by Max Shulman
“What cop?”
“The one you asked why he wasn’t in uniform. Say, how much do you remember about tonight?”
“Well, after that first Sty Stinger—”
“A rare name.”
“—everything goes sort of hazy.”
“You don’t remember going to Estherlee McCracken’s house?”
“Oh, my God. What did I do there?”
“Not much, fortunately. I wouldn’t let you ring the bell. But you insisted on leaving your card in the mailbox.”
“Well, that wasn’t so bad.”
“The card, no. But it was in a crappie’s mouth.”
“Sam, is there any chance of me shipping out with you?”
“Buck up, Roberto. There’s always the river.”
“Yeah, the river. That reminds me. I vaguely recall something about a bridge. Some involved story. What was that?”
“Bridge? I don’t remember any bridge. But you bought a ’38 Olds from the Gelt brothers.”
“Now I know you’re lying. Where did I get the money?”
“When you picked that guy’s pocket on the dance floor.”
“You bastard. The truth isn’t in you.”
“You bought yourself a fine automobile. Not a mile on it. The guy that owned it was president of a suicide-pact club. He used to keep the car in the garage, and once a month one member of the club would go out and monoxide himself. That’s all the car was used for.”
“Sometimes people say to me, ‘Is Sam Wye a friend of yours?’ and I unthinkingly answer yes.”
“That’s a fine way to talk to a comrade in arms who is leaving for the wars in a couple of days.”
“Where are they sending you, Sam?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Kill people.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s almost five. I better let you get some sleep.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Well, it’s been a fine day, Roberto.”
“Yes. Good night, Sam.”
“Good night, Dan. I’ll see you in the papers.”
Little did I know.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I opened one eye, looked about me, and idly wondered how come Olsen and Johnson had picked my bedroom to put on a show. I closed the eye gingerly.
“He’s up!” The cry rose from a thousand throats.
This time I sat straight up, both eyes wide open. A circle of huge, pulsing faces moved in on me. Feverishly I seized the water bottle on my night table, filled a glass, drank thirstily, filled and drank several times more. Later I learned that the water bottle had been empty all the time.
“Now then,” I squeaked sternly, “what does all this mean?”
Mama, as was her due, had the first go at me. “My baby!” she cried. “My hero!” She clasped me to her bosom and sobbed mightily down the back of my Fo-To-Mon-Taj-Ies, causing the Eiffel Tower to run into the second Louis-Schmeling fight.
Next came Papa, who pulled my hand out of the sleeve of my pajamas, where it had retreated in alarm, and wrung it robustly. “I’m proud of you, Son,” he said. “Proud.”
He was followed by Estherlee, who was wearing a low-necklined dress. She bent over, nudged me softly in the chin, and kissed my forehead. “I’ve been such a fool,” she said.
She was replaced by a vaguely familiar young man. “You remember me. I’m John Smith. Press-Telegram reporter. Yes sir. Reporter. No more of those damn classified. ‘Wanted. Grl fr genl hswk. No wshg. No chldn. Thurs, Sun off. Opprtnty fr advcmt.’ Yes sir. Reporter.”
It was Mama’s turn again. “No wonder you are so skinny. How can you get fat blowing up bridges?” she wailed.
“Later,” said Papa, “we’ll look at the map, and I’ll show you where you did it. I’ve got a brand-new map. The whole world fits into your vest pocket. Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled a small folded paper from his vest pocket. “See,” he said. “Like I said, the vest pocket. Now you take this end and I’ll unfold it.” He shoved the corner of the map into my unresisting hand and started to unfold the map. He walked backward as he unfolded, out the bedroom door, through the upstairs hall, and down the stairs.
“Can you ever forgive me?” said Estherlee, swinging low again.
“I want you to meet two men whom you will get to know very well in the next few days,” said John Smith. “This is the Press-Telegram’s military analyst, Colonel Cosmo Fairfax Swatch—”
An elderly character with side whiskers and a modified sombrero whacked me over the patella with a gnarled walking stick. “Well done, Sergeant,” he pronounced. “Reminds me of a time with the 214th Light Horse—or was it the 48th Grenadiers?—no—yes. Let me see.” He pondered for a moment, then walked over to Estherlee and pinched her arm. “Ziggetty!” he said.
“—and O. Merriam Phyfe,” said John Smith.
“I speak for His Honor Mayor La Hoont and all of Minneapolis,” sleek, sonorous O. Merriam Phyfe said, “when I say that we’re proud of you.”
“Oklahoma, Oklahoma. All the time he told us he was in Oklahoma,” Mama complained bitterly.
“He didn’t want to worry you, Mrs. Miller—Mother.” Estherlee said.
Colonel Swatch suddenly walked over to the picture of the Indian on my wall and smashed it with his walking stick. “Damn redskins,” he spat. “They killed George.”
“George who?” I screamed in sheer desperation.
“George Custer.” He resumed pinching Estherlee. “Fat women,” he said. “Zum.”
“Can you hear me?” came Papa’s faint voice from outside. “I’m on the front lawn. Still unfolding.”
“I’m public relations counsel to His Honor Mayor La Hoont,” O. Merriam Phyfe confessed.
“Is it any wonder that I am gray, my hair?” Mama asked.
John Smith took a newspaper from his pocket. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen it yet. Rather unusual story. Yes. Quite unusual. All in free verse. Had the devil’s own time persuading the city editor to run it. Heh, heh.”
“It’s too bad you’ll be here such a short time,” said O. Merriam Phyfe. “Well, no matter. We’ll make the best of it.”
“I didn’t realize what a lucky girl I was,” whispered Estherlee. “But I know now.” She turned angrily on Colonel Swatch. “Will you stop?” she demanded.
There was a sudden shriek outside. Mama ran to the window. “What’s the matter?”
“I unfolded all the way across the street,” yelled Papa. “Then a bus went by.”
“In view of the subject matter,” said John Smith, “I thought that free verse would be the only proper medium. Except, of course, an epic poem, but the haste incident to publication rather precludes an epic, don’t you think?”
“Naturally we’d like to plan a fuller program,” said Phyfe. “As it is, we can only hit the high spots. Now, first—”
“I think Sergeant Miller would like to hear the story,” John Smith interrupted with injured dignity.
“Of course,” said O. Merriam graciously.
“Me?” cried Mama, pushing Colonel Swatch away. “An old woman? A mother of children?”
“I’ll read it now, if nobody objects,” said John Smith.
There were no objections. He began:
“By John Smith
“I met an ordinary young man last night who had done an extraordinary thing.
Daniel Miller is his ordinary name.
Sergeant is his ordinary rank.
Mr. and Mrs. Adam Miller are his ordinary parents.
They live in an ordinary house at 2123 Fremont Avenue.
An ordinary street.
“Perhaps the thing he did was not extraordinary.
He risked his life to save his country.
Perhaps we all would.
Would you? Would I?
If we all would, it is not extraordinary
But ordinary.
“He did this thing, ordinary or extraordinary, in a far place.
A place whose very name means romance to most of us.
Morocco.
It did not mean romance to him.
It meant danger, death, dust, destruction.
And chow.
Chow for breakfast, chow for lunch, chow for dinner.
Chow, chow, chow.
“A bridge can be a friend.
To take you over a river where ford there is none.
To speed you home to those you love.
A bridge can be a friend.
“A bridge can be an enemy.
It was in Morocco.
In Morocco a bridge was a dagger in the back of American boys.
Boys from Iowa and Connecticut and Utah and all forty-eight and the District of Columbia, ten square miles where the destinies of millions are ruled.
Beyond the bridge were the fascists, teeth bared, poised to plunge into the American flank.
The bridge was the enemy, the spoiler of progress and time.
The bridge held up the offensive.
Men and guns languished.
“The bridge was the enemy and it had to be destroyed.
Sergeant Miller was sent to destroy it.
Another accompanied him, Private First Class Herbert Anselmo, whom they killed.
The bastards.
Together these two destroyed the bridge.
That is the thing that Daniel Miller did.
That is his story.
“He did not want to tell me his story.
He is shy. It becomes a hero to be shy.
A friend prompted, wheedled, cajoled—in fact told most of the story.
The name of the friend is Montag Fortz.
An ordinary name.
“To destroy the bridge would have been a simple task (They call these things simple. Let you or I destroy a bridge.) had not Miller’s exploder been stolen by a native.
A malicious thing done without malice.
A native is a child.
This native, whose name was Pablo, had a hobby of collecting exploders.
Miller’s exploder, a new type called the Little Dandy Bang-Bang, appealed to Pablo.
So he stole it.
This Fortz explained.
“The bridge had to be exploded with grenades.
Grenades had to be lashed to the bridge’s supports and wires had to be fastened to the grenades.
When the wires were pulled, the grenades would explode and collapse the bridge.
Ingenious?
American.
“Miller lashed the grenades.
Anselmo held the wires.
Two Americans at work.
With nothing to eat but chow.
“Then the fascists came.
Miller was not half through.
He knew he must finish. He told Anselmo to pull if they reached the bridge before he was through.
‘No,’ said Anselmo.
‘Pull,” said Miller.
‘No,’ said Anselmo.
‘Pull,” said Miller.
“Bullets crashed around Miller, a locusts’ plague of steel.
The thundering hooves of the enemy’s tanks were on the bridge’s approaches. Now they were on the edge of the bridge.
Miller finished.
‘Pull,’ he said.
Anselmo pulled his last pull.
They got him.
The bastards.
“Miller came back.
He is home now in Minneapolis.
An ordinary man in an ordinary city who did a thing that is perhaps extraordinary.”
“My God,” I gasped.
“Of course,” said John Smith, “free verse in a news story is a little unusual, you might say, but, considering the subject matter, I thought it rather apropos.”
Mama burst into tears and Estherlee took her into her arms, mumuring, “There, there, Mother.”
“Two at once,” said Colonel Swatch, closing a pincers on their flanks.
Papa came into the room looking disconsolate. “I could have unfolded for another half a block,” he complained.
“There’s a picture, too,” said John Smith, handing me the paper. I took it in my trembling fingers and stared transfixed at a six-column picture of me lying under a table with a wire in my hand while Sam Wye stood by, unrecognizable, with his eyes closed, his front teeth clamped together, and his fingers in his ears.
“Now, then,” said O. Merriam Phyfe, “here’s what we have planned. First you’ll address the Ladies Hearth and Hauteur Sodality. That’s tomorrow night.”
I tried to say no, but nothing came out.
“A fine group of women, the Hearth and Hauteur,” he said. “His Honor Mayor La Hoont’s wife is chairwoman.”
“You must be starved,” said Mama.
“You’ll just speak for a half hour or so,” continued Phyfe. “You won’t have to prepare anything. Simply tell the ladies how they can further aid the war effort. Not that they’re not doing a great deal now. His Honor Mayor La Hoont’s wife has given a complete shelf of Gene Stratton Porter to the Army herself. Bound in limp leather. But these ladies want to do even more.”
“I had a woman back in ’07 weighed three hundred pounds,” said Colonel Swatch, belaboring Estherlee’s arm. “Fat. Zut! Squeeze her anywhere. She dropped dead the night of Halley’s comet. Excitement, I guess. All six pallbearers got the hernia.”
“It took me quite a while to decide that writing was my field,” John Smith admitted. “I also paint and compose music. Do fine needlework too. I won first prize in a national Lutheran junior college competition with an abstract painting of mine.” He chuckled. “I’ll bet they wouldn’t have given it to me if they’d known it was a phallic symbol.”
“And then,” Phyfe resumed, “Colonel Swatch is going to interview you on his radio program ‘Behind the Background of the News.’ You’ve heard the program, of course.”
“I listen to you every day, Colonel,” said Papa. “I certainly liked your broadcast on Panzer warfare.”
“Damn tanks,” said the colonel. “In my day we didn’t need ’em. Best thing the Army ever did was to organize anti-tank divisions. They probably got plenty of volunteers. Must be thousands of people against tanks. Good thing the Army gave ’em an opportunity to band together. There’ll be excellent morale in those anti-tank companies—group of men bound together by a mutual dislike of tanks.”
“Then we’re constructing a recruiting booth for you downtown. You’ll spend a day there helping young men about to enter the service decide on which branch to go into. It’s quite a problem, you know. My own son, La Hoont, is seventeen now. He’ll be going soon. He’s having a devil of a time trying to decide whether to go right into Officer’s Candidate School or spend some time in the ranks—to get better acquainted with the men, you know.”
“I’m not angry you didn’t tell me,” said Estherlee. “In fact, I think even more of you.”
“As for music,” John Smith put in, “I’ve written one or two things. I wrote our class song the year we graduated junior college—‘We’ve Got to Leave You, Alma Mater, and It’s Hard’.”
“That was the last folding map they had,” Papa mourned. “God knows when they’ll get another.”
“On Saturday the Minneapolis baseball club opens its season,” O. Merriam Phyfe revealed. “I’ve arranged for you to pitch the first ball. I tried to get the newsreel men to be there, but they’ll be busy covering a jeep demonstration that day.”
“Tonight, dear,” whispered Estherlee, “we’ll go canoeing. Just you and I alone. Oooo!”
“Dinner will be ready in a little while,” Mama said. “We’ll all go down and eat if you don’t mind potluck.”
“Not I, madam,” said the colonel. “I lived half a winter on buffalo chips once when I was chasing Geronimo. I never did get him. I got involved with a 110-pound woman who had a herd of white-faced cattle on a ranch outside Colorado Springs. I spent the rest of that winter trying to fatten her up. Slaughtered every last one of t
hose cattle and fed ’em to her. Then in spring she got distemper and died. Can’t trust a thin woman.”
“For the grand finale,” said Phyfe, “you are going to be the feature attraction at the dedication of the new war plant just built outside Minneapolis. This plant will be the world’s largest producer of small-bore ammunition, and it’s entirely His Honor Mayor La Hoont’s doing. He saw the need for the factory, and he didn’t ask anybody. He just went ahead and built it. He brushed aside all timid arguments. ‘War Department approval?’ he said. ‘We’ll get that later. What’ll we make ammunition out of?’ he said. ‘We’ll get steel from Pittsburgh and powder from Delaware and coal from Arkansas. This is total war!’”
“Honest to God,” said Papa, “I should sue the bus company.”
“His Honor Mayor La Hoont,” continued Phyfe, “knows how eager our people are. Let me give you an example of the spirit of our Minnesotans. Two brothers, Egmont and Singletax Snide, one sixty-nine and the other eighty-one, used to build boats before the war on Lake Malchamovess, about one hundred and twenty miles north of here. When the war came these two old men decided to convert to war production. Inside of six months, without telling anyone, mind you, they build eight submarines. When the Navy heard about it a high-ranking admiral said that they were ‘surprised and pleased.’ Today a navy ‘E’ pennant floats over the Snides’ humble lakeside boatworks. And when a way is figured out to get the Snide brothers’ submarines to the sea, the Japs will soon learn the meaning of Minnesota patriotism.”
“There’ll be a full moon tonight,” breathed Estherlee. “It said so in the paper.”
“Naturally,” Phyfe continued, “the dedication of the ammunition plant will be a gala occasion. His Honor Mayor La Hoont will be there himself. There’ll be all sorts of notable people and festivities galore. You may well be proud, young man, that you’ve been chosen to be the feature attraction.
“And now I’ll tell you about the climax. The construction of the plant is complete, but there still is one more thing to do. There is a dried-up river bed in front of the place. While construction was going on, a makeshift wooden bridge was thrown over the river bed to allow workers to cross to the plant. But now that the factory goes into full operation, the wooden bridge will no longer be adequate. It will be replaced by a permanent steel-and-concrete bridge.