by H. T. Tsiang
The two cups of black coffee not only made Wiseguy hungry for doughnuts, but gave him a keen appetite for Miss Digger.
He began to kiss her—to kiss her passionately.
Miss Digger knew what that meant. Here was another attempt at business.
She took off her dress and put on her pajamas. She put some powder and perfume on her face and body so as to increase the desire of a would-be-customer.
* * *
—
Mr. Wiseguy grew hungry.
“You mean you want to see me?” asked Miss Digger, as her eyeballs shifted to the corner of her eyes. “May I have your order? Nothing is so small as not to interest me. Nothing is too large for me to handle.” And she pressed her body closer and harder to Wiseguy.
Wiseguy suddenly became business-conscious and pretended to be dumb. He answered: “Am I not seeing you now?”
* * *
—
Mr. Wiseguy moved his chair back a little. Digger sat on a chair too, for she thought if she showed too much enthusiasm, Wiseguy might ask her to pay him.
* * *
—
While Miss Digger meditated, Wiseguy thought that this girl must be the Digger of Diggers.
When Miss Digger saw Wiseguy contemplating her, she loosened her pajamas in front to advertise her breasts a little more, and lifted the lower part of her pajamas to give her thighs a little more publicity.
Mr. Wiseguy, tempted by her charms, left his chair, and went over to her and began to kiss her again.
“It pays to advertise!” Digger thought, “Publicity means something!”
“Don’t be so business-like! I’m your manager,” said Wiseguy, beggingly.
“If I can’t dig money from my manager, how can I dig it from others? And how are you going to get your commission from me?” Miss Digger asked.
Wiseguy thought! . . .
“It sounds right. But she is too much of a gold-digger anyhow.” He hesitated for a while. But he kissed Digger again.
* * *
—
“If you don’t give your order now, I’m going to hand you a bill charging you for those kisses,” the lady said.
Wiseguy made up his mind and handed her three dollars.
“Just a minute. What do you think I am? Me—a champion of rich men’s night clubs? Me—only three dollars? Make it snappy, now. Hand me a five-dollar bill. The higher my prices, the more commission you, as my manager, will get.” While Digger was saying this, she made herself ready.
Wiseguy thought of his future commissions, so he didn’t bargain.
Digger took his bill and stuck it into her stocking.
On the one hand, Wiseguy was happy, for he was going to get something. On the other hand, he was mad, for Digger was going to take money from her manager!
Miss Digger fixed the window-shade and made sure that it would not spy for Mr. Sumner.
Mr. Wiseguy tried to turn the electric light on.
“It doesn’t work, please light the candle!”
Wiseguy lighted the candle.
Miss Digger called:
“Time is money, hurry up.”
Wiseguy answered:
“I am going to make you lose money!”
Miss Digger looked at Wiseguy.
Miss Digger looked at the candle.
“What, depression? End of the Roman Empire?” Miss Digger asked surprisedly.
Wiseguy opened a little tin-box and had a few pills of the New Deal.
Miss Digger looked at Wiseguy.
Miss Digger looked at the candle.
Growing,
Growing,
Grown.
* * *
—
“Time is money!” Miss Digger called again.
“I thought you were a liberal!” said Wiseguy reprovingly.
“I made two hundred and fifty dollars, twelve and a half cents just for one night. I’m a conservative now,” answered Miss Digger.
“Look at me! I made as much money as you, but I’m still a Socialist.”
* * *
—
Miss Digger’s breath was short.
Miss Digger’s forehead was perspiring.
Miss Digger’s cheeks were hot.
Miss Digger’s eyes were half-closed and half-open.
Miss Digger’s eyeballs were watering.
* * *
—
Mr. Wisguy kissed her lips.
Mr. Wiseguy kissed her breasts.
Mr. Wiseguy kissed her every part.
Kissing and kissing; but no further.
Mr. Wiseguy played with her lips.
Mr. Wiseguy played with her breasts.
Mr. Wiseguy played with her every part.
Playing and playing; but no further.
* * *
—
Miss Digger became mad and nervous. She almost cursed. “This is the first time in my life this has happened. You’re gonna lose your gal!” she angrily exclaimed to Wiseguy.
Wiseguy smiled sweetly and told her: “That was an introduction. Now is the time.”
* * *
—
Miss Digger raised her head.
Miss Digger looked at Wiseguy.
Miss Digger looked at the candle.
It was full of enthusiasm.
Flaming as Hitler.
* * *
—
Half-past eleven.
The Right Honorable Mr. Wiseguy and Lady Digger married.
* * *
—
The electric lamp with its wire connected to the reading lamp on the bed, swayed—first in waltz rhythm, then in a fox-trot, then in a tango, and finally in the rhythm of the St. Louis Blues.
The bird was inspired by the rhythm and noticed that the snow was over and that spring was coming.
A bull-dog was lying on the carpet. It watched jealously.
The cat was suspicious. It suspected that another cat had stolen food from its bowl.
* * *
—
Ten minutes and ten seconds past twelve.
The Right Honorable Wiseguy and Lady Digger “Reno’d.”10
* * *
—
“Time is money!” Miss Digger lost money
“Time is money!” Mr. Wiseguy made money.
XXVIII:
HE LOOKED LIKE A MAN
“Try my pill—New Deal!
Hello,
Everybody:
How do you feel?”
Half past two.
* * *
—
Wiseguy went to the Rich Men’s Club to attend the “Conference for Saving Capitalism,” after he left Miss Digger’s apartment.
* * *
—
He first met Mr. Ratsky.
* * *
—
And then, in walked Mr. System, who looked just like a man.
* * *
—
Mr. Ratsky and Mr. Wiseguy stood up.
* * *
—
“Mr. Wiseguy,” said Mr. System, “I heard that you were a Socialist. Now tell me: do I look like the funny pictures of wealthy men people see in your labor paper? I agree some capitalists are bad. But some are good. Sometimes they are bad. Sometimes they are good. Some capitalists are fat. Some are skinny—so, you see how ridiculous are those so-called labor papers. What do you say, Fellow-worker, Comrade—Mr. Wiseguy?”
“Yes, your honor, you heard correctly. It is true that I am a Socialist. But,” explained Mr. Wiseguy, “I must impress upon you, Mr. System, the fact that Socialists and Communists are very, very different.”
* * *
—
“They are
now yelling ‘United Front’11—and I think you had better be practical and take off that pink coat altogether,” said Mr. System.
“Are you telling me? I am no Rank and File, I am a wiseguy,” answered Mr. Wiseguy.
* * *
—
The waiter brought in some black coffee for Mr. Wiseguy and some whiskey for Ratsky. The waiter stood ready to take the order of Mr. System.
“Please dismiss the waiter and lock the door!” Mr. System whispered to Mr. Ratsky. “That waiter might be a Russian O.G.P.U.”12
* * *
—
They were all seated now. They got down to business. And the Conference for Saving Capitalism began.
* * *
—
“Mr. System, thanks for your invitation. What service might I render to you?” Mr. Wiseguy asked. He used his Oxford accent, carefully!
“Cut that out!” Mr. System was annoyed and excited. “I hate that English accent. Great Britain is our enemy!”
“I thought our enemy was Russia,” remarked Mr. Wiseguy.
“Russia is an outside enemy. England is an inside enemy. Since the World War, England has lost her international throne in the financial world. But she has refused to accept our leadership and is playing politics in Europe in order to regain her power. Therefore, we cannot attack Russia right away.”
* * *
—
“I think you need some French wine to soothe you,” said Mr. Ratsky. “It is right in this room; I can get it for you without disturbing the waiter.”
“Don’t mention the French to me,” exclaimed Mr. System. “I hate them. You know, they have half of the world’s gold.13 They have the strongest army in the world. They can’t send their army across the Atlantic to attack us, but they threaten our pal Mussolini.14 Do you understand me?”
* * *
—
“Just a minute, let me offer you some Japanese sake. It’s good stuff.” Mr. Wiseguy took out a flask from his left hip-pocket.
* * *
—
“I hate the Japs. Damn the Japs. They are sneaky, tricky and goddam double-crossers! They promised when they got to Manchuria15 they’d be satisfied and go ahead and attack Russia. That was why we asked our State Department to protest and insist on the Open Door Policy,16 and at the same time we secretly sold munitions to the Japanese, and also asked the Chinese Nationalists to make concessions. But do you know what those Japs did? Once they got Manchuria they started marching southward. They were afraid of those Russians, that’s why. And they are now increasing their navy, they are fortifying the islands in the Pacific Ocean. Some day there’ll be some hard fighting in the Far East.”
* * *
—
“Since you are so much concerned with the Chinese,” said Mr. Wiseguy, “let me offer you some Chinese rice-wine fresh from Chinatown.” Mr. Wiseguy put back the first flask and took out another from his right hip-pocket.
“Say! Don’t mention the Chinese. I am disgusted with them. I am nervous about them. Those Chinese Nationalists are useless. In outside matters, they cannot beat back the Japs, and within China, the Reds are becoming stronger and stronger. You know, one-fourth of the Chinese population is now under Communist control. One-sixth of the whole Chinese territory has become Red. Those Nationalists are losing ground every day. I really can’t tell what things will be like in China in the time to come. Now it is ‘China Red’. In times to come, there will be a Red China. What is happening over there is a bad example for India! The Philippines! Bad! Bad!—No, Sir, I don’t want any Chinese stuff.”
* * *
—
“But you must have something,” said Mr. Ratsky plaintively.
“I want nothing but a Havana cigar. Latin America is safe—at least for the time being.”
* * *
—
“What do you want from me?” inquired Mr. Wiseguy.
“Work out a plan! An Epic plan!”
“I’ll do my best,” said Mr. Wiseguy solemnly. He then rose and put on his overcoat.
* * *
—
“Mr. System,” whispered Mr. Wiseguy rapidly, “just a minute, now. I want to ask you something in private before we separate. I have two hundred and fifty dollars, twelve and a half cents, and I need two hundred and fifty dollars more in order to buy typewriter paper on which to type my thesis. Unfortunately, my bank is closed. So may I have the privilege of being trusted by you.” While Mr. Wiseguy whispered, he held all his commission money of the night before in his hand and showed it to his financial friend, as collateral.
“Beg your pardon! Here is my check,” Mr. System wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
The meeting was adjourned. It was half past three.
In twelve hours Mr. Wiseguy had made five hundred dollars, twelve and a half cents. Who said there was a depression?
* * *
—
Mr. Wiseguy walked along Fifth Avenue. As he walked he whistled with an Epic air.
XXIX:
LUCKY, HOWEVER
“Try my pill—New Deal!
Hello,
Everybody:
How do you feel?”
Stubborn tried to sleep. But she couldn’t.
If she had tried hard, she could have slept.
Yes, she did. But when she was about to sleep, the moaning of her sick mother awoke her.
Her mother knew that Stubborn needed rest and she tried not to moan.
But the apologizing refrain of the father disturbed her. The father thought that as he was the head of the family, it was his duty to see that his sick wife and young daughter were sheltered. And now the father had to apologize!
The mother, besides being physically sick, was sick in mind, too. She thought: What right have I to become sick? To become sick in a time of depression? For she felt that the few dollars her daughter made, though not enough to pay the rent for the family of three, was enough to take care of Stubborn herself. Stubborn could have, on what she earned, a small furnished room and probably enough to eat. But now Stubborn spent all her income for the food of the three. And she had been thrown into the street along with her father and mother and how long they could stay in this place no one knew. The thought of all this made the mother sick in mind. And the mother had to murmur.
Stubborn felt somewhat guilty, too. Because she had worn a little button with Lenin’s picture17 on it, her father and mother had not received Home Relief.18 The woman who had come to the house to investigate had noticed her wearing it. At that time the investigator had not said that the family would not get relief, but she had remarked sarcastically that if this family liked Lenin so much why didn’t they go to Russia?
As the three moaned, apologized, complained, Stubborn could not sleep.
Finally Stubborn slept.
She slept from twelve to half past one.
Because she heard her mother’s moaning, she awoke.
Stubborn thought that the landlord was coming and that there would be another attempt at an eviction of her family.
No. There was no landlord. There was no City Marshal.
The moaning of her mother was more terrible than the presence of the landlord and the presence of the City Marshal.
The eyes of Stubborn’s mother were staring upward. She was silent. Foam was coming out of her mouth. She was shaking. She was trembling. She was unconscious.
At length she murmured faintly:
“The landlord has killed me!”
“Mother, you must be quiet!” Stubborn approached her mother’s bedside and tried to comfort her.
Her mother was quiet now. She was so quiet it made Stubborn hysterical. Stubborn felt her mother’s wrist. There was no pulse. It was motionless.
Dead.
The ev
iction, the snow, the cold weather and the excitement had killed her.
* * *
—
Evictions occurred every day. Stubborn’s mother was just one victim.
To the landlord and to others, it was just one more woman dead.
To Stubborn, this dead woman was her mother.
Because the dead woman was the mother of Stubborn and Stubborn had only one mother, she wept.
Since tears were the only property she had and she could use them freely, she wept and wept without stopping.
* * *
—
She stopped when her father asked her to stop.
But because of her father’s tears, her own tears came again and came faster.
* * *
—
Her father was a man and a man was supposed to be less sentimental, so he told his daughter that weeping was of no use and that she should go out and tell the Block Committee what had happened and see what the Committee would do.
* * *
—
Stubborn went to the Block Committee of the Unemployed Council.
The Block Committee sent a comrade back with her.
When they reached Stubborn’s home, the door could not be opened. Stubborn and the comrade knocked and knocked, but there was no answer.
* * *
—
Stubborn used her key.