by Clark Howard
Glumly, he finally gave up as the stadium crowd thinned almost to nothing. Hands jammed into his knickers pockets, head down, thoughts as dark as the doorways of the street, he walked through the city night toward home.
On the way, he wondered if he would find another paregoric bottle in the garbage can.
On Sunday, Richie confirmed that Buck Jones was indeed going to make an appearance at the Senate Theater on Monday. The Daily News, another of the newspapers that could be trusted, had an item on the entertainment page reporting that the popular Western actor, who was touring the country selling War Bonds, was scheduled to attend a black-tie affair with some other movie stars at some big hotel downtown, but that as he usually did, would be arriving in the city early enough to make an unscheduled appearance at a neighborhood movie house so that his young fans would have a chance to see him also. Balaban-and-Katz had made the Senate available to Buck because it was one of their larger, more centrally located houses.
Richie began making plans. Walking the twelve blocks up to the Senate on Sunday afternoon, he found out from the ticket taker that for Buck’s appearance the following day, the doors would open at five P.M. Price of admission was the purchase of a twenty-five-cent War Savings Stamp, which when pasted in a book with seventy-four others amounted to $18.75 and could be turned in for a $25 War Bond. Buck would arrive at six and go on stage to give a short talk and answer questions from the audience, after which he would sign autographs and personally shake hands with each and every kid. After Buck’s appearance, through the generosity of Balaban-and-Katz, there would be a free showing of the newest Bing Crosby movie, Holiday Inn.
Richie stared incredulously at the uniformed ticket taker. Holiday Inn? Bing Crosby? Marveling at the gross stupidity of grownups, he walked away shaking his head. It did not bother him long, however; the important thing was that Buck was coming, live and in person; the fact that the movie house owners were too ignorant to choose an appropriate picture for the occasion was insignificant.
Walking with Louis to school the next morning, Richie said, “I’m ditching at lunchtime. I wanna be one of the first ones in line at the Senate. You wanna come with?”
“Naw,” Louis mumbled, looking away.
“Why not? On’y way you’ll get a seat up front is to get there early.”
“I ain’t going,” Louis said. Richie’s mouth fell open. Not going? To see Buck Jones in person?“My old lady made me give her my magazine money for groceries,” Louis said. “My old man didn’t send no support dough last week and she was broke. So I ain’t going.”
Richie worried about Louis’s plight in class all morning. He himself had more than a dollar: a dollar-fifteen, to be exact. But his prospects for future earnings had, he was sure, taken a turn for the worse after the stunt he pulled at the stadium on Saturday night. It would be a miracle if Rondo ever let him work again, so Richie’s income would be reduced to what he earned selling magazines on Thursdays and Fridays. Thinking about that, he remembered that it had been Louis who helped him get that job.
At morning recess, Richie gave Ham a dime for his week’s protection, reducing his capital to a dollar five cents. Louis, who paid by the day, had not been able to steal any cigarettes from his mother’s pack, so had to give Ham his two-cents milk money instead. Obviously distraught at the prospect of missing Buck Jones, Louis asked, “You t’ink I could sneak in?”
“I dunno,” Richie replied skeptically. “The Senate’s tough. If it was the Imperial or the 4-Star, maybe. But the Senate, jeez, I dunno.”
Throughout reading class, which bored Richie almost to tears because of the stupid, sissy, baby bullshit they had to read—shit like a kid visiting his grandpa and grandma on a goddamn farm and meeting all the goddamned animals—Richie continued to fret about Louis. By lunchtime, he had made up his mind. In the basement cafeteria, he moved through the line and got a frankfurter, a gob of mashed potatoes and gravy, a square of Jell-o, and a two-cent half-pint bottle of milk. Turning to Louis, he handed him two cents to buy milk for himself, and said, “I’ll pay your way in the Senate. We’ll ditch right after lunch.”
Mouth agape, Louis followed Richie to a table. “No lie?” he asked, as Richie began to wolf down his food. “You’re gonna pay my way?”
“If you’ll promise to pay me back,” Richie modified the offer.
“What if I just give you the Savings Stamp?” Louis wanted to know.
“I don’t want the goddamn Savings Stamp,” Richie said emphatically. One of the cafeteria monitors, an eighth-grade girl, heard him.
“What did you say?” she demanded.
“Me? Nothing,” Richie denied.
“You did so. You said a swear word,” she accused. She was fourteen, filling out under her sweater, on which was pinned a black-and-white MONITOR badge. “I’m reporting you for using a swear word. What’s your name and room number?” she asked, pencil poised above a spiral notebook.
“James Warner,” said Richie. The previous Thursday night he had read a Saturday Evening Post story about Fort Apache by a writer named James Warner Bellah. “I’m in Room Two-oh-eight.” When the monitor walked away he muttered, “Goddamn bitch.”
“My old man says all girls are cunts,” Louis told him.
“Okay,” Richie said, getting back to the important matter, “I’ll pay your way in, you keep the stamp, and I’ll give you a nickel for the candy counter, then you pay me back a dime a week for three weeks, okay?”
“Okay, yeah,” Louis agreed.
“Hurry up and eat,” Richie said around a mouthful of frankfurter, “so we can get outta here.”
After they ate, Richie and Louis went out to the schoolyard and loitered around a place along the green metal fence where one of the pickets was broken at the bottom and could be pulled aside far enough to get through. Kneeling and pretending to be shooting marbles in the dirt, they watched until the teacher on duty in the yard turned her attention elsewhere, then both scurried through the opening and ran, crouching, down the block until they were out of sight.
It was one-thirty when they got to the Senate, and there were at least two dozen other kids already there. “Jeez,” Richie said, “I’m glad we weren’t no later.” There were eight seats in each middle row; already they were back to the fourth row, unless they wanted to sit in one of the four-seat rows on either side of the aisle, which they didn’t.
“Fourth row ain’t so bad,” Louis placated. He was glad to be in any row.
By two o’clock, there were fifty kids waiting, a few standing but most of them sitting on the sidewalk with their backs up against the building. It was November, but the sun was shining and there was no wind. Among the boys, a lot of the talk was about how soon the truant officers would arrive. “When do you t’ink they’ll be here?” Louis asked.
Richie shrugged. “They gotta get here before three or they might’s well not come at all. They can’t do nothing to you after three ’cause school’s out then.”
The truant officers came at two-thirty. There was a woman and two men; they went along the line of boys, writing down information: name, school, grade, teacher’s name.
“What’ll I say?” Louis asked, frightened. They were standing by a poster advertising Holiday Inn. Richie’s eyes searched the names on it, skipping the obvious ones like Crosby, Astaire, and Irving Berlin. Near the bottom of the credits, under “Makeup Supervision,” he found a name that seemed to fit Louis.
“Tell ’em your name’s Wally Westmore,” he said. “And give ’em the same school and everything I do.”
When one of the truant officers got to him, Richie used the same name, James Warner, that he had given the lunchroom monitor earlier, and said he was in the fifth grade at his old school, Biedler Elementary, and that his teacher’s name was Mrs. York. The latter was the name of a cavalry officer in the Post story he had read.
After the truant officers collected their information, they left. There was really nothing else they could do; by then
there were well over a hundred kids, from all over the city, and to have taken them back to their respective schools would have been impossible.
“Lot of kids are gonna be in for it tomorrow,” Louis predicted solemnly.
“They shoulda lied,” Richie said, shrugging.
At five o’clock, when the Senate opened its box office, there were, Richie guessed, a thousand kids waiting to get in. Most of them had arrived after school let out at three o’clock. The hundred or so who had ditched knew that the others would see Buck Jones just like they themselves would, but were smug in their knowledge that those who hadn’t ditched wouldn’t see him as close up as they would. Having guts enough to ditch school definitely had its rewards.
Each kid paid his quarter at the box office and was given the Savings Stamp and a theater ticket. Some of the kids had stamp books into which they promptly and properly pasted the stamp. Richie and Louis put theirs in their knickers pockets and immediately forgot them. Once inside, they ran, as did all the kids, past ushers who were yelling, “No running! No running!” and into the auditorium to claim the choice seats. Ditching paid off; Richie and Louis got seats on the aisle in row three, and Richie saved an extra one for Russ, his friend from the stadium. Louis held the seats while Richie returned to the candy counter. After buying candy bars, Richie looked around for Russ. A head taller than most of the other kids, Russ was not hard to find. At the sight of Richie, he smiled widely; then his expression quickly turned sad.
“Rondo ain’t gonna let you work no more,” he said. “He tol’ us all to tell you to stay away if we seen you.”
“I figured,” Richie said.
“I’m sure sorry, Richie.”
“Forget it.” Richie knew in retrospect that what he had done was stupid. But at the time, it had seemed necessary.
After Russ bought three candy bars for himself, Richie led him to their seats. A couple of kids were giving Louis a hard time about the two extra seats he was saving, but at the sight of Russ they immediately retreated. While the lights were still on, the three boys looked around. “The joint’s packed,” Russ said.
“Sure it is,” Richie shrugged. “This is Buck Jones that’s coming. He’s the greatest cowboy in the world.”
“Bet there’s thousands of kids outside that couldn’t even get in,” Louis guessed.
They ate their candy and talked and fidgeted and kicked their feet and squirmed as the interminable hour between five and six dragged by with maddening slowness. But at last the moment came. The Senate manager walked out on the stage to a standing microphone. “Who did you all come here to see tonight?” he asked loudly.
“BUCK JONES!” A roar resounded in the theater.
“Well, here he is!” the manager announced, and as he said it the house lights went off, a spotlight hit the stage, and Buck Jones—live, real, in person—walked out of the wings.
He was like a god. Tall, straight, square; there was not a curve to be seen, every facet of him made from ninety-degree angles. His narrowed eyes glinted; his black hair, combed straight back in the sensible style of a real man, shone like onyx; his lantern jaw was set in such a way that told the whole world that this man would brook no nonsense of any sort. His shoulders could have carried wagon wheels, his table-flat stomach could have taken any blow, his mighty arms could have protected any innocent from every evil. He did not need guns or knives or bullwhips; he had stature. He had presence. When Buck Jones was around, everybody, by God, knew it.
The cheer when Buck strode onto the stage was explosive; above the audience, the Senate’s crystal chandelier actually vibrated. Every kid in the theater was standing, waving, cheering, whistling. Richie hated it that he could not whistle very well; he wished he could whistle so loudly and shrilly that it would break glass. But with his hawker-conditioned voice, he made up for it with yells that caused Louis to look at him in awe.
Buck removed his spotless white, wide-brimmed Stetson and raised it above his head. The fringe of his buckskin coat rippled like water. Without a smile, barely moving his thin, razor-sharp lips, he said, “Hello, pardners.”
Another roar went up. Buck’s voice was like the rest of him: deep, clear, precise, and direct. He listened to the cheers for a moment, then raised a hand for quiet. He got it—immediately. Silence before a god.
“I want to thank you all for coming out to see me tonight. I know this is a school night, so I promise not to keep you long.”
The audience exploded in laughter. That Buck was something. A real kidder.
“The reason I’ve come to visit with you tonight,” Buck continued, “is to ask you to help me to help all our brave fighting men overseas by buying War Bonds and Savings Stamps to help America’s war effort. Our boys that are fighting this war deserve all of the support we can give them. I know what they’re going through, believe me; I served in the army, fought in the Philippines, and was wounded in the leg by a sniper. It’s a terrible thing to be far away from home, far away from your loved ones, facing death every day fighting America’s enemies. But we can help all our brave soldiers, sailors, and Marines, by investing our dimes and quarters in Savings Stamps, and turning those stamps in for War Bonds. Uncle Sam will use that money to see that our fighting men have enough food and ammunition and bandages to carry on the fight until we’ve given the dirty Japs and the dirty Nazis the licking they deserve!”
The audience went wild again, cheering, whistling, shouting, applauding. Buck’s narrowed eyes swept the house as he let the kids of the city show their patriotism. Without smiling, he nodded solemnly to show that he agreed with them. Then he held up a hand again.
“You know, pardners, America is a grand, big land. It doesn’t matter whether we live in the east or the west, the north or the south. Wherever we live, we’re all Americans and we owe it to our country to be good citizens. That means a heap, being a good citizen. And I know that you know what I mean by that. Be a straight shooter and a square dealer. Treat folks fair and honestly. Respect your parents and your teachers. Study hard. Always remember that America is the land of opportunity. There’s nothing you can’t achieve in this great country of ours if you try hard enough . . . and don’t ever let anybody discourage you from working toward what you want out of life. Aim high, pardners.” Nodding, Buck threw a wink into the audience that every boy there was certain had been meant for him alone. “Now then, anybody have any questions they’d like to ask me?”
“Where’s Silver at?” somebody yelled. Silver was Buck’s famous white stallion.
Buck smiled, for the first time. “Well, I’ll tell you,” he drawled, “Silver’s back at my ranch in the San Fernando Valley in California. I’ll tell you something else—there are three Silvers.” A gasp of surprise rippled through the audience. “That’s right,” Buck assured. “As all you boys and girls know, a horse ages faster than a human does, so they get old lots quicker. The original Silver is twenty-seven years old now. Silver number two, his son, is almost twenty. The horse you all see in the pictures I’m making today is Silver number three, the grandson. He’s fifteen.”
“You got any kids, Buck?” a boy called out.
“I’ve got a little girl named Maxine. Actually she’s not so little anymore; she’s all growed up now—but she’ll always be my little girl just the same.”
“What’s your next pitcher?”
“I’ve got a real good one coming out next month just in time for Christmas. It’s from Monogram Studios and it’s called Dawn on the Great Divide. My pal Raymond Hatton is in it, and I think you’ll like it.”
There weren’t many more questions; after the obvious ones, a city kid really could not think of anything to ask a cowboy god. Most of the kids in the audience would have been content just to sit and listen to Buck talk. But as soon as he detected a lull, Buck moved into the next segment of his appearance.
“Tell you what let’s do now,” he said. “I want to shake hands with every one of you that bought a Savings Stamp tonight. And if yo
u have autograph books, why, I’d be proud to sign them for you. I want one row at a time to come up here on the stage in single file. Don’t run and don’t push, be careful on the steps there . . . .”
It took an hour, but Buck Jones shook the hand of every kid. He didn’t bother with names; every boy was “Pardner,” every girl was “Little Lady.” With his own gold fountain pen he signed every autograph book presented to him, while an usher stood by with a bottle of Carter’s ink for Buck to refill his pen when it ran dry.
On the way up to the stage, Richie silently practiced what he had made up his mind to say: “Hi, Buck! You’re my favorite cowboy and the best there is!” He pictured Buck being impressed, asking his name, talking to him about coming out to Hollywood and learning to be a cowboy movie star. It intrigued Richie that Buck had no son, only a daughter. God, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have Buck Jones for a dad!
While Richie was thinking about it, the line kept moving and before he knew it he was there—standing in front of Buck, who looked like a mountain. Richie meekly put his hand out, felt it enveloped by Buck’s huge hand, heard that marvelously deep voice say, “How are you, pardner?” At once Richie became an imbecile; without even looking up, staring at Buck’s great silver belt buckle under the open coat, he found the intelligence only to mutter, “Hi,” and then he was walking off the stage, and it was all over.
For a moment, Richie was mortified. But it passed quickly. He had met Buck Jones, and that was what counted. He had shaken hands with the second greatest man in the world—every kid in America knew that President Roosevelt was the greatest—and had actually been personally spoken to by Buck. How are you, pardner? What a wonderful thing to say! The words, Richie was sure, would remain with him forever. Buck Jones had asked him how he was! Sure, it would have been swell if Richie had been able to look Buck right in the eye and say, “I’m fine, Buck! How are you?” But that had not happened—and Richie realized that it did not matter. What Buck said was what mattered. How are you, pardner? Shaking Buck’s hand was what mattered. It had been a magic moment that would shine forever.