by John Sanford
“I wouldn’t’ve been so angry, Polly.”
“Wouldn’t you?” she said.
“I’d’ve met you at the train, and I’d’ve fed you, and then I’d’ve hired an iron bed in some cold room, and when we got up there, you know what I’d’ve done? I’d’ve knocked your teeth out, one by one. I don’t know how many teeth you’ve got left, but I’d’ve made them last till my pass expired.”
“I guess it’s lucky I brought apple-face.”
The hack-driver put his arm around the woman. “It isn’t that I like the kid any better than you,” he said. “It’s just that I don’t have much use for one of those last drowning pieces.”
“Nor I. It would’ve made me ashamed.”
“I’m crazy about you, Polly. You’ll be a cute one all your life, even at eighty—and I changed my mind about letting you alone after that. Then I’m really going to annoy you.”
“I’m crazy about you too, Dan. Probably because you’re such a fool.”
“Would you care to kiss a fool, Polly?”
The boy climbed the bank to the road and came to a halt, saying, “Shame! Shame! Everybody knows your name!”
“Meet Mr. and Mrs. George Washington,” the hack-driver said.
“The people with the determine face!”
Military Training
As she entered the flat, the woman said, “Any mail today?” and her son indicated a letter lying on the parlor table. She set down an armful of paper sacks and began to slit the flap of the envelope, but she paused to say, “Or would you rather eat first?”
“First the letter,” the boy said, and reaching up under the new chandelier, he pressed the black nipple of a light-switch.
His mother smoothed several sheets of Y. M. C. A. stationery, saying, “It’s from Somewhere In France, as usual, and it’s dated August 22nd, 1918. Here’s what he writes.”
This letter will be in three parts. The first is for Dan-boy, the Battling Bulldog of Battery Park. The second is for the Old Lady, sometimes called Polly and once in a great while Apollo, after a dollar cigar (dollar a box). The third part is for the both of you.
Here goes the first part. Danny, old kiddo, your father’s been a soldier for close onto a year now, and if you want the God’s honest truth, I’m sick and tired of it, and I get sicker and tireder by the hour. I only wish to hell I was back in N.Y.C., driving the old Pope-H around and stinking up the town.
“He uses pretty bad language,” the boy said.
“Do you, ever?” the woman said.
“Oh, once in a while, same as the other guys.”
“Is that all you can learn from them?”
“I didn’t learn any bad language from them. I learned it from Pop.”
“And I suppose they learned it from you.”
“That’s right,” the boy said.
“That’s fine.”
I want you to be a good boy at school and not get in trouble, but that don’t mean you shouldn’t fight if you get attacked, just so you keep your chin close to your chest, or else you’ll be laying down counting stars, and of course never shut your eyes when you swing, and don’t get your tongue between your teeth unless you want to eat a tongue sandwich without mustard.
Where was I? Oh, I was telling you to be good in school, and I meant it. Learn what you can because what you miss today is gone forever, and you don’t want to grow up a crafty old geezer that only cares about how much did he rake in last week. Earning isn’t learning, son, and money won’t make you smart. It sure won’t make you dumb, either, but let’s not go into that. Just you listen to Mom. She’s the one is got the brains in this family, even if she is getting on in years, but don’t tell her I said so because girls are kind of touchy about their age. Where was I?
“He never knows where he is,” the boy said. “He’s always getting lost.”
“He couldn’t find his way to the corner,” the woman said. “A fine hack-driver, he is.”
“He’s the best hack-driver in the world!”
“Do you mean to say you like him?”
“I like him even when he don’t know where he is!”
“Just between you and me, I do too.”
I was saying you should listen to the old wreck, but now I’m going to take my life in my hands by telling you that you don’t necessarily have to get led around by the ear. You’re no diaper-boy any more, almost ten years old, and you’ve got a head to think with, and besides we brung you up to know the difference between right and wrong (I mean as far as we knew it ourselves), so if it’s time for you to get a few hard knocks, go on out and meet them halfway. You only find out if you can fly by flapping your wings, and you’re flying just dandy if you ain’t laying sprauled out some place on your phiz.
One thing more, Danny-boy. Don’t laugh at me if I spelt some words wrong. I try real hard, but not being the wiz that Mom is, I’d hate for you to laugh at only a poor slob of a hack-driver.
“He’s the best hack-driver in the world,” the boy said, “and anybody that laughs at him gets peed on!”
“Where did you learn that one?”
“From the best hack-driver in the world!”
“I ask foolish questions.”
Here’s the second part of the letter, and it’s for my dear beloved wife Polly. That bum of a brother of yours, I guess he knows the time of day as good as any man, but he sure made a skull when he wrote once that democracy was contageous. There’s mighty little of it that this soldier in the infantry can see. Our officers are a pack of rah-rahs that think this war is being fought for their especial benefit, which it damn well is, and about the greatest risk they run is an inkwell exploding on them in some chataeu. Also I never heard of servants in an army, but everybody from a shavetail up (a general is shaved all over) they all got guys from the ranks to shine their shoes, dish up their grub, and practicly wipe.…
“What did you stop for?” the boy said.
“That was the end of the sentence,” the woman said.
“You can’t just wipe. You have to wipe something”
“You’re right, Danny. I told a little lie.”
“Bad language again?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you could read the bad parts fast.”
“I know a better way,” the woman said. “I’ll read the bad parts to myself.”
[practicly wipe their behinds.]
The woman glanced at her son. “Well, I read that one,” she said. “I hope it’s the last.”
“I been trying to guess what you left out, and I think I got it.” “Keep it to yourself.”
And just open your moosh to complain, and all they give you to defend yourself against a carload of spuds is a skinny little peeling-knife. Servants in the U. S. Army! That’s a new one on me. My C. O., the one that I’m elected to blow his nose for, he hasn’t drew a sober breadth since he went off the.…
“More bad language?” the boy said.
“A few words,” the woman said.
[since he went off the titty.]
“Did you do it?” the boy said.
“I did it.”
“He’s giving us a lot of trouble.”
“He’s still the best hack-driver, though.”
But in some ways he’s pretty regular, like for instance he don’t censor my letters. Matter of fact, he don’t censor anybody else’s because it hasn’t been proved yet that he can read. They say his adjutant caught him talking American once, but in the Army it’s a good thing not to believe all you hear in the latrine. So far as I’m concerned, the Capt. only speaks one word fluently, and that’s a word in French meaning lay down on your back madamoselle.
The woman said, “I shouldn’t’ve read that.”
“I wonder what the word is,” the boy said. “It’s probally ‘barleyvoo.’”
“Probally,” the woman said. “Now comes a whole sentence that I have to leave out.”
[They give him a medal the other day, no doubt for keeping the ra
in off of all the girls in the Argonne salient.]
The boy said, “You’re smiling.”
“Am I?” the woman said. “How can you tell?”
“It shows on your face.”
“I hope that’s all that shows.”
About grub, Polly, you know I never could write you a reference to Mr. Delmonico, but after eating the crap they hand out over here, I’d give a month’s pay for one of your appetizing soggy little pies. An Army cook, every time he lays a hand on food, he’s guilty of feloneous assault with intent to kill. When he ain’t maiming a good side of beef, he’s on a can-opening bender, which means you could sometimes go for a week on goldfish and beans. We would like that stuff better if they made it in slightly smaller cans and left it there. Then we could swallow them whole and only get the pleasant taste of tin.
Polly darling, do you remember the things we talked about that day in Pemberton? About whether I’d’ve been glad if you didn’t bring….
The woman said, “There’s a long part coming now that you can’t hear.”
“What’ll I do while you’re reading it?”
“Make believe we’re still down there in Pemberton. Walk along the bank and kick pine-cones into the creek. Plike it’s a year ago.”
[About whether I’d’ve been glad if you didn’t bring apple-face? Remember that? It sure would’ve been nice to get that overnight pass. That way, I could’ve seen Danny, also you and me could’ve been together like we never could in some damn rented bed, knowing we managed those couple of hours by sneaking away from the kid. I never would’ve felt right about that. He’s just a little slob of a kid, but sometimes when I only look at him I have such a hard time breathing I feel like I’m up to my neck in sand. I love that little boy, Polly, and the reason is not that he’s got a soft round face, or because it feels good to run your hand the wrong way of his hair, or because it’s so much fun to watch him when he don’t know he’s being watched, or even because I’m his father. The reason is because he came out of your body, and that’s the thing I love best in this world.
[The walk we took that day, I’ve thought about it so many times that when I start to go back over all of our years, I only see you like you were on one particular afternoon.]
“I’m all done kicking things in the river,” the boy said.
“There’s only a little bit more,” the woman said.
“I guess that’s the longest piece of bad language in the United States.”
“I have to admit I’m enjoying it, though.”
[Red in the face with cold, dressed in two-three kinds of brown, like the woods and the fields were, and not terribly pretty maybe to anyone but me—and in my eyes you weren’t as if we’d been married ten years, but that same afternoon (although it’s true we went to bed together twice without a license), and we were laying naked next to each other in the dark, and you were saying Dan, Dan.]
The woman turned a page, saying, “Well, that was the end of the bad language. Here’s the rest.”
And now a word for the family. A word to end words, you might say, just like this is a war to end wars—sure, in a pig’s fat ass.…
“You read a real dirty one out loud!” the boy said.
“He fooled me!” the woman said. “He told us this part was for the family, and like an idiot, I took him at his word!”
“He’s a good joker.”
“The best there is.”
There’ll be more wars, just like there’ll be more words. Now, where was I…?
“He’s lost again,” the boy said.
Honorable Discharge
At Madison Square, the Broadway and Fifth Avenue side-walks were packed with people. The bunting on Victory Arch stood stiff in the wind, as if the Arch were making headway, and a blizzard of torn paper whirled along the thoroughfare, and whistles made rippling graphs of sound, and bells spoke the single word of their tongue, and horns blabbed, and marching boots struck asphalt under ticker-tape drifts. A returned contingent of the A.E.F. was on parade.
Opposite Park & Tilford’s, in the 26th Street slice of morning sunlight, were Polly Johnson and Danny, the latter wearing the uniform of a Boy Pioneer. He had not yet been admitted to the organization, but on its assurance of membership when he reached the age of twelve, he had entered into negotiations with one Ormond Hoyt (recently dismissed for conduct inconsistent with the tradition of the Frontier, to wit, dropping a paper sack of water on the head of his Chief Woodsman) for the purchase of his uniform.
[“Give you fifty cents for the whole business” you said.
[“Fifty cents!” Ormie said. “Why, I coughed up two bucks for the coat and pants alone!”
[“I can’t afford that, so I guess I’ll imvest my money in a catcher’s mitt.”
[“You can’t get any mitt for any fifty cents.”
[“The man said I could have it if I gave him fifty cents down. Then I’ll only owe him a nickel a week for two years.”
[“By then, all the mitt you’ll have is the thumb.”
[“Not if I don’t use it.”
[“What’s the good of something you don’t use?”
[“You mean, like a Pioneer uniform?” you said.
[“That’s different,” he said. “That’s so different, it ain’t even the same.”
[“I wonder if the man still has that mitt.”
[“Tell you what, Danny. Cough up ninety cents, and I’ll throw in the staff.”
[“I thought the staff went with the uniform.”
[“The uniform is only what you wear,” he said “Pants, leggins, shirt, and hat. You don’t wear the staff. Where can you wear the staff?”
[“In my hand, and that makes it part of the uniform. You got to throw in something else.”
[“You’re a regalar Sherlock, Danny.”
[“A catcher’s mitt will stop these insultments.”
[“Wait,” he said. “Cough up that ole ninety cents, and I’ll leave my Talent Badges on the shirt. The ones for Pottery, Horsemanship, and Tree Indentification.”
[“They were on the shirt when you bought it off of Ralphie Cooke,” you said. “I suppose you’ll let the sweat-band stay on the hat.”
[“I got to,” he said. “It’s part of the hat.”
[“And so’s the Talent Badges part of the shirt. You ain’t giving nothing away when you throw in Talent Badges.”
[“We been friends a long time, Danny, or I wouldn’t do this. You pony up ninety cents, and you can have the whistle. That’s fair as fair.”
[“What would I do with a whistle?” you said.
[“Well, supposing you was up in Van Cortlandt Park, and you got attacked by a boa-constructor, or a bear, or even a wild animal. You’d blow on the whistle, and all the Pioneers would come and save you with their Pioneer pocket-knives.”
[“Have you got one of those?”
[“Sure. How do you think I save people’s lives?”
[“How about throwing it in, then? You don’t have to save people any more.”
[“Okay. For the ninety cents, I’ll throw it in.”
[“Ninety!” you said. “Who said anything about ninety?”
[“I did!” he said. “I been saying it all along!”
[“Well, I only said fifty, and fifty buys a mitt.”
[“Ah, show the color of your money.”
[You gave him two quarters, and then, loading yourself down with the things you’d bought, you started for the door. On the landing outside, you stopped and looked back, and you said, “Come over here a minute, will you, Ormie?”
[“It’s too late to back out, if that’s what you want.”
[“I just want you to stick your hand in my pocket.”
[“Why should I?” he said.
[“Stick it in, and you’ll see.”
[His hand came out with another quarter, two dimes, and five pennies. “What’s this for? “he said.
[“I don’t want to gyp you,” you said. “Mom told me I could pay a dollar f
or the uniform, and I only gave you fifty cents.” Then you went downstairs, and for three or four steps you thought of the pleasure your mother would have when you told her what you’d done.
[Only for three or four steps, though, because all of a sudden Ormie called down, “Stung! Stung! Did you ever get stung! I paid thirty cents for all that crap and a lot more you never even seen!”
[And then there was a loud laugh, and a door slammed.]
With the high-borne colors of a regiment and the dipped trophies of the enemy, a dead-spot of silence marched up the Avenue, and heads were bared and hearts covered, and paper about to be flung was held. Danny Johnson’s arm snapped up to give the Pioneer salute (“left hand to brow, as if scouting”), and his hat fell off. Long after the swimming flags had passed, the boy was still at salute, honoring gun-limber and caisson, ambulance and horse, and file after file of smiling infantry—and then suddenly his mother had him by the shoulder as if he were under arrest, and she was pointing his face at the sidecar of an approaching motorcycle.
“I wish it was full of water,” the hack-driver said as he rolled by. “I need a bath.”
* * *
Bathed, fed, and dressed now in one of his old whipcord suits, the hack-driver sat sock-footed in his rocker and smoked a cigar. Admiring their hero were his wife and son. “The nearest I come to a medal,” he said, “I faded a Croy de Gear on the transport home. I lost it back the next night, though.”
The boy said, “You wrote you was bringing me the Kaiser on a dog-chain.”
“I lost him too. The bones must’ve been loaded.”
“He would’ve been a good thing to have.”
“I see you’re a Boy Scout of America.”
“That’s for sissies. I’m a Boy Pioneer.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The Boy Scouts do a good turn every day. We don’t.” “You’ve got to do something.”
“I suppose so, only I’m not really a Boy Pioneer yet. I just bought the uniform off of Ormie Hoyt.”
“Ah, you’re prepared.”
“No, that’s the Boy Scouts. They’re always prepared.”
