The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("I ain' takin' no chances," declares Joe, pressing the chicken patty to the grill with his spatula. "But I still ain' got'is quite right." He scrapes up the patty, drops it onto the waiting slice of toast, and hands the result to Ma. "See what'choo t'ink." "It's aaaahl roit," she observes thru a bite. "Boot it's naaaaht quoite..." "Yeh," nods Joe. "Too dry. Beef, y'gawt moeh juice inn'en. Chicken, by t't'ime it's cooked, it's dried out." "Didjee try poot'n ahhn soom fat?" suggests Ma. "Yeh," nods Joe. "Crusts'eh up nice, but it's still dry." Ma takes another bite, chews, and considers. "Oi gaaaht an oidearr," she offers. "Oopstairs Oi gaat soom liftoovars. Maaashed p'tatarrs. An' soom gravy. S'poose ye mix thim in with ye chicken, an' froy thaaaat oop." "Huh," huhs Joe. "My sisteh useta make sump'n like t'at when I was lit'l. Useta cawl it 'kotletkies,' a' sump'n." "Ivvrybody makes soomthin' loike that," chuckles Ma. "Back aaahn th' farm, me moothar usetarr'make it with p'tatarrs n' cabbage. Boot chicken an' gravy oot'a doo joost as well." Joe nods, and flips his spatula. "Awright," he declares. "Les' go!")

("Um," ums Sally, fidgeting in her downtown clothes as she approaches a stern-looking middle aged woman seated at a desk. "T'ey tol' me I was s'posta rep'oeht t' Miss Getz in Poissonnel, so, um.." "Oh yes," replies Miss Getz, glancing down at a form in an opened folder before her. 'Mrs. Pet-trosky? Please be seated." "Petrauskas," flinches Sally, lowering into a leatherette chair. "Pardon me," acknowledges Miss Getz, adjusting her glasses. "Hmm. Seven and a half years with F. W. Woolworth Company, at their Fulton Street store, mostly in the yard goods department." "Yes'm," nods Sally. "Sev'na half yeehs, an'nen I hadda baby." Miss Getz looks up, her eyes widening. "Well," stammers Sally, "I mean, not 'caus'a Woolwoit's. I mean, I was gonna have a baby 'caus'a my husban' -- I mean, I stop't woikin' 'cause I was gonna have a baby. Yeh, I was real good wit't' yawrd goods, I got so I could eyebawl a yawrd affa bolt an' get it right awna mawrk ev'ry time. I got real good eyes, I mean, 'cep' fawr t' glasses..." "I see," nods Miss Getz. She examines another form. "You understand that our offer of employment is conditional on your passing a physical examination. The job requires that you be capable of remaining standing for..." "Piece'a cake," asserts Sally. "I mean, uh, t'at will be fully wit'in my capabilities. An' may I say, ma'am, I am lookin' foehwed t' bein' inna employ of such a fine awrganization as Abraham 'n Straus, an' y'know, soivin' such a distinguished clientele. I mean, y'know how it was at Woolwoit's..." "Ah," nods Miss Getz with a thin smile. "I'm sure you'll enjoy working here, Mrs. Petrauskas. Our Basement is..." "Basemen'??" blinks Sally. "That's right," nods Miss Getz. "Three days a week, on the remnant counter in our Basement." "Oh," sighs Sally....)

("Indeed. And what's this I hear about you and the butcher?")

(Hack Wilson is one of the most unusual physical specimens ever to have played baseball. An 18 inch neck, a 40 inch waist, and size 5 1/2 feet.)

("Put all my money in International Ceramics!")

(Somewhere, Ursula Parrott's ears are burning.)

(AND NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW)

("Sort of.")

(We wear the chains we forge in life.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

How are things at Cliveden, your ladyship? What do you hear from dear Lord "Halalifax?"

WE'RE BAAAAAACK! And more sensible than ever!

One of the most endearing things about Stoop is the real joy he shows in his work.

Look, why not just sew on a handle?

"And in the meantime, my friend here with the eyes will entertain you with a few magic tricks."

This is why D I C K Tracy has no real friends.

Job's not over till the paperwork's done.

A whole buck? I only used to get fifty cents.


The Lovewells certainly do generate a lot of -- uh -- hogslop.

Yep, that's my relatives.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily Worker...

Don't waste your time with the Twig, ask the Parrott!

 

[Fading Fast]

Our Basement is..." "Basemen'??" blinks Sally. "That's right," nods Miss Getz. "Three days a week, on the remnant counter in our Basement." "Oh," sighs Sally....

Entry level is entry level and it ain't fun.

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

"Sort of."

Awful salesmanship.

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

We wear the chains we forge in life.

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

How are things at Cliveden, your ladyship? What do you hear from dear Lord "Halalifax?"



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

This is why D I C K Tracy has no real friends.

I'm not proud of this, but I don't think I understand this storyline yet.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey," heys Solly, thru a mouthful of Joe's latest concoction." "T'is ain' bad at AWL. Whass'innit?" "Groun' chicken,"replies Joe. "An' mash p'tatehs. An' a spoonfulla gravy. Awl mix't'ge'teh, 'n fried up." "Huh," huhs Solly. "Latkes DeLoox." "Kinda," shrugs Joe. "Y'really t'ink it's good?" "Big Joe's Chickwich," declares Solly, chewing another bite. "On'y prob'lm is," sighs Joe, "I can't get t' cawsts t' woik. I'm grindin' up t'is chicken comes in cans, an' I c'n get t'at cheapeh'r'n beef. But t' p'tatehs, I can't crack t'at. Y'gotta peel t' p'tat'ehs an' berl 'm an' mash'm up. Ma's too busy t'do t'at, Bink can't peel a p'tate'h wit'out cutt'n'eh t'umb awff, an' if I -- oh, if I hieh somebody like Heckie t'do it, I gotta pay'im, an'nat's cutt'in' way inteh t' mawrgin." Solly dabs his mouth with a paper napkin, and c0cks an eyebrow. "Ya kidd'n, right?" he frowns. "Whatchamean?" demands Joe. "Powdeh'd p'tatehs!" exclaims Solly. "Y'can't tell me y'don' know about..." "Yeh, I know awlabout powdeh'd p'tatehs," snaps Joe. "I seen awla t'em I wanned inna -- you know. An'neh no good!" "Maybe awf t' back'va truck t'ey ain'no good," argues Solly, ignoring Joe's wincing at the phrase. "But y'take t'time t'mix'm up right, an'ney ain' bad. Look, hee'hs what I'll do. I got awlese fifty poun' bags'a t'stuff out'na waehhouse, t'ey got t'rown in on a deal. I'll sell ya one f'what it cawst me. Seventeen-fifty. No, 'cause ya my pal, I'll make it an even fifteen. An' y'c'n pay me awn credit." "Takes a t'oid of a cup t'make one soivin'," figures Joe. "Two cups t'wa poun', so t'at's one six of a poun' f'ra soivin'. An' ya put maybe haffa t'at in each sanwich, mixed wit' t' chicken, so t'at's -- " He reaches for a pencil and scrawls quickly on the back cover of a stained confession magazine. "T'at's t'ree cents'a poun' straight, one twelft' 'a t'at is..." "Quaw'teh of a cent's woit'a p'tat'ehs in each san'wich," finishes Solly. "Hey," blinks Joe. "T'at' might woik! I could still sell'm a dime a piece, an'..." "I'll have t' p'tatehs fois' t'ing t'marra," promises Solly. "An' tellya what, I'll dump 'm in a barrel fawr ya. Easieh t'get at, an' -- uh -- who wawnts t'mess wit' awlat GI junk onna label." "Yeh," smiles Joe....)

("Well, it ain' like I'm gonna getta jawb inna shipyawrd," sighs Sally. "T'ey wan' me t'woik inna basemen', I'll woik inna basemen'." "Y'tell Joe yet?" propounds Alice. "Um," ums Sally, "it ain' come up yet. But I'm gonna, jus' gotta pick t' right momen'. B'sides, it won' be like Woolwoit's." "Soun's like it will," shrugs Alice. "Y'jus' said it's awl fulla grabby crazy people." "Well, yeh," acknowledges Sally. "T' remnan' counteh ain' even a real counteh! It's jus' a coupla big tables push t'get'eh, wit'cha bolts piled up awn tawp. An'na people come inneh, go diggin'aroun', 'trowin' 'em ev'ry which way, shovin' an' pushin' an'nen'ney come oveh t'get'm cut an'ney look atcha like ya gonna chis'l'm out'a haff'n inch. Woolwoit's, people was grabby an' crazy but t'ey wasn' *mean.*" "T'is strike ain' gonna go awn f'reveh," reassures Alice. "Leas' onna picket line," exhales Sally, her head sagging back on the seat cushion, "y'getta chance t' t'ink....")

(Peace Is Hell.)

(Coming Events...)

(All right, Mr. Trost, let's see YOUR knees.)

(Opportunity knocks but once, but failure comes around on the hour.)

(Pajamas by Orry-Kelly.)

(C'mon, Janie, don't you watch movies?)

(NICE TO SEE EVERYBODY BUSY AT WORK)

(Bo never locks his cellar window, but Kitty just might.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Husband-hoofer-manager? Suspect.

A brisk walk and lamb chops? In this weather??

Everybody ready?

What kind of cowboy doesn't have a six-sh00ter?

They grow up so fast.

Well, some of them do.

"Oh, there he is, under the spare tire.

The boys?? Will Bill Slagg be there? He's great!

Because every cop helps himself to the evidence.

You Can't Cheat An Honest Man.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

And it would be remiss to not point out that one of those killed was an eleven-week-old baby. Go finger your medals, Doug.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Soun's like it will," shrugs Alice.

She's a smart woman and calls 'em like she sees 'em.

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

Peace Is Hell.

Invite them into your home; that will increase their enthusiasm.

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

All right, Mr. Trost, let's see YOUR knees.

Seriously. You could tell he was scrounging around for ideas.

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

Husband-hoofer-manager? Suspect.

Definitely suspicious. Also, we see that postwar, jewelry robber was still a lucrative profession.

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

A brisk walk and lamb chops? In this weather??

Some days, like a lot of people, I don't eat breakfast, how in God's name is that a problem?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("T'marra, huh," muses Joe. "We'll see." "T'is 'chickwich' t'ing," munches Sally, "ain' bad. 'Magine neveh t'inkin'a t'at bef'oeh." "Yeh," agrees Joe, scraping his grill. "What's t'at t'ey say -- necessitiy is t' mot'eh of inventin'." "Necessity," nods Sally. "Which remines me, I gotta tawk t'ya 'bout 'sump'n." "Oh," gulps Joe, his spatula clattering to the floor. "It ain' nut'n bad," sighs Sally. "I jus' wawn'ed t' tell ya -- um -- I got anot'eh jawb." "Oh," ohs Joe, retrieving his kitchen utensil. "I t'ought maybe -- neveh min'." "I gotta jawb t'ree days a week," continues Sally, "at Abraham 'n Straus downtown. Woikin' in -- uh -- t'basemen'." "Oh," exhales Joe, his eyes widening. "Sal, you swoeh you'd neveh..." "I know," interrupts Sally. "But it's on'y t'ill t' strike's oveh an' I go back t't'plant. An' it ain' like las' time, I ain' gonna t'row t' radio out t'windeh when I come home, a' nut'n like t'at. B'sides, I on'y done'at 'cause I was gonna have a baby." "Oh," concedes Joe. "Ain' ya sueh ya ain' gonna -- " "I would," eyerolls Sally, "be t' fois' t' know...")

("Lissen," ventures Bink Scanlan, easing herself into a kitchen chair as Ma puts away the breakfast dishes, "I gotta tawk to ya 'bout sump'n." "Oi'm listenin'," replies Ma, tossing her towel over the edge of the sink. "I'm seven anna half mont's gawn," Bink continues, "an' I don' t'ink I c'n do ya rounds no moeh. I jus' can't stan' t' wawkin." "Hmm," frowns Ma, giving her the once-over. "Nooo, Oi doon't s'poose ye can. Pity, a wooman with choild ain't goin' t'be boothared by no noosey coppars." She drums her fingers on the table top and cogitates. "Well thin," she resumes, "Oi'm gooin' t'need soombody else." "Heckie can do it," offers Bink. "That boy dooes odd jaaahbs farr Joseph?" scowls Ma. "That hooligan?" "He ain' so bad," shrugs Bink. "I mean, ya trusted me, din'cha?" "Hmmm," hmms Ma. "An' b'sides," continues Bink. "If he tried t'pull any funny business, Rosa'd beat his head in." "Ah," ahhs Ma. "If 'ee troyed any foony stoof with ME, she'd haave t' take a noombar." )

(Hey, if they hand out gold footballs, they can't be THAT bad a place to work.)

(You can ALWAYS cheat a dishonest man.)

(Again, this is clearly material written for Daffy Duck, but he refused to do it.)

(Fritzi was once a showgirl, and clearly she can still do the kicks.)

(Special purses? What, you mean the kind with a secret pocket?)

(Well, at least she didn't boil him alive in the shower. Poor Jerome Trohs.)

(And George S. Kaufman likes to prank Mr. Hart by hiding the batteries.)

(And you thought writing was all nightclubs, parties, and smuggling Army privates in the trunk.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Well, at least no more wasting an hour every morning trying to get your hair tucked into one of those donut-head buns.

I wonder if Sally ever tries to read Leonora "The Letters of Sacco and Vanzetti?"

"Accidentally."

"Oh, look! It's snowing!"

Where's Red Ryder when we need him? And I'm impressed to see that Wm. P. Mullins appears to be a holder of the Grand Cross of the Order of Christ of the Kingdom of Portugal. Just goes to show you can never tell.

Movies on paper.

Ahhh, go join a motorcycle gang.

We are entering a new Golden Age of Prescribed Social Behavior.

You've gotta be tough to survive in this modern world.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

In addition to his work as a cartoonist with the Worker, New Masses, and other lefty publications, William Gropper was an acclaimed fine artist. I have a print of one of his paintings, a scene of a woman hanging out wash in the wind on a tenement roof, on my kitchen wall.

 

[Fading Fast]

"If 'ee troyed any foony stoof with ME, she'd haave t' take a noombar."



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

And you thought writing was all nightclubs, parties, and smuggling Army privates in the trunk.

Don't live in a city if you can't work with noise in the background.

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

Well, at least no more wasting an hour every morning trying to get your hair tucked into one of those donut-head buns.

Showing the bob under a hat is kinda pointless.

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

"Accidentally."

"Great, he cadges a futuristic watch, yet still no new grip for me." – Chief.

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

You've gotta be tough to survive in this modern world.

Let's hope they learned from the last tree job.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Heeh'z'ya chicken," declares Heckie Capiello, resting a cardboard box full of canned poultry on the counter. "T' bill is inna bawx." "T'anks." sighs Joe, hoisting the carton, and carrying into the back room. "You," declares Ma, fixing Heckie in her most withering gaze. "Oi gaaht a jaahb farr ye." "I'm lissenin'," sneers Heckie, jabbing a toothpick into the corner of his mouth as he leans insolently on the counter. "An' lay aaahf that movin' pitcharr hoodlum roobish," snorts Ma. "Oi ain't lookin' farrr noo Dead End Kid. This is saaaaarious warrk. Oi needjee t'goo aroond t'places Oi'll tell ye an' pick oop -- saaartain slips'a papaar, and saaaartain quantiies o' cash." "Y'wawnt me t' run ya numbehs," smirks Heckie. "Yeh, I hoid awlabout t'at. Binkie givin' ya t' rush is she?" "Barbara's affairs are noona ye concern," frowns Ma. "Oi'll pay ye ten dollars a week cash mooney, Soondays aaahf." "I'm on'y seventeen," snorts Heckie. "Ya contributin' t' t' dlinquency 'va mineh." "Seems t' ME," snaps Ma, "ye doin' well enoof at that yeself. Oi knoo ahll aboot thim little stoonts ye pulled ahn me hoosband at Thanksgivin' toime, dealin' in hot taaarkeys an' th' loike. An' Oi'll tell ye this. Befarrr Barbara Oi had a fallar doin' sooch warrk farr me. They caaahled 'im th' Hoppar. Well, th' Hoppar made th' mistake a' stippin' oota loine, an' -- well, th' Hoppar ain' doin' noo maaar haaappin. Ye get me?" "Yeh," grimaces Heckie, spitting the toothpick over the counter, but falling short of the wastebasket. "Ten bucks a week, huh? S'pose I getcha some new business? What's my vig?" Ma scowls. "Ye'll get what Oi give ye, an' if Oi find ye bin skimmin' me, ye woon't have no teeth t' pick." "How 'bout t'is?" proposes Heckie. "How boutcha tell Big Joe t'eh t'at I eat free." "Ye moin'jee step with Joseph," glares Ma. "He's aaaaf limits. Boot Oi'll give ye two paaarcent on new business, boot only if they pay in advance. Oi ain't carryin' noona ye gootarsnipe friends." Heckie returns her glare, and extends his hand. "Deal," he declares. "An' doon'chee farget it," warns Ma...)

("T'is ain' so bad," declares Sally to her new colleague in the A&S Basement, a tired-eyed woman with a pencil stuck behind her ear, and a perpetual tremor to her hands. "It was twicet'as bad at Woolwoit's any day'a t'week." "You haven't seen'a weekends," declares the co-worker. "They'll come swawrmin' in'eeh, an' make ya regret you was eveh bawrn." "Heh," chuckles Sally. "Ya funny. Lissen, I'm sawry, t'eh was so much goin' awn when I come in'eeh, I f'gawt'cha name." "Joy," sighs the woman. "Ah," ahs Sally. "Actually," continues Joy in a voice somewhere between a moan and a groan, "it's Joyce. But'tey awrways cawl me Joy f'shawrt. "Cause I useteh be so happy." "Ah," exhales Sally, as a sloppily-stacked heap of remnant bolts slides to the floor...)

(Oh, that just means they're replacing Form 6077-B-REV-1 with Form 6077-B-REV-2,)

(Sews seeds? Well, at least they still have Home Ec.)

(DONT. TRADE. OLMO!)

(Hard-hitting investigative journalism? Well, Janie can't be everywhere at once.)

(You wouldn't last five minutes in the Village, and you know it.)

(Ahhhh, it's the old switched-cup trick!)

(Pffft, I've got more shoes than that.)

("HMPH, a basemen' awpawrtmen' can be nice if ya MAKE it nice!" -- Alice Krause.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Not of her clawwwwwwsss." Toots, t'ey'll love ya in Brooklyn.

I bet Bing will be glad when this "singing priest" cycle is over.

Wasn't Terry supposed to be on some secret mission for Corkin or something? Bout time they were checking up on him. And now that Patton is dead, notice how everybody thinks they can get away with wearing those dopey knit hats.

Hey, we're ALL SICK OF WINTER, OK?

Point of order: Plaster of Paris is exothermic, so you really need to spray some cold water on there first to compensate. Source: Girl Scout.

"Quiet, he's sensitive about that."

Is it high noon already?

In ten years she'll own the whole company.

"Never mind the island, look at the TIDAL WAVE!"

I'd make a joke about Cousin Corny's last name, but we all know the Word Censoring Robot won't allow it, so I won't bother. This is known as "a chilling effect."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily Worker...

As the song tells us, "t'ain't whatcha say, it's the way that ya say it, that's what gets results, reee-bop!"

 

[Fading Fast]

"Y'wawnt me t' run ya numbehs," smirks Heckie.

It's not fair to just pick this line out as Ma and Heckie's entire exchange is classic.

And kudos Lizzie, I'm so engrossed in your characters that I was relieved for Joe to see the meet strike was settled when I read the front page and then had to remind myself about reality versus fiction.

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

You wouldn't last five minutes in the Village, and you know it.

It is 5:15am as I write this and the garbage truck outside is making an insane amount of noise (not one bit of an exaggeration) – it's called city living. And the real fun is because NYC is all in on green garbage, another truck will come by soon to pick up a different part of our sorted garbage. And a year from now expose number 50 will show that the garbage is then all thrown together at one of the city's depots, which will get everyone angry for a week, then it will quiet down, we'll go back to happily sorting our garbage, and the city will quietly go back to un-sorting it later. The virtue-signaling joy of sorting our garbage is too important to let facts get in the way. Now that we also separate compost, prepping garbage is a complex process, while bringing garbage to our building's collection area is like Rubik's cube.

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

Pffft, I've got more shoes than that.

Oh, look, you're right, there is a shoe rack in that panel – how 'bout that. And BTW, it is example number 50,000 showing how popular the wasp waist is in comicstrip land.

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

I'd make a joke about Cousin Corny's last name, but we all know the Word Censoring Robot won't allow it, so I won't bother. This is known as "a chilling effect."

It's wrong for all the reasons we know it's wrong, but there's something cool about actually seeing it in real life in a "hey, it's not just theory" way.

 

[Fading Fast]

And in the Daily Worker...

View attachment 765603
As the song tells us, "t'ain't whatcha say, it's the way that ya say it, that's what gets results, reee-bop!"

Ironically, today, the most liberal/most identified as socialist (from polls, not my opinion) are the highly educated.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Sally tells me the Worker sells real well on the campus at Brooklyn College, except to the English majors.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Aaaaaah," scoffs Sergeant Doyle, sipping his Toomey's coffee. "Y'gawt nut'n'ta worry'bout. Ya paid up." "Well, Nora's gaaaht a new roonar," explains Uncle Frank. "An' sooma'yaar doom flatfoots might not know 't leave'im be." "What'happn'ta t'at Bink Scanlan?" queries Doyle, through a mouthful of doughnut. "She fin'ly lan' ya pawrtneh an' retieh fr'm t' field?" "She's in 'ar confoinement," shrugs Uncle Frank. "T'at'll be t' day," snickers Doyle. "In INNY event," scowls Uncle Frank, shooting the policeman a lethal gaze, "Nora got this kid roonin' faaaar'er, this Heckie Capiello." "T'at kid?" snorts Doyle. "Young Frankie Costelleh? Boy, yawr scrapin'a barrel wit' t'at one." "What's th' mattar with'im?" frowns Uncle Frank. "Ahhh," dismisses Doyle. "Just anot'eh one'a t'ese street corneh punks. Dime a dozen, 'at's awl. No imagination." He shakes his head as he cadges Uncle Frank's doughnut. "Sisteh ain' bad, t'ough," he muses. "T'at Rosa, woiks downa Bohack's. T'ey oughta putt'eh inna veg-eh-table d'pawrtmen', cause she's a real t'mateh." "Yaaaar disgoostin'," growls Uncle Frank. "Yaaar oold enoough t'be 'ar faaathar." "I knew 'eh fawrt'eh," shrugs Doyle. "He was a bum. Neveh paid'is p'tection, an'nen one night 'is stoeh boint down. Terr'ble t'ing." "Tell me, Thomas," exhales Uncle Frank. "Whatevaaar p'sessed ye t'becoom a coppar?" "Eh," snickers Doyle. "I love t' lawr....")

("Whattaya cawl'is?" mutters Sally, gazing down at her plate. "Hash," sighs Joy. "'Zit awrways look like t'is?" sputters Sally. "D'pends," philosophizes Joy, poking with her fork, "awn what can 'ney open." "What kin'a cafeteria izzis, anyways?" continues Sally. "I t'ought t'is jernt was famous f' feedin'a help." "It's niceh upstaiehs," shrugs Joy. "Y'woik inna main stoeh, y' eat inna main cafeterieh. Y'woik inna basemen', y'eat down'eeh." "Izzat SO?" erupts Sally. "Lissen, how long you been'eeh?" "Six yeehs," marvels Joy. "An' it awl wen' by so fas'." "Lissen, hon," begins Sally. "I was at Woolwoit's in '37, y'know? Now lemme tell ya a few t'ings...")

("Your brother quit!" "Oh, he always does that. How do you think he got out of the Army?")

(On the other hand, if you MUST trade Olmo, GET HOLMES!)

("We ain' gawn'a movies in a lawng time," wheedles Willie. "How come we can't go downa Colony t'night? I got my schoolwoik done. How'bout it?" "I dunno," sighs Alice. "D'you wanna go out, Siddy?" "Neh," replies Krause, immersed in a chart of steam valves. "C'n I go by myself t'en?" pleads Willie. "Y'too young t'be out at night by'yself," insists Alice. "I'm awrmos' eight!" counters Willie. "In ten yeehs I can get drafted!" "In ten yeehs," nods Alice, "y'c'n go t''movies at night by y'self." "What if," negotiates Willie, "I go wit' Sammy? He's fifteen, so b'tween'a two'vus t'at makes us twenny-t'ree!" Alice glances at Krause for an opinion. He looks up, shrugs, and offers a resigned "yeh." "Awright," concedes Alice, throwing up her hands. "But go t' t' oily show an' be back by ten!" "I will!' promises Willie, accepting the proffered quarter. "T'anks, Ma!" He grabs his coat and rushes up the stairs. "Kids t'day," Alice muses, as she picks up the Eagle, folded open to the movie page. "Wondeh what he's gonna...." she mutters as she scans the listings. Her eyes suddenly flare, and she drops the paper, rushing to the door. "WilllYAAAAM!" she bellows as she races after him. "Heh," chuckles Krause...)

(Well, SOMEBODY's figured it out.)


(Hey, at least she doesn't make her maid go coach.)

(Ehhhhhhhh, could be!)

(Loose shoes sold one-a-piece in a bin? Interesting marketing strategy.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE LAZY MUTT is looking for a flop, not a job.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"...that sort of thing."

"I'll be praying for you!"

Something to look forward to then.

She used to work at Western Electric.

News travels fast in these small towns.

And you thought Walt would be a shill for management.

This could prove infinitely useful.

Tomorrow in this space: "The Eerie Adventures of Punjab."

Sorry, sir -- this is the Langford Case Reunion.