The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("Y'evveh notice," observes Alice, inhaling a deep draught of the damp early evening air as she and Sally turn the corner from 18th Avenue onto 63rd Street, "y'evveh notice what Spring smells like innis town? Wet cawncrete. Awl y'c'n smell. T' cawncrete smells like wet cawncrete, t' bricks smell like wet cawncrete, t' met'l smells like wet cawncrete, t' people -- even'a people -- smell like wet cawncrete." Yeh," nods Sally, her mind elsewhere. "Y'know," Alice continues, "when I was livin' upstate f'ra while'eh, I t'ought maybe it'd be diff'rnt? But it wasn'. Got up t'eh, took a deep breat' -- wet cawncrete. Awl yeeh roun, ev'n." "Yeh," sighs Sally. "Hey, didja frien' set up'at t'ing wit' t'wawlpapeh?" "Neh," shrugs Alice. "He says ya can't get no wawlpapeh. T'em self-pastin' bawrdehs was awlee had, an'nat wouldn' woik. Do'worry, t'ough, we'lll t'inka sump'n." The conversation falls silent as they climb the stoop of No. 1762, and step into the foyer. "Hey," heys Sally. "Mail." She produces her key and snaps open the box. "It's from Joe," she gulps, extracting the small envelope. Heeh, heeh, hol' me bag. Lemme gettit open." She fumbles the sheet out of the envelope and adjust her glasses. Her face clouds. "It's jus'a same'sa las' one," she whispers. "Alice, it's jus'sa same'sa las' one. 'Don' worry, evr'yt'ing is awright. Jus' don' worry. Love, Joe.' T'at's awl'ee says." "Jeez," whispers Alice. " "Yeh," nods Sally, her voice strangling. "Yeh...")

("Didjee clear ahhl that space doonstairs?" bustles Uncle Frank. "Shaugnessy'll be here any minute. Two hoondred poonds'a eggs! D'ye KNOW, Nora, hoo many eggs that is?" "Too many," scowls Ma. "Nivver moind that," dismisses Uncle Frank. "Oi figyaaared it oot. Woon egg weighs, oh, aboot two oonces. That's eight eggs t'wa poond, ye see. So eight toimes --" "Sixteen hoondred eggs," sighss Ma. "A hoondred n' tharrty-three doozen, an' four or so lift ovarr." "Wroite thim aahf t' breakage," chuckles Uncle Frank. "We'll hav'm farr breakfast. Oi'm tellin' ye, Nora, we'll make soom real mooney aahn this, an' thar's moor whar.." He is interrupted by the harsh wheeze of a truck horn. "That's Shaughnessy now with th' troock. Coo'm alaaang, we'll help load'm in." With a deep gust of annoyance Ma wipes her hands on her apron and follows her husband out to the sidewalk, where Shaughnessy is just unlatching the back of his truck. "A hoondred an' tharty-three doozen eggs?" puzzles Ma, "In th' backa that littl' troock?" "They pack'm in toit," asserts Uncle Frank. "Oi'll pass'm oot t'ye," calls Shaughnessy from the back of the truck. "Ahhl roit," grins Uncle Frank. "Tharr heavy," warns Shaughnessy. "Harrr's th' farrst woon," he declares. Uncle Frank blinks, and then buckles under the weight of a bulky brown paper sack. "Bloody hell, man!" he gapes. "Wot's this ye gimme?" "Fifty poonds'a eggs," shrugs Shaughnessy. "Powdaaaared eggs. Joost loike th' Arrrrmy. Gaaht three maar sacks coomin'..." "POWWWWWWDAAAARED eggs!" roars Ma. "Joost add watarr," notes Shaughnessy. "It's th' latest thing!" "Th' Egg King a' East Flatboosh," sighs Ma, as Uncle Frank gazes ruefully at the neatly packaged shards of his latest dream...)

(Well, at least he isn't a marriage counselor.)

(You can't please everybody. And sometimes you can't please anybody.)

("You were, ah.." stammers Mr. Parrott, "only -- um -- joking when you said you might try catching this year?" "Have you ever," puffs Mr. Rickey, "known me to jest? I am a serious man, my boy, a man of affairs. I do not trifle with humor. What I will say, mark this, what I will say, I shall do." "Well," shrugs Mr. Parrott, "I spoke to Mr. Comerford today, you know, the equipment manager, and he says he has a uniform in one of the trunks that might work. You remember when Phelps played here, Babe Phelps, he.." "I do indeed," frowns Mr. Rickey. "Was he not the man they called 'the Blimp?'" "Uh, did they?" sweats Mr. Parrott. "it's been so long..." "You dissemble poorly," Mr. Rickey admonishes. "Nevertheless, bring me this uniform and I.." "Um, it isn't ready yet," whispers Mr. Parrott. "Speak up, boy!" thunders Mr. Rickey. "If you have a remark, let your voice rise above the din!" "Um," exhales Mr. Parrott, "the uniform isn't ready yet, um, Comerford says he has to -- ah -- that is -- let out the pants." "That will be all, Mr. Parrott." "Yes sir.")

(This is just mean.)

("Of course, without my glasses I can't see the desk, let alone the typewriter, but you've got to admit I made an entrance!")

(SHARP ORGAN STING up to finish.)

(There are times when you just gotta be pragmatic.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Ever get the feeling the whole world is Page Four?

"Well," sighs Uncle Frank, squinting at the soggy yellow mass on his plate, "noo that doon't look soo bad." "Eat oop," snickers Ma. "Thaaaar's a laaaht moor wharr THAT coom from!"

Sometimes I wish I lived in the kind of town where the cops would care about something like this.

She must've paid extra for the fireproofing.

"Movies on Paper" isn't just a phrase. Sometimes you can forget you're looking a drawings on a page.

WIth Paprika in the house, Pop probably gets a lot of use out of that shotgun.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick....

"Just keep those paws where I can see 'em."

How are you fixed for powdered eggs?

Plushie's kind of a dope, but not *that* kind of a dope.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

There's a New World Coming...

 

[Fading Fast]

Powdaaaared eggs.



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"You dissemble poorly."



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This is just mean.

Agreed. Not funny at all.

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Ever get the feeling the whole world is Page Four?

Assuming the story is reasonably accurate, women like Betty Hak do not do well as they get older and their looks go. Now, sixty, and having lived in NYC for most of the past four decades, I've seen the "lifecycle" of a few of them and it isn't pretty.

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Sometimes I wish I lived in the kind of town where the cops would care about something like this.

In NYC, unless you have a few dead bodies on hand to show them, the police will not be interested in whatever you want them for.

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"Movies on Paper" isn't just a phrase. Sometimes you can forget you're looking a drawings on a page.

Agreed, very, very impressive. King does it differently than Caniff, but he and Caniff play the game at a higher level than all the others, that we see anyway.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I dunno WHAT t't'ink, Ma," laments Sally, as her mother snips the wire binding the late final edition of the Eagle and tosses the papers into the rack. "Oi'll tell ye what OI think," Ma exhales. "If ye doon't stop waaaaryin', ye goin' t' warry yeself roit back intarr Bellevue!" "Wheddaya get T"AT stuff?" roars Sally. "I showed ya t'letteh! Whatt'm I SPOSTA do? Joe gets shawt, he goes weeks b'tween lettehs an' awl'ee eveh says is 'don't worry!" A'COUESE I'm gonna WORRY! Oh, you dunno what it's LIKE!" "Sally Aileen Sweeney, that's aboot enoof!" growls Ma in a voice Sally last heard in 1925. "OI doon't knoo what it's LOIKE? Chroist'amoity! D'ye bloody think yarrr th' oonly woman evarr had a hoosband goo t'wawr???? What'dye think Oi doon in 1917, twoine meself a bloody garland 'a rooses an' dance aroond a maypole?" Sally stares at her hands, her neck flushing red. "I remembeh when Pa wen' away," she replies in a low tense voice. "I do remembeh. An' I remembeh he didn' come back. An' -- oh gawd, Ma, what if Joe -- I mean -- like Pa done!" Ma exhales, twisting her apron. "Yarrr faather," she declares in an even voice, "was a saaaaartain koind a' man. He was a layaboot an' a rascal an' a blaggard an' it took me marryin' 'im t'foind it oot. Joseph is a sarrrtain koind a' man -- but he is naaaht THAT koind'a man. Ye been married t'wim farr sivven an' a half yarrs now. D'ye HONESTLY think he'd do any sooch thing as that?" "No," nods Sally, her eyes red. "Thin poot sooch naahnsense oota ye head," commands Ma. "Whativver's gooin' aahn with Joseph, ye'll foind out in good toime. An' tharrs noothin' ye can do in the meanwhoile boot wait. Go hoom, wroite 'im a lettar, wroite 'im a lettar evr'y noit if ye moost, an' DOON'T WORRY!" "It's gett'n late," sighs Sally. "Leonoreh! We gotta get home, put'choo t'bed." Leonora, who has followed the developing drama with intense interest, squirms in protest as Sally buttons her coat. "I'll see ya t'marra," exhales Sally. "Wave bye, now." "I ain'na baby no moeh," protests Leonora, as the door jingles closed behind them. Ma watches thru the window as they cross Rogers Avenue and disappear down Midwood Street. "Is she aaahl roit thin?" queries Uncle Frank, emerging from the back room. "I'm warrrried, Francis," replies Ma. "I'm warrrried aboot harrr -- and I'm REALLLY waarrried aboot Joseph...")

("Whassis stuff?" protests Willie, regarding the yellow blob on his plate. "Scrambl't eggs," replies Alice. "F'dinneh?" challenges Willie. "Ya gramma giv'm to us," frowns Alice. "Eat up, t'ezza wawr awn." "Howcum t'eh'rawl wet?" Willie rejoinds. "Lookit. s'drippin' awff t'side'a t'plate!" "Wawrteh's good fawr ya," argues Alice. "Y'know who eats wawtery eggs? Gen'r'l Patton!" Krause looks up from his own plate and suppresses a snicker. "It's true!" insists Alice. "I read it inna magazine, one'a t'em ones Sally gimme. 'New Masses' a'sump'n. Hadda whole awrticle inneh, uh, 'Fa'vrite Recipes a' Famous Gen'rls.' An' right t'eh it said 'Wawtery Eggs, by Gen'ral -- uh -- Pat Patton. Sweahtagawd. Ain'at right, Siddy?" "Yeh," guffaws Krause, a bit of egg trickling down his chin. "Patton!" exhales Willie. "Wow!" "Now eatcha eggs," directs Alice. "Some day YOU'LL be a famous -- uh -- egg eatin' gen'rl." "Yeh," chuckles Krause, raising his fork in a crisp military salute...)


(Radio advice-giver John J. Anthony was actually Lester Kroll, a Bronx con man, who came up with the idea for his program while cooling his heels in alimony jail...)

("SO THERE!" -- Butch)

("Ah," ahs Mr. Rickey, "thirty years since I donned flannels, and yet it feels like only yesterday!" "Yes sir," sighs Mr. Parrott. "Um, I'd be careful squatting, sir. Mr. Comerford says the fabric on those pants won't stand much more mending. "Even distribution of weight, my boy," lectures Mr. Rickey, "is the key to a successful catcher's squat. Observe how I slowly lower into the proper position, while keeping the weight equally distributed on the ball of each..." But his lecture is rudely interrupted by the unmistakable pop of a heavy seam giving way. "Ah," ahs Mr. Rickey. "Ah," nods Mr. Parrott...)

("Anymore?" War changes everything.)

(Wait, have we met the goon?)

(Janie's such a killjoy.)

(Where's the fun in having a super power if you cant once in a while be guileful?)

(You know, that's true for most of us, really. We just take whatever, and we wag our tail.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Ten grand's worth of bric-a-brac. Do you have any idea how many World's Fair paperweights, "Souvenir of Asbury Park" pocket mirrors, Dolph Camilli picture buttons, and Niagara Falls snow globes that would be?

Smile, Eddie! Not everybody gets to be Mister Rheingold.

Yeah, too much Paprika will do that.

I dunno about you, but I'm getting a bit airsick.

And just like that, a vast baby-carriage-theft ring was shattered.

Number one rule for getting away with murder -- don't over-sell your alibi.

"Hmmm." -- Uncle Frank.

The time to apply for a pistol permit is -- yesterday.

When you don't remember when your birthday is, it's every day.

"He sent the shorts, too, but it's still too cold..."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And of course...

I hope she's got a cushion on that seat, because there are places you really don't want to get splinters.

 

[Fading Fast]

Radio advice-giver John J. Anthony was actually Lester Kroll, a Bronx con man, who came up with the idea for his program while cooling his heels in alimony jail...

Nice.

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"Ah," ahs Mr. Rickey. "Ah," nods Mr. Parrott...

"Oy" oys the Dodgers' tailor.

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Ten grand's worth of bric-a-brac. Do you have any idea how many World's Fair paperweights, "Souvenir of Asbury Park" pocket mirrors, Dolph Camilli picture buttons, and Niagara Falls snow globes that would be?

He'd had enough of those two by that point.