LizzieMaine
Bartender
- Messages
- 33,815
- Location
- Where The Tourists Meet The Sea
("Sweaht'gawd," declares Joe. "I hoid it fr'm'niss guy in supply, an'nee hoid it fr'm ti's tankeh was right at t'front. T'eh shoot'n rockets." "Huh," huhs the Corporal. "Like, yuh mean, Fo'tha July?" "No," insists Joe. "Like -- I dunno, big rockets. Like Flash Gawrd'n type stuff." "Who?" puzzles the Corporal. "Flash Gawrd'n!" repeats Joe. "Like inna funny papehs." "Ah neveh hu'd'a no Flash Go'don," insists the Corporal, punctuating his remark with an expectoration. "Ain' in no funneh papuhs I evuh see." "He's inna Hoist papehs," explains Joe. "Back home, inna Joinal-Amehrican. Sal don' lemme bring'at inna house, but I see it inna bawrbeh shawp n'places. Anyways, Flash Gawrdon'sis guy flies aroun' inna rocket, right? In outeh space." "Huh," shrugs the Corporal. "Reckon'ney's shootin' rockets at us with men inn'um? Paruhtroopuhs?" "Nah," dismisses Joe. "It's like t'em rockets t'eh shoot'n at London an' places. Nut'n in'm but a big bomb." The Corporal glances upward at the glowering Rhineland sky, his breath curling in the icy air. "Gawdayum," he whispers. "Yeh," sighs Joe....)
With Mayor LaGuardia in Washington today to confer with officials who might intervene to stop the threatened Christmas shutdown of the city's retail meat markets in an organized protest over present ceiling-price policies, local consumer groups, having weighed weekend developments, predicted that there is a good chance such a shutdown will not occur. The Mayor's flying trip to the capital followed a conference at City Hall yesterday with fifteen leading representatives of meat retailers' associations and their legal counsel. The Mayor called the meeting "very helpful," while David Greenwald, attorney for the American Federation of Kosher Butchers, called the conference "entirely satisfactory." The Mayor before departing declined to identify the officials with whom he plans to meet in Washington, but it is speculated they may include Price Administrator Chester Bowles, War Food Administrator Marvin Jones, and Economic Stabilization Director Frederick Vinson. During his weekly broadcast over WNYC, the Mayor acknowledged that the present situation has placed the city's meat dealers "in a squeeze," and expressed the view that they have "a legitimate concern" with the current structure of ceiling prices.
("Y'know what I hoid?" propounds Alice. "I hoid 'ee lives in Scawrsdale." "Eh," shrugs Sally. "Zat awl you gawtta say?" queries Alice. "Nyehh," mutters Sally, settling the question. "You awright?" Alice wonders. "I mean, f'real -- awr you awright?" Sally makes no reply, gazing blankly across the car, her eyes fixed on a 6th War Loan poster. They ride on silently past several stops before the train pulls into 18th Avenue. "C'mon, kid," nudges Alice. "Oueh stawp." "Neh," replies Sally. "You go awn. I t'ink I jus' wanna ride a while." "Uh oh," mutters Alice, carefully studying her friend's face. "You awright, Sal?" she asks. "I guess," shrugs Sally. "You go awn, I'll be awright." Against her better judgement, Alice exhales, and steps off the train. Sally leans back in her seat and closes her eyes as the car lurches onward...)
("C'n ya b'lieve it?" exclaims Bink Scanlan to the young woman behind the counter at the Rogers Avenue Bohack. "I'm woikin' f't'ese people an'ney sen' me out t'get t'eh groceries like I'ma maid a'sump'n!" "You -- woikin'?" marvels the clerk. "Ahhhhh, I got no cherce," growls Bink. "Fatty wouldn' press chawrges awn me f' dippin' 'im, so it's like I owe 'im, right?" "Fatty?" queries the clerk. "Oh you know 'im," sneers Bink. "Frank Leary. T'at ol' bootleggeh up awn Bedf'd Aveneh. He was shackin' up wit' Ol' Lady Sweeney t'eh at Lieb's, an' gawd's-me-witness, he wen' an' MARRIED 'eh!" "G'WAN," gapes the clerk. "Hey lissen, I hoid t'at daughteh'ra hers got sent t'Bellevue las' summeh f'killin' a guy by reason of insanity a'sump'n. Push'd 'im right in fronna t'subway." "I dunno 'bout t'at," shrugs Bink, "but she gives me t'heebie-jeebies. I wen' bowlin' wit'tm a while back an' she neveh shut'teh mout'. Goin' awn an'awn bout how t'ey shouldn'a drafted 'eh husban', an' about how she hates t'is gal woiks f'ra newspapeh she went t'school wit', an' how t'Dodgehs shouldn'a traded t'is one guy -- I mean, f'gawdsakes, lady, take a breat'." "You gawt y'self inta sump'n," nods the clerk. "An'nen she's gawt t'is lit'l goil, right?" marvels Bink. "Like she's some kin'a Quiz Kid 'a sump'n. Awrways lookin' at me like she knows sump'n I don't. She's anot'eh one up t'eh gives me t'willies." "Whooo," whistles the clerk. "An'na wois' t'ing?" summarizes Bink. "Fatty sez t'me t'is mawrnin', 'e says, 'why don'chee come t'Chris'mas dinneh wit' us. Says he got hold'a some giant toikey a'sump'n." "Y'gonna do it?" wonders the clerk. "It's'at awr t'Automat," sighs Bink...)
("Some of these men on the Bushwicks," declares Mr. Parrot, "are pretty good. You really ought to consider..." "Do they still have," demands Mr. Rickey, "that one-armed fellow?" "Gray?" replies Mr. Parrott. "He was never on the Bushwicks. He was on the Bay Parkways. Besides, the Browns got him." "Pity," shrugs Mr. Rickey. "Such a man would prove an outstanding gate attraction. But no matter." "Well," insists Mr. Parrott, "if it was up to me, I'd talk to Max Rosner, and see..." "You are, however, not me," declares Mr. Rickey. "And much to my good fortune, I might add. I have plans, my boy, plans regarding which you shall be taken into confidence at the appointed time." "Ah," ahs Mr. Parrott. "Ah indeed," replies Mr. Rickey, taking an enigmatic puff on his cigar....)
(Beer jackets with snappy slogans? That's so 1939.)
("Ah yes, Paris. I was in the -- how you say -- Resistance, you know." "From Chicago?" "Long Distance Resistance, my dear. I shall one day write a book.")
(BIllboards on the beach? What's this world coming to?)
(Oh why not, you could say you're an art dealer. I mean, the resemblance is uncanny.)
(WEBS OF INTRIGUE)
