The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

I have a feeling the good Doctor is giving them a break. She's come to know and like Sally, as much of a trial as she can be, and I suspect she's taking on Joe as a favor to her. The actual, historical Dr. Lena Levine was well known in Brooklyn for her kindness.

It's also a possibility that Ma, who we know is better fixed than she lets on, might be underwriting matters a bit. You may recall that Sal's trip to Bellevue last year genuinely rattled her.

 

[Fading Fast]

I have a feeling the good Doctor is giving them a break. She's come to know and like Sally, as much of a trial as she can be, and I suspect she's taking on Joe as a favor to her. The actual, historical Dr. Lena Levine was well known in Brooklyn for her kindness.

It's also a possibility that Ma, who we know is better fixed than she lets on, might be underwriting matters a bit. You may recall that Sal's trip to Bellevue last year genuinely rattled her.

Both solutions are possible, but I love the idea of Ma, behind the scenes, paying the good doctor. It makes sense in several ways, one being that she genuinely likes Joe.

 

[LizzieMaine]

"Hee's a good boy, Joseph is. an'ee's th' best thing ivver happn'ta me daughtarrr. Even if'ee AIN'T Oirish."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Finish, they should already," mutters Mrs. Ginsburg, taking a sheet of newspaper to wrap the late Mrs. Nucci's accumulation of crockery. "Enough, with war, with dying." "Yeh," nods Alice, gently resting a stack of plates in a cardboard carton. "She sueh had a lotta stuff." "These drawers, filled," sighs Mrs. Ginsburg. "A lifetime. Photographs. A wedding picture. Baby things, for her boy. Still she saved. Letters. All these things. A whole life, papers and scraps in a box. And now what?" "I guess we oughta pack it awl away," shrugs Alice in case -- um -- 'eh niece cawls f'rm. We got t'at ol' trunk inna berleh room, I guess we c'n put awla papehs an' pitchehs an' stuff inneh. Did'jeh go -- um -- inna bedroom yet?" "The bedroom," shudders Mrs. Ginsburg. "Siddy an' Sammy Schriebstien hauled out awlem bedcloe's," notes Alice. "an'neh mattress, an' -- awl. T'at's what 'e was boinin' out'na coehtyawrd t'day. He said 'e'd rake up t'ashes t'marreh an' bury'em." "Still," murmurs Mrs. Ginsburg, her eyes closed. "I guess t'is stuff was inneh too," continues Alice. "T'at's t'at gol' stawr flag she had inna windeh f'reh boy. I'll put t'at inna trunk too. Maybe someday somebody'll open it, t'ey oughta know 'bout 'im. Pooeh kid." "And this?" wonders Mrs. Ginsburg, pointing with her toe to a large metal can on the floor. "Yeh, Siddy said 'e foun'at inneh closet. Five pounds'a Crisco," observes Alice. "She musta done a whole lotta bakin'." She bends down and grabs the bail, only to find the can remarkably heavy. "Jeez," she exhales. "Whassineeh??" Alice hoists the can to a table and regards it suspiciously. "Coveh's pounded down tight," she continues. "Heeh, gimme t'at butteh knife." She jams the blade into the edge of the can and prys at the lid. WIth a sharp clang it pops off the can and clatters to the floor. "What is?" queries Mrs. GInsburg. "Old newspapers." "Nineteen t'oity t'ree," notes Alice. "Heh, lookit -- t' ****le Fam'ly. I miss t'em, y'know it?" "Under the papers," gestures Mrs. Ginsburg. "Is something?" "Yeh," nods Alice, picking out the wads of yellowed newsprint. "Gaaaaaaawdawmighty," she inhales, as she lifts out a heavy paper-wrapped cylinder. "It's money," she exclaims. "Looks like silveh dollehs, rolls of 'em. Whatta ya t'inka..." "No," interrupts Mrs. Ginsburg. "Look close. On that one, the paper, is torn..." "Hey," trembles Alice, peeling away the paper to expose a shimmering edge of gold....)

("I do'wanna get up," protests Bink Scanlan. "I'm sick." "Well thin ye *bettar* get oop," declares Ma. "G'wan oopstairs an' get in th' bed oop tharr, Oi can't have ye lollygaggin' aroond in 'eer woonce th' race r'soolts coom in. It's bad far business." "It ain't doin' ME a lotta good," gags Bink, rising from her cot and racing for the door. She jerks it open, and collides head on with Solly Pincus. "Whoa t'eh, Iodine Bot'l." he chuckles. "Take it easy." Bink staggers, and takes it easy all over Solly's shirt....)

("Almost done," declares a tall black man in the blue overalls of the Bell System as he applies a screwdriver to the interior of the payphone, its front casing swung open on its hinge. "Oi didn't think ye'd make it t'day," notes Ma. "It's paaast six tharrty." "Got us workin' overtime," shrugs the technician. "Want t'have ev'rything ready f' V-J Day." "Hey," injects Sally, looking up from her newspaper. "Y'know, we'eh havin' a rally upta Ebbets Feel on Satehday. Committee t' End Jim Crow in Basebawl. Y'otta come." The technician flicks Sally a bemused glance as he swings the phone closed, snaps the lock, and drops a slug into the nickel slot. He listens thru the new receiver for the dial tone, and dials O. "Number 1315 testin' INgersoll 2-9674. Thank you." He hangs up the phone, retrieves his slug from the coin return, and begins packing his tools. "Lotta good playehs awta be inna big leagues," continues Sally. "I wouldn' know, ma'am," chuckles the repairman. "I don' pay much mind to baseball. Oh, I seen a game or two, but I'm too busy workin' an' takin' night classes over at Brooklyn College. Since I got out of th' Signal Corps, I figured I wanted t'make up f' lost time." "Oh," nods Sally. "I'm try'na get my husban' t'go back t'night school. B'foeh t'wawr he was goin' t' New Utrick oveh'rin Bensonhoist. I wisht'eed go back." "Y'gotta take y'schoolin' where y'can get it." nods the repairman. "Well, I guess I'm all finished here. Y'let us know if y'have any more trouble." "Hey," heys Sally, holding up her paper. "Y'eveh read t'Daily Woikeh?" "No ma'am," confesses the repairman. "We get th' World-Telegram." "Oh." sighs Sally. "Well, good luck wit' Brooklyn Collitch!" "An' good luck," nods the technician with a grin as he heads for the door, "with y' rally...")

("You read too much 'Terry and the Pirates.'")


(Poor Goody Rosen. Having the year of a lifetime, and he has to share his Day. With a Cardinal, yet.)

("The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.")

("Automat her?" How is that a bad thing? Oh. Wait...)

(C'mon, Janie, he's kinda cute even if he is a Fed.)

(Those five-dollar recaps never last.)

(Well, at least she doesn't bury them under the hall rug, like some cats I know...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Wrap it up already.

Ew.

It's nice that Breathless considers herself an educator.

"Wish I'd finished reading that Ellery Queen novel..."

"I only buy the best!"

"Who are you, and what have you done with Tops???"

Well that's the end of that!

Ohhhhhh, Min.

Fickle, fickle fame.

"So when do we eat???"

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily Worker...

Die, Bilbo. Die die die.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Almost done," declares a tall black man in the blue overalls of the Bell System as he applies a screwdriver to the interior of the payphone, its front casing swung open on its hinge. "Oi didn't think ye'd make it t'day," notes Ma. "It's paaast six tharrty." "Got us workin' overtime," shrugs the technician. "Want t'have ev'rything ready f' V-J Day." "Hey," injects Sally, looking up from her newspaper. "Y'know, we'eh havin' a rally upta Ebbets Feel on Satehday. Committee t' End Jim Crow in Basebawl. Y'otta come." The technician flicks Sally a bemused glance as he swings the phone closed, snaps the lock, and drops a slug into the nickel slot. He listens thru the new receiver for the dial tone, and dials O. "Number 1315 testin' INgersoll 2-9674. Thank you." He hangs up the phone, retrieves his slug from the coin return, and begins packing his tools. "Lotta good playehs awta be inna big leagues," continues Sally. "I wouldn' know, ma'am," chuckles the repairman. "I don' pay much mind to baseball. Oh, I seen a game or two, but I'm too busy workin' an' takin' night classes over at Brooklyn College. Since I got out of th' Signal Corps, I figured I wanted t'make up f' lost time." "Oh," nods Sally. "I'm try'na get my husban' t'go back t'night school. B'foeh t'wawr he was goin' t' New Utrick oveh'rin Bensonhoist. I wisht'eed go back." "Y'gotta take y'schoolin' where y'can get it." nods the repairman. "Well, I guess I'm all finished here. Y'let us know if y'have any more trouble." "Hey," heys Sally, holding up her paper. "Y'eveh read t'Daily Woikeh?" "No ma'am," confesses the repairman. "We get th' World-Telegram." "Oh." sighs Sally. "Well, good luck wit' Brooklyn Collitch!" "An' good luck," nods the technician with a grin as he heads for the door, "with y' rally..."

Kudos, well written, Lizzie.

********************************************************************

"The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter."

And pattern.

********************************************************************

Ew.

My dad's been dead over thirty years and I can still hear him saying the death penalty is too good for him but what was she thinking running around to different bars with a strange boy in a strange town.

********************************************************************

It's nice that Breathless considers herself an educator.

She's got ruthless tenacity but her medium smarts will be her downfall.

********************************************************************

"Who are you, and what have you done with Tops???"

As you've said and like with Solly and Joe, the war changes people.

 

[LizzieMaine]

(In the Ginsburgs' parlor, the entire population of 1762 63rd Street huddles nervously around the radio. The usual burblings of conversation are absent with even Leonora and Willie in rapt attention. Not even the occasional gambits of Zippy the parakeet can break the concentration. And then, just as the old clock on the wall chimes seven, comes the voice of CBS's Robert Trout...

And as the reports cascade in, thru the open window comes a roar of voices from around the corner on 18th Avenue as people spill out of stores and shops and into the streets. In front of Schreibstein's a crowd assembles to watch for the bundles of newspaper extras. A cab parked at the sidewalk with its radio blaring accentuates the rising din. Some of our friends embrace, some weep, some shout, some reflect in silent prayer. Unnoticed, Joe slips out, taking a seat by himself on the stoop, chewing quietly, as history unfolds around him...)

(Along Rogers Avenue, celebrations erupt at full volume, as Ma shoulders out into the sidewalk to wrest a bundle of papers away from a drunken seaman. Uncle Frank produces a bottle not containing his old stock and pours a drink for Solly, Jimmy, and Danny, while ignoring Ma's frown of disapproval. Solly, in the spirit of the occasion, grabs Bink Scanlan and gives her a what-the-hell kiss. Enraged, Jimmy grabs Solly by the shoulder, spins him around, and sends him scrambling into the magazine rack. Solly sits up, blinks, and rushes Jimmy, but is tripped by Danny. Solly grabs Danny by the ankle, pulls him off balance, and flips him into his oncoming brother. They both careen into the cardboard figure of Johnny the Bellhop, and Jimmy's head slams thru the rusty screen door. Roaring with laughter, Uncle Frank raises his glass in salute, as Ma's head sinks into her hands, and Bink stares, stunned, at the sudden carnage. "Some fun, huh?" snickers Solly, scrambling to his feet, as Bink suddenly turns pale green, clamps her hand over her mouth, and races up the stairs....)

(So...what now?)

("Germany's WWII-era leadership? I never heard of the word.")

("A toast, gentlemen," proposes Mr. O'Malley, as thru the window at 215 Montague Street, a deafening roar arises from Borough Hall Plaza below. "To the future." "Indeed," nods Mr. Smith the penicillin king. "Oh," snickers Mr. O'Malley, gazing at Mr. Rickey, "how insensitive of me, Branch. I forgot, you're a Methodist. Someone send Parrott out for some grape juice! Ho! Ho!" His frown deepening, Mr. Rickey picks up a glass. "To the future, gentlemen," he intones. "To the future of Brooklyn baseball...")

("Well, don't I get a claim check or something?")

(Ham and Egger = cheap boxer who functions mostly to fatten up rising talent, earning only enough per bout to pay for breakfast. In other words, a bum.)

(Well, you know, it's impossible to get good help.)

(YOU'RE ONE TO TALK.)

(Yeah, well, you still should've gotten the hamburger.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Just in case you were having any second thoughts..."

(On the Union Street Bridge, far away from the celebratory chaos, Ignatius J. Quinlan holds a handkerchief over his nose as two heavy bundles of meticulously-created gasoline coupons sink in the fetid waters of the Gowanus Canal....)

Sorry, bud, the OPA is taking the day off.

"I'm having the new jury delivered tomorrow."

What are you trying to tell us, Jon?

You better hold onto it for a few more years, hon.

Yeah, fake soot was a big design trend a few years back, but it look so dated now.

"See ya in the funny papers, kid!"

Don'cha hate these cheap second-hand pianos?


And thus did Moonshine Mullins become the first Sports Agent.

 

[Fading Fast]

Have only listened to the early part so far, but an impressive bit of "live" reporting from the era.

*****************************************************************

So...what now?

On to the Cold War.

*****************************************************************

"To the future, gentlemen," he intones. "To the future of Brooklyn baseball..."

*****************************************************************

Ham and Egger = cheap boxer who functions mostly to fatten up rising talent, earning only enough per bout to pay for breakfast. In other words, a bum.

Good one.

*****************************************************************

Yeah, fake soot was a big design trend a few years back, but it look so dated now.

I see that Basements 'r Us' pre-war international division's Secret Lairs 'r Us had been at work.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I dunno what t'do," laments Alice, gazing at the neatly stacked coins arranged on her kitchen table. "Twelve rolls'a twenny-dolleh gol' pieces. Twenny outa each roll. 'At's -- um -- lemme see -- two hunnet'n foehty times twenny -- ummm -- t'at's -- foeh t'ousan' an' eighty dollehs. Izzat right?" "Yeh," nods Krause. "An' we can't put it inna bank, t'ey'll say weeh hawrdin' gol'! I looked it up innat awlmanac we got inneh, it says t'lawr is y'c'n on'y have a hunne't dollehs woit'a gol' kerns, an' ya can't spend 'em, y'gotta toin' 'm in. Less'ya'ra kern collecteh, an'nen y'c'n on'y have five of any one date. An'nezza lawt moeh'rn'at 'eeh! Jeez, I jus' t'oughta sump'n! What if it's fr'm, you know, t' Lin'boig baby! T'ey neveh foun'a resta t'at money, y'know? What if Misses Nucci was in awnat???" "Neh," headshakes Krause. "The right thing," declares Mrs. Ginsburg, "is to hold for Misses Nucci's niece, when she comes. To her they are rightly." "Marie Belasco," sighs Alice, with great distaste. "She fin's out t'ehs dough involved, she'd break outa jail an' be heeh'r'inna mawrnin'." "I wonder where she got?" wonders Mrs. Ginsburg. "Money when alive, Missus Nucci, she never had. Groceries I would leave at her door, and say 'delivered by mistake.'" "Maybe t'ey din' b'long t'Misses Nucci," ponders Alice. "What if awl alawng t'ey b'longta Marie Belasco? Hawrdin' gol', wouldja put it past'eh? Awr, Gawdawmighty, what if it b'longs'ta Mickey???" Alice looks to her husband, whose face has gone pale. "No one I have told," sighs Mrs. Ginsburg. "Not even Mendel. But what to do, perhaps he would know." "We gotta keep t'is real quiet," begins Alice, as the apartment door bangs open. "Hey Ma," bellows Willie. "C'n me an' Leonora....." "Look!!!" gasps Leonora, racing to the table. "Pirate gold!" "Ummmm..." stammers Alice. "Yeh," exhales Krause...)

("I been t'inkin', Joe," begins Sally, sitting next to her husband on the front stoop, gazing out at a 63rd Street still littered with trash from yesterday's celebration. "I was tawkin' t' t'is guy t'ot'eh day, t'at says 'e's goin' t' collitch at night, oveh t' Brooklyn Collitch. Ain'nat sump'n? Woiks durin'a day an' goes t'colltich at night. I bet you could do t'at." "Huh," huhs Joe. "Yeh," nods Sally, relieved to see that the plug of tobacco has not yet made an appearance. "Cou'ese, you'd hafta finish high school foist, but you was doin' real good at New Utrick when you was goin' t'night school befoeh. An' woikin' f'Ma, I mean, it ain't like ya punchin' no clawck like when you was at t' pickle woiks." "Hm," acknowledges Joe. "I guess." "I mean, If I was you," concludes Sally, "I'd do it." Joe gazes down toward the corner, where Sammy and Lottie Schreibstien are sweeping up the detritus in front of their father's store. "Why *don'cha*?" he replies. "Why don' I what?" puzzles Sally. "Why don'cha," continues Joe, "sign up f'collitch?" Sally stares at her husband, who leans back against the stone step and shrugs. "I mean," he concudes, "why don'cha?")

("Nivvar moind," exhales Ma, her arms folded in frustration. "Oi'll have Joseph fix it in th' maaarnin'." "Whoy doon't Oi tack a piece a' caaaardboaard ovar it," sighs Uncle Frank, "until Joe can fix it. This place'll be boozin' with floys." "It's a woondar th' whool door didn't coom down, that great doomb jackeen shoovin' 'is head thru it. Th' ****** oidear, braaahlin' oovar Bink Scanlan." "Ahhhh," ahhs Uncle Frank, "they didn't mean noothin' boy it. Joost bloo'in aaahf steam." "An' you," scowls Ma, "poompin'm foola liquor." "Woon glass," eyerolls Uncle Frank, "is not poompin'. "Well, ye bettar talk t'thim two loonkheads an' set'm straight. An' talk t' Solly Pincus whoyle yarr at it." "Me and Solly," mutters Uncle Frank, "arre naaaht quoite aaahn th' moost cordial a' taaarms joost now." "Hmph," hmphs Ma. "Th' Sarrrrploos King a' East Flatboosh has trooble in'is cooort..." "It's joost that..." "Ah!'" comes a voice skeening thru the battered screen door. "Good t'see ya, Misteh Leary. We gawt t'day awff at t' plant, so I t'ought t'is would be a good time t'..." "Ohhhhh," withers Uncle Frank. "Mistaaar Moozelewski! So good t'see ye again..." "Oi'll leave you gintlemen," smirks Ma, "t'discoos ye business...")

(Tsk, no fraternization!)

(Poor Mr. Branca. Maybe wearing number 13 isn't such a good idea.)

(It's rare to find someone who takes such obvious pleasure in her work.)

(Don't be ridiculous. Mary never had a youth.)

(Elbow length gloves in the afternoon, Janie? How gauche.)

(I hear Rondo Hatton was up for this part, but he had the good sense not to take it.)

(Scatenfreude...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

I dunno, you may recall that Brooklyn when the Dodgers won the pennant was really something....

"Did they leave by -- ah -- rail??"

I guess even flies have a limit.

Pat would never let himself be duped like this.

"Ahhh," sighs Min. "This is the life..."

"He took the butter, didn't he? Good ol' Tops."

Said the veteran of the First Mimeograph Division.

Sugar's still rationed, you know.

First rule of negotiation...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Nuff 'sed.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Marie Belasco," sighs Alice, with great distaste. "She fin's out t'ehs dough involved, she'd break outa jail an' be heeh'r'inna mawrnin'."

LOL.

******************************************************************

"Why don'cha," continues Joe, "sign up f'collitch?"

Some college night school political science professor just felt a quick stitch in his/her side and briefly wonders why.

******************************************************************

"Th' Sarrrrploos King a' East Flatboosh has trooble in'is cooort..."

LOL.

******************************************************************

It's rare to find someone who takes such obvious pleasure in her work.

Ann Savage, who coincidentally starred in the somewhat similar-themed movie (and film noir classic) "Detour" this year, thinks to herself, "I could play that woman in my sleep."

********************************************************************

"Did they leave by -- ah -- rail??"

To which prison are they going? Firing is not even close to being good enough. The public needs to see the system cleanse itself as these weren't average criminals but those vested with the power of the state to protect the citizens using it for their own gain. Real punishment needs to be meted out.

*********************************************************************

"He took the butter, didn't he? Good ol' Tops."

Plus, now they can go Jack Nicholson and Jessica Lange on the kitchen table from "The Postman Always Rings Twice."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Nah," nahs Sally. "We ain' gawt nut'n t'worry 'bout." "I dunno, Sal," warns Alice. "I seen a buncha t'em fron' awffice charactehs inna flooeh manageh's awffice t'ot'eh day. I bet t'ez layawffs comin'." "Who eveh hoida t' phone comp'ny layin' people awff," scoffs Sally. "Jussa same," worries Alice. "Maybe we awta go oveh t' Tung-Sol, n' put'eh names in." "Ahhhhh," dismisses Sally. "Ya worry too much." They ride on in silence for a bit. "Hey," resumes Sally. "What was goin' awn down ya place las' night?" "Huh?" freezes Alice. "Leonoreh come home awl woun' up," continues Sally. "She said you 'n Krause 'n Misses Ginsboig was playin' pirates awn'a kitchen table. Whassat, some new cawrd game?" "Ummmm," stammers Alice. "Kid's gawt 'n awrful imagination," sighs Sally. "Docteh Minkoff says maybe some day she'll grow up 'n write a book. Heh, maybe she'll write a book about us, huh? Me'n Joe an' you an' Krause an' Willie, an' Ma an' Uncle Frank, an'na Ginsboigs 'n awl'vus." "Heh," forces Alice. "Who---who'd wawna read anyt'ing about us?" "Yeh," chuckles Sally. "'Magine'at....")

("Hey," bustles Solly Pincus, skeening thru the screen door. "Frank aroun'?" "Fatty?" replies Bink Scanlan thru a snap of her gum. "He wen' someplace wit' some guy. Big guy, kinda nice lookin'. I neveh seen 'im befoeh." "Izzat so?" fumes Solly. "Y'didn' lift 'is billfol' t'fine out?" "How d'ya make ya eehs stick out like t'at, anyway," snickers Bink. "Was ya bawrn like'at, a' d'ya hafta get'm, y'know, poimanent waved?" Solly looks at her thru narrowed eyes. "Lissen, Diapeh Rash," he smirks, slipping onto a stool. "Lemme ask ya sump'n. When a' ya due?" Bink blanches, and her jaw no longer works the wad of gum. "Hmph," she hmphs, her mind racing for a riposte. "Don' gimme t'at," retorts Solly. "I seen ya get sick twice t'is week, an' ya gawt a funny look on ya face right now like ya gonna again. I remembeh when Sal was gonna have one, an' Joe said she was t'same way." "Who wouldn' get sick," flushes Bink, "lookin'atta likes'a you?" "Don' tell me it'sat meathead Jimmy," snorts Solly. "Mgphhhhh," replies Bink, shoving past him and making for the stairs...)

("I"m saaawry, ma'am," exhales Rosa the Bohack's meat-counter clerk. "I got nut'n but'em sausages. Two t'wa customeh less I know ya." "Hmph," hmphs Ma. "Oi been comin' in'eeh f'twenty foive yaaars." "Sawry, ma'am," shrugs Rosa. "I'm on'y twenny-two...")

(The Cycle Of Life.)

("Ah, Mr. Sukeforth," greets Mr. Rickey. "Please close the door behind you." The executive presses his intercom key. "Hold my calls, Miss Jones," he intones. "Matters are now before me that require my full attention." "Ayuh," nods Sukey. "You are aware," begins Mr. Rickey, "that our man was present yesterday at Dexter Park, and performed well. But Mr. Rosner's band of mercenaries scarcely furnish suitable competition against which to judge." "Ayuh," agrees Mr. Sukeforth. Mr. Rickey withdraws an envelope from his desk, and hands it to his visitor. "You will find your destination enclosed," he declares, "and a check for your expenses, along with my instructions. You are to follow them to the letter. Arrange your affairs that you may leave no later than next Wednesday." "Ayuh," acknowledges the man from Maine. "You understand," continues Mr. Rickey, his face grave, "that when you have made your assessment, you are to contact me by wire at once advising your conclusions. You are to discuss this mission with no one. Your traveling companion on this assignment shall be none but destiny itself." "Ayuh," nods Mr. Sukeforth...)

(Gould doesn't hold a patent on sociopaths.)

("Hmph, those $25 paint jobs always run...")

(Assuming he makes one.)

(Where's Batman when you need him?)

(And HE HAS IT COMING!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

Around the corner on 18th Avenue, where last night's revelry was hardly Times Squarian, Joe steps into Schreibstien's for a morning paper, and as he waits his turn, gives careful attention to the layout of the little luncheonette counter from which coffee and sandwiches are dispensed...

"Packy O'Gatty?" How did we miss this guy before?

You know, I don't think anyone would be too upset if Punjab rugged this whole town.

Wheels within wheels....

"Ah, yes, ah -- swimming trunks. Yes. I'm wearing swimming trunks."

Buy your clothes from Mitch the Snitch.

Wow, that Jimmy Jemail really gets around.

They grow so fast.

Why do I not believe a word of this?

Live your dreams, son.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

On the cathode line in the Vacuum Tube Department at the Western Electric Kearny Works, Sally can't help but keep sneaking looks toward the floor manager's office...

In his room at the St. George Hotel, Mr. Sukeforth wonders what the weather will be like next week in Chicago...

 

[Fading Fast]

"Lemme ask ya sump'n. When a' ya due?"

You can only like this guy more each day.

***************************************************************

"Oi been comin' in'eeh f'twenty foive yaaars." "Sawry, ma'am," shrugs Rosa. "I'm on'y twenny-two..."

At 61, I've learned not to walk into those retorts. Smart as she is, Ma can be stubborn, but she'll learn too.

***************************************************************

"Packy O'Gatty?" How did we miss this guy before?

No kidding. Plus, don't you love how nonchalant the News is being about its oh-so-casual mention of Langford being shot to death at the Marguery, as if it wasn't a huge story until one day an off switch was thrown.

***************************************************************

You know, I don't think anyone would be too upset if Punjab rugged this whole town.

For what it's worth, I'd be good with it.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("We've arranged the burial for Sunday afternoon," informs Father Kelleher, sipping a cup of Sanka. "Thank you, Mr. Krause, for seeing to the claiming of the body." "Yeh," nods Krause, his voice somber. "We have a plot at Holy Cross Cemetery," continues at Father Kelleher, "out in East Flatbush..." "Oh yeh," acknowledges Alice. "I know t'at place. Me frien' upstaiehs, Sally Petrauskas, she grew up 'bout ten blocks fr'm'neh. "I understand that Mrs. Nucci," continues the Father, "had very little money, but the parish will see to the necessary expenses." "Um," stammers Alice. "I'm sorry?" queries the Father. "Uhhh," hesitates Alice. "Um." She feels a trickle of sweat creeping down her neck as she sets down her rattling cup. "Um, Fawt'eh?" she stammers. "T'ez -- uh -- sump'n..." She gazes pleadingly at Krause, who chews at his lip, slowly rises, and steps to the closet. He looks back at Alice, who takes a deep breath and releases a tiny nod. With a sigh, Krause reaches into the closet and, struggling to hoist it with his one good arm, extracts a heavy and dust-smudged five pound Crisco can...)

("Wot's aall THIS?" sputters Uncle Frank. "Prune juice," declares Ma. "It's aaahf th' ration." "I waaanted aaaahrange juice!" laments Uncle Frank. "Staaaar didn't HAVE noo orange juice," rejoinds Ma. "Oi thaaat THAT was oof th' ration!" fumes Uncle Frank. "It is," shrugs Ma. "Boot they didn't have noon left. B'cause it's aaahf th' ration!" "An t' think," fumes Uncle Frank, "we faaaaaght a waaaar..." "Drink ye prune juice," dismisses Ma. "Boi th' way, ye nivver DID tell me wharr ye was yisterday. Barbara said ye went aaahf with soom man she didn't knoo." "Ah," stammers Uncle Frank. "Joost a little -- um -- insurance." "Ah," frowns Ma. "Is that soo?" "Well," formulates Uncle Frank, "in its oooon way....")

("T'at Frank Leary," declares Mozelewski, "is awright." "Didja see Joe?" interrupts Miss Kaplan. "Did'ee ask about me?" "Anyways," continues Mozelewski, "he says t'me I do'wanna rent t'at shawp t'eh nexta his wife's canny stoeh, see. He says'ezza rat inneh, sezee seen it. A great big one wit' big eehs. So we don' wannat. 'Stead he says he knows a guy can get me a deal awna place on Flatbush Aveneh." "I hoid Joe was woikin' innat canny stoeh," interrupts Miss Kaplan. "I bet t'at wife 'a his is makin' 'im do it an' she's livin' onna fatta t' lamb. We gotta do sump'n." "We got a 'rangement woiked out, fifty fifty." continues Mozelewski, displaying a sheet of tablet paper covered in small figures. "See, I'm gonna be in chawrge'a t'shawp, an' Frank's gonna be whatchacawl'a outside man. He'll go 'roun an' say 't'ezzis guy on Flatbush Aveneh, Mozelewski a' Brooklyn, he d'signs dresses, see? Y'otta go see'im." "I ain't gonna be ya model," insists Miss Kaplan. "Flatbush Aveneh!" declares Mozelewski...)

(Too soon.)

(You know, Augie, hold onto that shirt and someday I bet you could sell it for good money...)

(Ella is known for keeping her sense of humor even when -- ah -- stewing in a bathtub full of ink.)

("Don't you know, Kid, when you play with Flame -- you get burned!" "Huh?" "Oh hell, let's neck.")

(Is it????????????)

(I do wish Mr. Stamm would stop trying to out-Gould his old boss.)

(Come live with me, Kitty, we'll get along fine.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Jeeezuz.

"See t'eh?" insists Sally. "We gawt nut'n'ta worry about. T'eh gonna be usin' 'is radawr f'rawl kinds'a stuff, an'neh gonna need lotsa tubes f'rit!! I'm gonna be woikin'eh f't' nex' twennny yeehs!" "Ah," ahs Joe. "So," she continues, "maybe I OTTA sign up f'collitch. I mean, I do'wanna be onna cat'ode line awl my life. Maybe I c'n move upta grids. Awr plates. Awr quality c'ntrol! Awr coicuit design! T'sky's t' limit!" "Yeh," nods Joe. "Lissen, speakin'a coicuit design, d'you t'ink a grill would woik betteh onna left'a t' coffee oin awr t' right?" "Huh?" huhs Sally...

I bet Jon Stardust and Inky Quinlan use the same brand of moustache wax.

Soon you'll never have to share a car with anyone ever again...

"And with Punjab acting as bailiff, why, there'll be no disruptions at all."

"Hm" in this case meaning "What's that smell?"

Brownie ought to just try a Brownie.

I think we've gone about as far with this as we possibly can.

Postwar underground lairs will be better than ever.

And the postwar crisis in health insurance is only beginning.