need of a further supply of lipstick.
Her teeth were still in the process of straightening; so they were carefully sealed to avoid their being seen.
Two would-be-insured, million-dollar legs were stockinged by a pair of brown fish-nets. And their arrow-lines shot up to whereabouts unknown.
Miss Digger examined her front.
The cut of her dress was so low that the roots of her breasts could be seen without a bending gesture. And the main parts of them were so prominent that they could give a dance-partner a tickling sensation. As the right-side one was comparatively better-developed, it showed that her boss, Mr. System, was a left-handed man.
Miss Digger turned and examined her back.
She noticed that her hips were God-given, too. She walked forward and backward a few steps. She was glad that they gave an assurance of comfort and richness of flexibility.
Miss Digger turned and faced the mirror again.
She complained a bit, because her boss, Mr. System, bit too hard and made a mark on an obvious spot.
Since she had so attractive a body and knew how to better it, some day, she would be in the same position as the heroine in the picture. “Oh, gee! That’s grand! Swell!” she said to herself, in congratulation.
* * *
—
Where there is a will, there is a way, and finally Miss Digger got her man.
Miss Digger lived with her boss, Mr. System, weekendly.
* * *
—
The result was very good.
Miss Digger would work up a pint of spit and spit it forth on his small, fat, lazy, meaningless nose!
When her heart was full of hate, she sat and watched his behind move. As he walked, the fat flesh and the wrinkling of his trousers nauseated her.
And that elephantine hunk of purplish flesh and that wave of heat from his body were killing her.
Many times, Mr. System ground his teeth and in a guttural voice told her: “If you like to look at those young brats, why don’t you go and sleep with them?”
Then he would suddenly come to her bed and expect her to turn like a dog on its back and enjoy his lustful maneuvers!
After five months of the Week-End Home Life, Miss Digger left Mr. System.
Miss Digger dug nothing out of Mr. System.
Now what could Miss Digger do?
Go to a Burlesque House to shake her breasts and move her hips?
She would not be as well-fitted for this as those who hadn’t had a college education of four years. For such training was not given in college.
Should she hurry and get this training now?
She was twenty-five years of age. Too late.
Get a job in a business office?
She was not young enough to have a successful interview. And now—depression, and so many good-looking, young girls were out of jobs!
* * *
—
So Miss Digger could be seen along Fourteenth Street late at night, getting the fellows to go to speakeasies and spend money in them. She got commissions from the owners for this. . . . She had been engaged in this occupation three months ago, when Nut had met her, and while he was working.
VII:
“WORSE THAN A CAPITALIST!”
“A ten-cent check,
I had my coffee an’
I have only a nickel
In my hand.”
It was seven o’clock.
Nut could not get out.
And Mr. Nut was hungry.
* * *
—
He was looking outside and he saw a little boy making a face at him.
“You little brat, mind your own business!” Nut muttered quickly.
A few seconds later the boy came in and sat quietly on the opposite side of Nut’s table.
“Say, Comrade, how did you like the Pioneer7 you bought from me three months ago in our Party Cafeteria?” the boy whispered, with one eye on the manager and one eye on Mr. Nut.
Now Mr. Nut remembered that he had met the boy before.
“This new issue’s good! Give me a nickel,” the boy continued.
Mr. Nut, with one eye on the manager and one eye on the boy, did not say anything.
“Say, Comrade, this capitalist is no good. He chased me away from here yesterday. I didn’t sell any here,” the kid whispered to Nut.
Mr. Nut, with one eye on the manager and one eye on the kid, said nothing.
“Comrade, don’t worry! I am ten. By the time I’m fifteen this cafeteria will be ours.8 No more capitalists. Won’t that be nice?” the boy continued.
Mr. Nut, with one eye on the manager and one eye on the boy, still said nothing.
“You know? I sold nine copies yesterday. Give me a nickel. That’ll make it ten!”
“No. I don’t want it.” Mr. Nut was getting mad. But he dared not make any noise.
“Why? I know. You aren’t a Pioneer. You don’t want this magazine! Have you children at home like me? Don’t give them too much candy. Give them this magazine! Too much candy spoils their teeth. We need teeth to bite the Capitalists. This magazine makes the brain good. A good brain makes a good revolution!”
“No, I don’t want it,” Nut answered.
“If you have no children, this magazine is good for yourself. Really. The workers here in this cafeteria get very little, Comrade Stubborn told me. Exploitation! The boss is rich. More of his stores open every day! The workers aren’t organized. They have men’s heads, but children’s brains! Buy this magazine. Only a nickel!”
Mr. Nut didn’t like the kid. But he didn’t know how to get rid of him. He just said: “Be a good boy. Next time I’ll buy one.”
“Say, Comrade, buy one now. The Revolution won’t wait. You understand?”
Mr. Nut was worrying how he could get out of the place. Looking around, he saw he knew no one. He was hungry.
“Comrade, are you a Party member? What Unit?” the kid continued.
“Stop Comrading me. I am a Mister. Go away; I don’t want to buy anything!” Nut was getting mad.
“We call Roosevelt ‘Mister’, Norman Thomas ‘Mister’, Trotsky ‘Mister’, and Lovestone ‘Mister.’9 I call you, Comrade. I am good to you. Give me a nickel. Buy a copy!”
Mr. Nut was mad. He didn’t know how to answer the kid. He didn’t know how to chase the kid away. He dared not raise his voice, for he was afraid of the manager. He had only one nickel for a ten-cent check. He was mad. He was mad as anything.
“Say, I only want your nickel,” the kid said in a tone of surprise. “I don’t want your life. I’ll give you the magazine. You see, I know you.”
“I have no change. You understand?”
“Haven’t you a dollar bill? I can change it for you.”
“No. I lost my purse.”
“What! Where? Too bad. But you have a nickel?”
“I have only one nickel.”
“If you don’t live very far, give me your nickel and walk home. It’s good exercise. Outside, fresh air. In demonstrations, I’ve walked many blocks.”
Mr. Nut thought that this Russian Brat was more of a pest than a fellow who had sold him a copy of China Red.10
Nut was angry. But he was afraid of the manager and dared not raise his voice. So he just whispered and told his story. It was embarrassing.
“But I have a ten-cent check,” he said to the boy.
“That’s all right. You can’t get out, anyhow. You call up your friends and ask them to send you some money, right now. Then you might find your purse home, maybe, or when you get your next pay, you can give back the money. I must go now, I can’t wait. Give me the nickel. Here is the magazine! O.K?”
Mr. Nut was mad. He thought that Communists were more greedy than the so-called capitalists. And even this little Russian Brat knew how to suck his last nickel away, while he, Mr. Nut, was in such a condition.
Mr. Nut was mad. However he dared not become too mad. So he had to tell the kid the real story:
“I just lied, when I told you I lost my purse. I’m out of work for three months. I’ve no one I can borrow money from. I’ve a ten-cent check and a nickel in my pocket. I’m stuck here. So, my little Mister, I’ve told you everything. Now go away. I won’t and can’t buy your magazine. Be a good boy and go!”
“I Comrade you, don’t I? You shouldn’t Mister me. Why? So you’re unemployed? Join the Unemployed Council!11 Fight for Unemployment Insurance! Get Unemployed Relief! Why!—This is a rich country!”
“All right. Now go away. Be a good boy,” said Nut.
No, Mr. Nut would not join the Unemployed Council. That was Red. Russian Stuff! But Mr. Nut had to lie, so he could get rid of that Russian Brat. That was the second time that Nut had lied.
The kid didn’t move. And he still sat there.
Mr. Nut was mad, mad as anything.
“Say, what’s the matter now?” Nut asked angrily.
“Wait a minute. I haven’t an application card of the Unemployed Council, but I’ve got to have your name and address. Say, do you know where the Unemployed Council is?” asked the kid.
Mr. Nut was mad, mad as anything. He didn’t know the address of the Unemployed Council. And he didn’t want to know it. But he didn’t know how to get rid of the brat. So he had to lie again: “I know where it is! I know! Go away!”
“Give me your address, anyhow,” said the kid.
“Mr. Nut, General Delivery, N. Y. City,” Nut wrote down.
The kid took the paper Nut handed him. But he still sat there with his little hand scratching his hair, as if he were thinking.
And he finally told Mr. Nut: “I can help you.”
“I don’t take money from a kid. Now go!”
“No, I’m not giving you a nickel. This is magazine money. I have to turn it into my unit. But my father bought me a copy of the magazine. I’ve read it. I’ll give you my copy. You sell it. You make a nickel. You pay the check. But watch the manager. If you have the time, look over the magazine before you sell it. It’s good.”
Mr. Nut would not have sold that copy even for a hundred dollars. But that Russian Brat was so good, and had wasted so much time on him. So Mr. Nut held his nickel in his hand and told the Russian brat: “Here is my nickel! A ten-cent check. A nickel in my pocket—I’m in Hell. Ten-cent check, nothing in my pocket. That isn’t any worse. Nut’s in Hell anyhow. A nickel doesn’t make any difference to me.”
“No, I won’t take your last nickel. My mother told me not to do such a thing.”
“No. I won’t take a copy for nothing!”
“No, I won’t take your last nickel.”
“No, I won’t take something for nothing.�
�� Mr. Nut put the nickel in the kid’s pocket and pushed him away.
The kid threw the nickel back to the table, on top of the magazine, and ran away.
“Mr. Cashier:” the kid said, “I didn’t buy anything; here is the check!”
* * *
—
The Russian Brat was happy. He had got a member for the Unemployed Council.
VIII:
WITH ONE GLASS OF WATER
“A ten-cent check,
I had my coffee an’
I have only a nickel
In my hand.”
About nine o’clock, a fellow was passing outside with a cane hanging on his left arm, gloves in his left hand. His derby was tilted on his head. His right hand was making a sound with its fingers. All this gave him a perfect gaiety; a leisurely, gentlemanly grandeur.
Yes, it was Mr. Wiseguy.
Mr. Nut lifted high the magazine which the boy had left for him.
This brought no result.
Then Nut went to the front and tapped at the window.
Wiseguy saw him, pushed the revolving door, took a check and joined Mr. Nut.
“How do you do, my dear friend Mr. Nut?” Mr. Wiseguy smiled with his face-muscles lifted and a mouth-closed smile when he saluted Mr. Nut. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for ages, old fellow. Are you working? Are you making money? How is the world treating you?”
Nut went to his seat and made a gesture to ask Mr. Wiseguy to sit on the other side of the table.
“I’d like to face the outside. Would you mind if I sat beside you?” said Mr. Wiseguy.
“Why not? Sure,” said Mr. Nut. He knew that Mr. Wiseguy wanted to look at the girls.
Everything was settled.
Mr. Nut moved his lips a little and said nothing.