Songs win wars! Kaiser Bill—Beware! America is singing! We sing in camp—we sing on ships—we sing at home—”community sings”—morning, noon, and night. Keep it up, America—it’s the road to Berlin.
Here are two new hits. Learn ’em, play ’em, sing ’em! Get the cheero, fun-loving, fuU-of-pep Yankee spirit woven into every note and every word.
“K-K-K-Katy”—Stammering Song
Fun is the doughboy’s pal—that’s why he wrote and sings “K-K-K-Katy”—the song of songs, with a zippy, catchy melody and those beautifully simple words stammered by Katy’s tongue-tied beau. “K-K-K-Katy” is the song of the boys—why shouldn’t it make a tremendous hit in every theater, eat-palace, and home in Yankeeland! Try it out now!
“If He Can Fight Like He Can Love, Good Night, Germany!”
A rollicking, happy Yankee melody and clever, honest-to-goodness words—no wonder it’s sweeping the land! Only a deaf man could keep his feet and lips quiet when the band plays and the singer sings this great hit.
These two song hits are published in our new approved Patriotic-War-size that is more convenient for you and saves paper for Uncle Sam.
I don’t see how they’re gonna do it.
Leave the sick ones behind.
But that’s everybody.
Not nearly. Not if you only count the really sick ones.
Like Riley?
Like Riley. Leave Riley behind. But take Piker, for instance.
He don’t look so hot.
Sure, but he’ll have plenty of time to get better on board.
I suppose.
Or maybe you think we oughter send a telegram to France: Sorry boys. Stop. Can’t help with those Gerries. Stop. Feeling under the weather.
Course not.
Well then?
I’m just saying we’re not exactly in top form.
But Sergeant Husker’ll straighten all that out. He can tell a faker for sure. Some of those fellas ain’t nearly as sick as they let on—What? What’d I say that’s so funny?
Sergeant Husker checked into infirmary this morning.
That’s a bunch of hokey! I saw him just last night!
Well, visit him yourself if you don’t believe me. When I saw him this morning he was pale as a sheet and shaking like a shaved dog.
Of all the rotten luck. What’re we gonna do?
Sprinkle sulfur in your shoes.
Honest?
It’s kept me pretty near out of it so far.
I’ll be darned. Sulfur, huh?
It’s a natural repellent. Goes back to Indian times.
Wish you’d’ve told that to Sergeant Husker.
I did. I guess he just didn’t use enough.
LAWNVIEW SENIOR COMPLEX LETS YOU BE “RIGHT IN THE THICK OF IT!!”™
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Our cafeteria and social rooms on the ground floor provide our Seniors with places to mix and mingle, creating the kind of unique community that can make the “golden years” so special. Lawnview’s staff goes that extra mile to provide our Seniors with unique and memorable events such as Sunday Sing-Along, Arts and Crafts, Sadie Hawkins Day, and much much more!
Don’t Delay! Visit Lawnview Today and See How You Too Can Be “Right in the Thick of It!!”™
THE QDISPATCH
VOLUME 10, ISSUE 6 NOVEMBER 1992
QD and Me:
A Sodaman’s Journey By Ralph Finnister
Chapter 10
Women
None of Quentin Driscoll’s marriages lasted as long as his marriage to Sara. Because I did not know him then, I shall not talk about that time or that tragedy. But I am certain that if Sara had known what was in her true love’s heart she would not have done what she did.
It would be an understatement to say that he never forgave himself. Every visitor to his office noticed and admired his desk—as I did on that first day—but only a nautical man would be able to tell it had been made from the stern of a boat. Quentin Driscoll spent every day of his working life behind that desk, his hands resting where their clothes were discovered, neatly folded, when the boat was found adrift.
He did not share matters of the heart with me as he did matters of business, but I could sense the loneliness that time and time again led him down the matrimonial aisle. A Sodaman’s life is solitary and all-consuming, and soda a harsh and demanding mistress. That Quentin Driscoll had once known happiness in the arms of Sara Lampe perhaps made that loneliness all the more difficult to bear.
I will not write the names of his ex-wives here. They do not deserve mention. All I will say is that in each case the woman to whom Quentin Driscoll pledged his troth rewarded his affection—and his faithfulness—with treachery and avarice.
At this writing, the great Sodaman is living out the end of his long and extraordinary life confident that when he leaves this world behind, he will be returned to his true love’s arms.
In This Issue
Belle Howard, QD’s Last Living Cutie, Turns 83 Page 2
How Sweet It Is: Why Sugar Trumps Corn Syrup Page 3
A Walk Down Memory Lane: Interview with Mort Kipplinger, the West End’s Last QP Sodaman … Page 4
*Service provided once monthly. More frequent service available at additional charge.
†Does not include cost of ambulance transport.
†Inquire for rates of service.
§From participating businesses only.
They all awoke feeling under the weather, but none of them were sick enough to stay home. Lydia wondered if the first day of Alice’s illness had begun so modestly. She donned her shirtwaist and brushed her hair, acutely aware of the silence above her. Absent were the heavy footsteps that signaled Malachy’s departure for the dock; there were no light, staccato footfalls describing the children’s preparations for school. Brian was likely awake in his bed at Carney Hospital, the loneliness of strange surroundings deepened by the screen that shut him off from the ward, but at least he had gained an extra night in which his mother was still alive.
Though Thomas, James, and John had slept in the front room as always, on waking they tried to avoid it as much as their morning routines would allow. Lydia knew without asking that her brothers were thinking of the body on the couch inside the room one floor above. Lydia was struck—as she had been the day she returned to the Somerset—by the treachery of appearances. Familiar walls and furnishings fostered the illusion that each day would resemble the one before. Certainly Alice Feeney O’Toole had never looked at her sofa and imagined her corpse there. As Lydia made her way toward Gorin’s, the familiar streetscape became a backdrop for an unknown and potentially ominous future.
Gorin’s occupied the first floor of a narrow brick building, the name of its proprietor painted on the window in large, red capitals below a sun-faded canopy. Its interior was long and plain. Walking toward the back of the store felt like entering a messy closet. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with stock, some in labeled boxes and some in open view, a sight that at Gilchrist’s was consigned to the back rooms. In front of these, leaving just enough space for a girl to stand, were simple glass counters in which each department’s fanciest goods were displayed, though from the perspective of Washington Street these were strictly middlebrow, representing the shoddier imports or the better ready-made items. What might have been a generous center aisle was bisected by tables of sale merchandise, which made it impossible for two peop
le to walk abreast. Instead of pneumatics, ropes and pulleys conveyed overhead baskets to the back of the store, where Mr. Gorin himself made change at the register. To Lydia the persistent squeak of the pulleys was the sound of all things second-rate. She missed the soft suck of air that had accompanied the release of a capsule into a pneumatic dispatch tube, the decisive plunk of a capsule’s return, filled with change.
The store owned by Nell Gorin’s husband was the best of its type on West Broadway, and was decorated with several paintings by her husband’s own hand, not to mention the window display she personally redesigned monthly.
Several of the girls were out that day, leaving Lydia responsible for more counters than usual, but there were fewer customers as well. Since everyone seemed to be suffering from a cold, Mr. Gorin ran a sale on handkerchiefs and instructed his girls to inform customers that silk handkerchiefs—which cost twice as much—were the most hygienic, though Lydia observed that Mr. Gorin used plain cotton.
The rules at Gorin’s were more relaxed than at Gilchrist’s. During slow stretches the girls were permitted to talk among themselves but today they did not. To fill the dull silence, Lydia envisioned a giant conveyance that could move her back in time with the speed and elegance of a pneumatic capsule. The previous twenty-four hours would unknit. If the world could be as it had been yesterday, perhaps events could manifest differently: somehow they would persuade Alice to enter the hospital; somehow Brians mother would be saved. But instead—perhaps while Lydia was handing a customer a card of faux-pearl buttons or while she was writing a receipt—the undertaker would come for Alice’s body. Lydia’s mother would take up a collection for a wreath. Lydia felt as if only half of her had left 28 D Street, her other half remaining to post invisible vigil at the second-floor landing.
Lydia’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something large colliding with the floor. Her gaze sought the fallen object, and instead encountered a customer backing away from Ladies’ Neckwares. At first Lydia was confused. Everything about that counter seemed in order—except there was no longer a girl standing behind it.
“Kelly!” cried one of the counter girls as she rushed toward Neckwares. Mr. Gorin pushed his way past several customers who had frozen in place as he made his way down the aisle.
At first Norah Flaugherty thought that Kelly was shamming. They had a mutual pact to help one another to leave early and it was Kelly’s turn, Norah having “fainted” the week before.
“Is she hurt?” Mr. Gorin called as he reached the counter, kneeling out of view.
The customer who had backed away from the counter rushed toward it again.
“She were just about to fetch me a collar from the case when she looked all of a sudden pale and before I could ask what were the matter, she fell over!”
The store burst into sound. Several customers ran toward Neckwares, craning to get a look at the stricken girl; others remained frozen. Voices issued from all corners.
“She’s so pale!”
“Poor thing.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s burning up!”
“Fetch a doctor!”
“Give her some air.”
“Give her a drink.”
Occasionally girls fainted: tight girdles or stingy breakfasts were two possible causes. Normally such an event was cause for nothing more than momentary excitement but today was different. Mr. Gorin appeared above the counter, the color drained from his face.
“When she came in this morning she only said she were feeling a little poorly,” he began quietly, as if talking to himself. “It didn’t seem no different from how I felt, otherwise I would’ve told her to go home, get some rest. My own daughter’s at home in bed, you know, and she were feeling fine just yesterday. It don’t come on the way you’d think; it sneaks up from behind.”
Kelly Dooley blames Mr. Gorin. She had already asked permission to leave only to be told no.
If Kelly and Norah were not forever trying to leave work early, perhaps that day Tom might have let her, but there was no trusting those two.
He paused, as if thinking something over. He looked at the girl on the floor, then returned his gaze to the assembled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, scanning the faces before him. “I’m closing early. I’ve had a bad feelin all day and this clinches it. There’s something strange going around. Please take a handkerchief from the front table on your way out, any one you like, compliments of myself; and I’d like to recommend that every one of you go straight home and check on your families, because that’s certainly what I’ll be doing as soon as I get this young lady home.”
A few customers quit the store without their complimentary handkerchiefs. Others grabbed blindly from the pile on their way out. A minority rooted through the bin, in case prolonged inspection would yield one square of cheap cotton superior to the rest. Along with the other girls Lydia began closing down her counter. Her hands trembled as she refolded her stock. She thought Mr. Gorin was wrong to close early when only a few hours remained in the workday. The other girls’ faces confirmed her opinion. Kelly’s sudden illness had startled them, but it had taken Mr. Gorin’s announcement to make them scared.
The fellow did not give him enough, but Gregory Finn took the girl to the address anyhow, which kindness he credits to God seeing fit to spare his own family.
The last of the customers watched along with the counter girls as Kelly—who had revived but was too weak to walk unassisted—was led to a hansom cab by Mr. Gorin, who paid the driver with money from his own pocket.
“Help her to the door and wait until someone from the family takes her from you,” Mr. Gorin instructed the driver. At Gilchrist’s, a counter girl would have never received such kind treatment, and Lydia felt a wave of tenderness for Mr. Gorin and his narrow, cluttered store with its overhead baskets.
With the hansom gone, the last of the customers dispersed quickly. As Mr. Gorin shut off the lights, Lydia and the other girls huddled together at the front of the store.
“Look after yourselves, girls,” Mr. Gorin advised as they stood before the doors, the store interior dark. To each of them Mr. Gorin solemnly presented two of the penny handkerchiefs he had offered his customers. The fabric would have to be laundered before it would soften. “Don’t come in tomorrow if you’re feeling poorly; it’s bad for a business to have girls fainting.” The store, standing empty in the late afternoon, resembled a stage on which the curtain had failed to descend at the end of a play.
Lydia started down West Broadway with the rest of the girls. A few stores she passed along the way were also shuttered, leading her to wonder if similar scenes had played out there. As they walked, the girls whispered of brothers or friends or neighbors who had fallen ill, and speculated on the condition of Mr. Gorin’s daughter. The other girls were the age Lydia had been when she worked at Gilchrist’s, and all still unmarried. Among them she felt old.
As her counterparts turned onto the lettered streets that led to their families’ crowded flats, Lydia followed West Broadway to Dorchester and turned toward Telegraph Hill. She would not tell Brian about his mother if he did not already know, but whether he had been informed or not, she was sure he could use company.
The traffic on Dorchester was heavier than West Broadway but not until she reached Old Harbor Street did she realize why. The approach to Carney was so thick with ambulances, private cars, and cabs that many had given up the prospect of reaching the hospital entrance and had debarked their passengers a block or more distant. The afflicted who could no longer walk were carried on backs or held upright by abler bodies.
Something beyond the street traffic struck Lydia as odd, but before she could determine what it was a woman in front of her stumbled. Lydia helped the woman to her feet and placed an arm around her waist, joining the strange tableau. At the top of the hill, she began leading the woman to the hospital entrance but the woman shook her head.
“No,” s
he whispered. “Clinic.”
The morbid scene on the street had failed to prepare Lydia for the clinic’s transformation. A day seemed somehow both too long and too short a period to have passed since she had carried Brian through the same door. The ill could not be contained by the clinic’s benches. People covered every available space, some sitting, others lying on the floor or propped up against the wall. Open windows and camphor failed to mask the stink of sickness—a moist, mucosal smell that hung, dank and bitter, over everything. Lydia realized with a shock that she was surrounded by people her age. The usual victims of Southie’s flus and fevers—the very young and the very old—were absent. In their place were young men and women in numbers one would expect to see at a dance—only in place of movement there was stillness. Walking carefully to avoid crushing a prone leg or hand, Lydia maneuvered into the room with the sick woman.
“Where shall I take you?” she asked into the woman’s ear, hoping to spot an unclaimed patch of bench or floor.
The woman shook her head, her face panicked. “It’s no good here,” she croaked. She stumbled toward the clinic door, turning to look one last time at those who had preceded her before lurching outside.
Doreen Donnelly is sorry to have been so rude and wishes she had not run off. She wonders if she might have recovered had she stayed.
One of the Sisters appeared from behind the curtained examination area. The nun’s habit was stained and creased and the wings of her wimple drooped, a sight so startling that Lydia averted her face as if the woman were naked. The Sister wove her way between the supine and the seated with practiced steps.
“If you wish to be seen by a nurse, you may give me your name,” she began. The weariness of her face was matched by her voice. “Only the most dire cases will be accepted for treatment as we are suffering from a shortage of beds. If you are not afflicted with a perilously high fever we suggest you return home, take to your bed, and drink clear liquids. If you wish to remain you’ll need to be patient. A nurse will see you as soon as she can. Raise your hand to give me your name.” Pale hands appeared around the room’s edges like a fairy ring.
Wickett's Remedy Page 14