37 jams in the Loop. nessmen took their lunch in order to avoid the noonday A JAZZ-AGE CLERK JAMES T. FARRELL (1904-1979) faded powder-blue suit were not so old, and if only it Born and raised on Chicago's South Side, James Thomas Farrell attended parochial elementary and high schools fol- lowed by three years of study at the University of Chicago and evening classes at De Paul University. He worked at a range of jobs, including at a shoe store, gas station, adver- tising company, funeral parlor, and newspaper. His fiction typically depicts poor Chicago characters of Irish descent, and he published more than twenty-five novels. His first three novels form a trilogy about the same character: Young Lonigan (1932), The Young Manhood of Studs Lonigan (1934), and Judgment Day (1935). These works chronicle the degeneration of William (Studs) Lonigan, an adolescent who is corrupted by his Chicago slum environment, be- comes a brutal hoodlum, and dies by the age of twenty- One sunny day in early spring Jack went out to lunch. He felt good. He would have felt even better if only his were already the next pay day, because then he hoped to be able to make a down payment and get a new suit on the installment plan. When he had got this powder- blue suit, he'd thought that it was the real thing. All the cake-eaters were wearing them. But it was a cheap suit that had faded quickly. And his brown hat, fixed square- shaped the way the cakes were wearing them, was old and greasy from the stacomb that he smeared on his hair every day. Yes, he would have been feeling much better if he were dogged out in a new outfit. Well, he would some day, he decided. He walked toward Van Buren nine. In 1937, the trilogy won a $2,500 Book-of-the-Month Club prize. Farrell's second novel cycle, a history of the life of Danny O'Neill, includes A World I Never Made (1936), Street. It was a narrow, dusty street, with garages, a continen- tal filling station and terminal, and the rear ends of old office buildings and restaurants. On the other side he spotted a girl, and told himself that she was so hot she could start a new Chicago fire all by herself. He snapped his fingers and watched her pass. Daddy! He burst into song: which was the subject of an obscenity court case in 1937; No Star Is Lost (1939); Father and Son (1940); My Days of Anger (1943); and The Face of Time (1953). Among his story collections are $1000 a Week and Other Stories (1942), An American Dream Girl (1950), and A Dangerous Woman and Other Short Stories (1957). Teasing eyes, teasing eyes, You're the little girl that sets my heart afire A Jazz-Age Clerk I JA ACK Stratton worked from ten to eight answering telephone calls in the Wagon Department of the Con- tinental Express Company. What he liked best about his job was his lunch hour from one to two. Ordinarily, clerks went to lunch at twelve o'clock, and he believed that people seeing him on the streets between one and two might figure that he was a lad with a pretty good job, because one o'clock was the time when many busi- Teasing! He expressed his feelings with a low whistle. He guessed that working in the Loop had its advantages. At least there were plenty of shebas to look at. He shifted his gait into a hopping two-step. Self-conscious, he checked himself. People might laugh at him in the street, just as Gas-House McGinty, Heinie Mueller, and some of the others in the office laughed at him. Some day he would like to show them, clean up on a few of the wise-aleck clerks. And he would, too! They were dumb, that was all, and they didn't know what was the real thing in the world today. They didn't have enough sense to be cake-eaters. And nicknaming him Jenny, like they had. Some day he would Jenny them! He began walking in a kind of waltzing dance step, his body quiv- 36 38 39 A JAZZ-AGE CLERK JAMES T. FARRELL sers. He felt the thinness at the right elbow of his coat. ering as he moved. Another song burst into his thoughts, “Tiger Rose.” Sadness and self-pity drove the half-sung chorus out of his mind. He wanted girls, a girl, and he wanted money to spend on clothes so that he could impress the broads, and to spend on dances, dates, going places. But he was only making eighty-five dollars a month. That was more than he had expected when he started looking for a job, and he couldn't kick. He knew fellows who only-made their fifteen a week. But his pay wasn't any too much. And since his old man was out of work, most of his jack had to go to his mother toward keeping up the home. Gee, he wished that the old man would find He was the only one remaining in the restaurant. Sud- denly he was conscious of his shabbiness. He reached down to touch the raggedy cuffs of his bell-bottom trou- Kitty slid a ham sandwich at him, and then she slopped a cup of coffee across the counter. "Big times tonight!” he said while applying mustard to his sandwich. “Huh?" she mumbled lifelessly. "Dance at the South Hall out in Englewood where I live," he said, biting into his sandwich. "Takin' yours along?" she asked lackadaisically. "I told her to keep the home fires burning tonight. I like a little variety and change, sister." "The Darktown Strutters' Ball." His shoulders swung to the singing of a few lines from petulantly. "Cancha sing something that's new,” Kitty said on Quincy Street. Listen!” “I just learned this one this week at the Song Shop 9 another job, and then he could have a little more to spend. He saw an athletically built blonde, who was just bow- wows, the kind to look at and weep. He jerked his shoul- ders in rhythm and sang: I'm runnin' wild, I'm runnin' wild, I lost control No, no, Nora, nobody but you, dear, You know, Nora, yours truly is true, dear "Aha!” he interrupted with a leer. Now, if there would only be some mama like that in the restaurant, and if he could only get next to her. The restaurant where he usually ate was owned by a Greek, and was a small establishment with a tile floor and an imitation marble counter. He took a counter seat in the front, several stools removed from the nearest customer. Kitty, the slatternly peroxide-blonde waitress , greeted him with a yellow-toothed yawn, and at the same time she rubbed a fat hand over her low forehead. He looked up at her face; it was crusted with powder. And when you accuse me of flirting "Like that?" he interpolated with a lascivious wink. I wouldn't, I couldn't, I love you so, I've had chances, too many to mention buol “Always get chances," he interposed. “Hello,” he said. A customer got up and went to the glass case to pay his check. Kitty left Jack, collected, rang the cash regis- ter, deposited the silver in the drawer, and returned. The expression on her face was stupid, bored. Jack snapped his fingers, rolled his eyes, and sang a jazz song, “What yuh want today, Dapper Dan?” she asked. “Ham and coffee. Swinging her head sidewise, she shouted the sandwich ablo Never give them a bit of attention, No, no, Nora. No? No? order to the chef. Other customers left and she collected. Nice tune," Kitty said dopily as Jack bent down to drink coffee. “Fast! And tonight I'm grabbing myself a keen num- 40 41 A JAZZ-AGE CLERK noticed about him would be his shined shoes. His fell for him! It would just be thoughts leaped. Wouldn't it be luck if some ritzy queen JAMES T. FARRELL ber and stepping myself right up over those blue clouds Adventure-bound, hopeful and gay, he hustled toward the new Potter Hotel. His courage deserted him as he mood lifted. passed the uniformed doorman who stood with a set and into heaven. “You're conceited." He finished his sandwich. His coffee cup was half full. He looked at the cuts of pie in the dessert case before him. He dug his hand into his right trouser pocket. He swallowed his coffee in one gulp and slid off the stool. He paid Kitty fifteen cents, which she rang up. “Toodle-oo!” “ 'Bye, sheik,” she said patronizingly. II frowning face, seeming to tell Jack that he wasn't wanted. He paused at the entrance to the enormous lobby, with its gold decorations, its hanging diamond- like chandeliers, its lavish display of comfortable furni- ture. He told himself in awe that it was like a palace. He noticed men and women, sitting, standing, moving around, talking, reading newspapers, and for a moment he felt as if he were in a moving picture world, the hero in a picture walking into this hotel lobby like a palace fit for the richest of kings or businessmen. He skirted several bellboys and found a chair in a corner, but it was not obscure, because there was a passageway all round the lobby and many people would pass him while he sat. A feeling of awe, as if he were in a church where talking was not permitted, filled his consciousness. He Overhead, the elevated trains thundered, drowning out the racket of street traffic. He stood on the sidewalk, hands in pockets, hat tilted, watching the crowd. He de- cided that today he'd sit in the lobby of a good hotel instead of going to the Song Shop and listening to the new tunes being sung. It would be restful. If he only had on decent clothes, he could sit in a lobby and seem like a young fellow, maybe, with a rich old man or a good job that paid a big salary. A man in a hurry bumped into him and, hastening on, snottily suggested that he quit taking up the whole sidewalk. Jack looked after him, shrugged his shoulders, laughed. He bent his eyes on the moving legs of a girl ahead of him. He realized that if he got his shoes shined, he would improve his appearance. He hated to spend the dime, though, because when he got home tonight he could shine his own shoes. But his appearance would be im- wished that he hadn't come here where he didn't belong, and at the same time he was glad that he'd come. Several yards away from him he noticed a gray-haired man in a gray suit, whose pleasingly wrinkled face seemed calm, contented, mellowed. He tried to make himself seem as calm and as at ease as this man. For want of something to do, he ran the palm of his hand through his greasy hair; it was meticulously parted in the center. He sedulously drew out his dirty handkerchief to wipe the grease off his hand. To his right, he heard a well-dressed fellow discussing the stock market with a friend. A bellboy wended in and out, intoning: proved, and he wouldn't look quite so poor. It was all in accordance with the principles of clever dressing. Al- ways have on something new, outstanding or shiny, a loud tie, a clean shirt, a new hat, shined shoes, and then something else you were wearing that was shabby wouldn't be so noticed. He applied his principle by drop- ping into a shoe-shine parlor. A young Negro energetically shined his shoes, and Jack day-dreamed about how he would stroll noncha- • Mr. 29 lantly into the lobby of the Potter Hotel and find himself a chair that he could slump into, just so natural. He could spread his legs out so that the first thing anyone “Call for Mr. Wagner Call for Mr. Wagner Call for Mr. Wagner Call for Mr. Wagner Wagner please He was unable to chase out his confusion of feelings in this alien atmosphere of the well-dressed, the well- fed, the prosperous. He wished he could live a life that had as much glitter as there must be in the lives of these people. He thought how some day he wanted to be able 42 43 Call for Mr. Al A JAZZ-AGE CLERK "Call for Mr. O'Flaherty. O'Flaherty . . . Call for Mr. Al O'Flaherty ... Call for JAMES T. FARRELL Wouldn't it be the dogs to be paged like that on important business calls! But he had no right even to 79 Mr. Al O'Flaherty to sit in a swanky hotel lobby like this one, well-dressed, and have a bell hop pass along calling out his name. He tried to visualize himself, a little older, a successful rich businessman in the lobby with the bellboy droning for think of such things. It wouldn't ever be for him. His lot in life deepened his wretchedness. He hadn't had any- thing to start on. Father and mother with no dough. One year in high school, and that without clothes, no athletic ability, no money, nothing that could get him into frater- Call for Mr. John nities and make the girls go for him. But, gee, him. “Call for Mr. Stratton Stratton Stratton Call for Mr. John Stratton . . . Mr. John And it would be some millionaire on the wire waiting to close an important deal that would net him a hand- some piece of change. He'd close the deal and come back to wait for å mama. Maybe she'd be some hot movie actress like Gloria Swanson who would be like the sweetheart of the world in her pictures. And he would be waiting for this movie actress more beautiful than even Gloria Swanson, thinking how when he had been nothing but a punk clerk at the express company he'd come to sit in the same lobby, wearing shabby clothes, dreaming of the day when things would happen in high school there'd been all kinds of hot and classy girls! Only why should they have looked at an unimportant fresh- man like himself? And anyway, that was all over. Now he was working at a job with no future. Maybe he ought to be glad for what he had, but, gee, he couldn't help feeling that some guys got all the breaks, while he got almost none. All these people, they belonged to a world he would never enter. A bellboy coming toward him. Gee! He sat stricken in a paralyzing fright. He pushed back the dirty cuffs of his shirt so that they were invisible. He tried to think up a reason he could give for being in the lobby when the bell hop came and questioned him. He'd say he was waiting for somebody who was staying at the hotel. But DB to him. He watched a tall and handsome young fellow stroll by. Must be collegiate! Must have had his gray suit made to order and have paid fifty, seventy-five bucks for it, maybe even more. The threads of his daydream sud- denly snapped. All the confidence went out of him, so that he felt shaky, trembly. He wished again that he hadn't come here. He felt as if everyone in the lobby were looking at him, knowing he didn't belong and want- ing to see him tossed out on his can. He looked unobtru- sively at two snappily dressed young fellows on his left. They were out of earshot, but he wondered what they were saying. They probably had everything they wanted and did anything they cared to do, had automobiles, money on which to date up queens everything. The one wearing a Scotch tweed suit drew out a fat cigar, removed the band, smelled the cigar, bit off the end, lit it like a businessman in a movie. If only his life were that of a hero in the movies! Ah! That was class, the way that fellow in the tweeds had pulled out his cigar and lit it. Yes, when his own dream ship came in and he could afford to smoke four-bit cigars, he would have they could check up on the name. He'd say he was wait- ing for a friend coming in from New York who was going to stay here. The bellboy coming! He wanted to get up and leave. He had no will. He was so afraid that. he began to sweat under the armpits, and his forehead perspired. Coming! The bellboy passed by his chair as if no one were sitting in it, and bent down to speak with the calm-faced man. The man rose and followed the bellboy across the lobby. Jack again pulled out his soiled handkerchief, wiped his forehead. crushed it into a ball so that it couldn't be noticed, and He watched a slim, voluptuous blonde woman cross the lobby. She was the dogs, the snake's hips, and the stars all rolled into something in a black dress. Those lips of hers. She had lip-appeal, sister, lip-appeal, sex- appeal, and she had it, and she was like a shower of to remember to light them the way that fellow did. JAMES T. FARRELL 44 a stars. Looked like a woman some rich bird had put in the velvet. He followed her tantalizing, sensuous move- ments with thirsting eyes, She was a trifle taller than he, he guessed .. but hot She sat down beside middleaged man in a conservative blue suit, crossed her legs.. Legs! Wouldn't he like to have the bucks to buy the most expensive stockings money could buy for those legs! She lit a cigarette and he bet himself that it was an expensive Turkish cigarette. Oh, sister! Tantalizing, he told himself, not removing his eyes from her legs. Yes, all he wanted was the money to have a mama like that. There wasn't a movie queen in Hollywood that had a nickel on that one. He imagined that she was his woman, seated beside him, talking to him, saying that she would rather have lunch at the Fraternity Row today. She was saying she was crazy, just crazy, about him and didn't care two cents for anyone else in the world. She was wild for him. “Call for Mr. Jones Mr. Jones please!... Mr. Jones!” The voice of the bellboy was like a jolt, awakening him. He looked at his Ingersoll watch. Two minutes to two. He'd be late, and Collins, his boss, might bawl the hell out of him, and then all the fellows in the office would razz him, call him Jenny, the drugstore cowboy, He placed his hat on carefully and moved swiftly out of broke into song. the lobby. Hurrying along the street, he fell into a dance step. Then he ran until he pulled up, winded. Four min- utes after two. What excuse could he give Collins? He paused to look at a girl in pink. Nice! He unwittingly I'm Al-a-ba-ma bound He again worried about himself, thought of the things he wanted and couldn't have. He started running, hoping that Collins wouldn't bawl him out. Two seven!
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