P.S.2. They sent me up the river for peeing in the reservoir. So what?
* * *
* * *
Dear Joey,
Come to think of it, that’s the most disgusting thing I ever heard in my life. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don’t they have crappers on Montgomery Street?
The reason you can’t go with me is because (1) your not suppose to get a prize for being a liar and (2) I don’t even like you yet. But me being your hero and all, it’s only fair if I give you one piece of advice. But this is the only one:
We were in Boston when the Hitler Boys took France, and in the meantime it was raining in Bean Town. Next to our hotel was this library and since there wasn’t anything to do except count the damn raindrops or slug your roommate (or in my case watch Carl Hubbell stand in front of a mirror like he was posing for a statue which come to think of it he probably was), I went in there looking for an encyclapedia because they always have pictures of naked girls from Argentena or wherever the Hell it is they keep jungles nowadays. Only thing is, in Boston they lock up their encyclapedias like they were a fuckin treasure or something, and so instead I found a copy of maybe the only real book I ever read in my life, which is by the writer named Chas. Dickens and the name of the book is David Copperfield. Since I don’t have a Mass. library card, I checked it out the other way (meaning under the old sweater) which is always safe since the lady at the desk was old and skinny with white hair and if you are wearing a raincoat, half the time they think you are going to open it and wave your dick in their face or pull down your pants and make a bowl movement on the floor. So they leave you alone.
This Dickens is really something, you know? The reason is because if you ever tried reading the truckload of crap that they like to pass off as books (meaning Jane Air and Ivenhoe and so forth) you can stop wondering why the world is getting so fucked up and how come there is no more Austria and etc.—because the real problem is that nobody knows how to say what is on their mind anymore. It is like trying to get a turnip out of a stone. That’s how come when I was your age David Copperfield was my idle. “Chapter One—I am born.” A man can relate to that kind of thing.
The second reason I rooted for Copperfield was because of what kind of ringer he had to go through before he got what he got. It looked like every time you turned around he was always getting thrown out of somewheres or having the shit knocked out of him again or taking crap from losers like Miss Murdstone who he really should of pulled her tongue out to get her off his back. But you know what he did? Nothing. He kept his mouth shut, all the time knowing that what he was really doing was keeping score so that when the time was right he could turn around and boot them all into next week. He had them fooled too. Like:
Miss Murdstone looked at me and said “Generally speaking I don’t like boys. How d’ye do, boy?” Under these encouraging circumstances I replied that I was very well.
Now doesn’t that make you wonder how he could of held it in like that without sticking a fork in her eye? Me, I don’t think I could of pulled it off, which is how come some nights when I couldn’t sleep for thinking I’d never make the squad cut or get to Springfield or even just get the Hell out of Wisconsin, I’d make myself David Copperfield just to see what I would of done different. Like:
Miss Murdstone looked at me and said “Generally speaking I don’t like boys. How d’ye do, boy?” Under these encouraging circumstances I replied “Kiss my ass”.
So think about that the next time Nana Bert makes monkey-eyes at you.
Charlie
P.S. How did you wind up in that kind of soup anyway?
* * *
* * *
Dear Charlie,
Nana Bert is 43. My father met her at a party when she had on a skinny black dress with leopard spots on it. The kind that if she was wearing it on the beach at Coney Island instead, they would have arrested her for being naked. After that a process server came to our house at 11:00 at night and made my mother sign some papers. Then my Dad married Nana Bert and told us to leave and my Mom threw his shirts down the incinerator. All we had left of him was this little statue of his head that he gave my mother for an anniversary present once. Aunt Carrie took it outside and put it against the garbage cans to keep them from falling over in the wind.
The only good part about moving was that when you stick your head out of my window you can see the right field part of Ebbets Field and people like Cookie Lavagetto and Pee Wee Rockhead Reese and other Dodgers who I used to throw up from even looking at until I swapped nine Chick Hafeys for a slingshot. Now I can draw blood whenever I want to. One time I plugged Dixie Walker, Tuck Stainback and Jimmy Ripple all in two innings, and they almost had to call the game off because they couldn’t figure out where the marbles were coming from. So watch your step. I could probably reach third base if I wanted to the next time you play here.
Can I go to Tuxedo Junction now?
Joey
* * *
INTERVIEWER: Donald M. Weston, Ph.D.
SUBJECT: Joseph Charles Margolis
Q: Let me see your nose. How did that happen?
A: Bierman slugged me. Then Delvecchi kicked me in the stomach.
Q: You mean you’re not going to tell me you fell off the Woolworth Building?
A: I don’t have to. They’re not allowed to beat me up anymore.
Q: Says who?
A: Charlie Banks. I told you so.
Q: Joey—
A: They had me and Craig on the ground—
Q: Craig?
A: Nakamura. The Green Hornet. His father owns the fruit store downstairs. He’s 12 too.
Q: What was Charlie Banks doing in Brooklyn?
A: Hazel went dancing with Joel McCrea on Tuesday night. It was in all the papers. I guess Charlie couldn’t take it anymore. Craig was right.
Q: So he broke up the fight?
A: Better. He lifted Bierman up into the sky with one hand and told him to scram. Then he said to me in front of everybody, “When I come over for dinner, you’ll tell me if this gentleman needs to be reminded.”
Q: That ought to do it.
A: You bet it did. Now I scare the heck out of them. This is fun.
Q: Don’t be a sore winner. Then you went to see Hazel?
A: Not yet. First we went to the store to get a steak for my eye, but all they had were pork chops and they aren’t kosher. Aunt Carrie locked herself in the bedroom when we brought it into the house, even though my Mom told her it doesn’t count as long as no one’s eating it.
Q: If you’re making all of this up, you’re doing a very good job.
A: I’m not making it up. Then we went to see Hazel. At Tuxedo Junction. I got to wear my serge suit and my smoked glasses. She was singing the funny valentine song in a shiny blue dress. Boy, is she snakey. Her bosoms are bigger than Ginger Rogers’. No wonder he likes her.
Q: Did you tell her the truth?
A: Charlie wouldn’t let me order a scotch on the rocks and say “Leave the bottle” the way Bogey does. But he bought me a Coca-Cola and let me say “Put it on my tab” and—
Q: Joey? Did you tell her the truth?
A: Uh. Well, I started to. Does that count?
* * *
Dear Miss MacKay,
Thank you so much for inviting me and Charlie to watch your show. And especially for singing the ooh-la-la song to me. I feel so much better and it’s all because of you.
Your friend,
Joey Margolis
P.S. I’m sorry I had to wear the smoked glasses. Bright light still hurts my eyes.
* * *
* * *
Dear Joey,
Knock it off.
By the way, the smallpox routine needs work. Your delivery was okay, but you could use a good director—the fainting bit went out with two-reelers. And if you ever do an encore, it’d be a smart idea to remember which leg is supposed to be the one with palsy.
I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll tell Char
lie that you ’fessed up, and I won’t spill the beans as long as you keep him in line. Okay?
Fondly,
Hazel
* * *
* * *
Man About Town
by Winchell
Extra Innings for MacKay and Banks
If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, slinky songbird Hazel MacKay’s next big number might just be “O, Promise Me”. Table-hopping across Gotham this week, MacKay the Giant killer and smokin’ third-sacker Charlie Banks were spotted looping linguine at Delmonico’s, spooning spumoni at the Rainbow Room, and chewing cheesecake at Lindy’s. According to sources, the often star-crossed pair had eyes only for each other, even when our Romeo dropped a $20 bottle of Cordon Lafitte on Juliet’s foot. Watch those grounders, kid!
* * *
* * *
Dear Winchell,
You forgot the Stork Club. That’s where I saw you squeezing the titties on that cash register girl while your wife was out peeing.
Mind your own fuckin business.
Chas. Banks
3d Base
* * *
* * *
Teacher’s Comments:
I had hoped that Joseph would return from summer vacation ready to apply himself in a more cooperative fashion. Instead, one week after a history lesson in which I properly assessed President Roosevelt’s National Recovery Act as an utter failure, I received a letter from press secretary Stephen Early suggesting that I might wish to reevaluate my position. It was not necessary to wonder which of my students had “turned me in,” so to speak.
Mrs. Margolis, I am not accustomed to criticism from the White House. Especially when I fully intend to vote for Mr. Willkie in November. Furthermore, my authority as a teacher has begun to deteriorate. I suggest we schedule a conference as soon as possible.
Joseph’s attachment to Rachel Panitz seems to have matured beyond the point of physical assault. Unfortunately, he has now taken to leaving love letters in her lunch bag, most of which run along the lines of “You don’t smell half as bad as you used to” and similar heartfelt sentiments. Although Rachel continues to remain unmoved, this only seems to be encouraging him.
Janet Hicks
Parents’ Comments:
The boy got seven A’s. What more do you want—blood?
Carrie Gettinger
Joey’s Aunt
* * *
* * *
BOOK REPORT
BY JOSEPH MARGOLIS
HELD FOR RANSOM
A NEW SKIPPY DARE MYSTERY STORY
BY HUGH LLOYD
Kidnapped, and in the hands of a ruthless gang of crooks, ten-year-old detective Skippy and the son of a millionaire almost give up. A thrilling story with tense drama in every chapter.
I did not like Held for Ransom by Hugh Lloyd for three reasons:
It is the same Skippy Dare story as in Prisoners in Devil’s Bog and Among the River Pirates, except that the bad guys have different names. Also, in this one Skippy gets thrown out of an airplane, which he did not do in the other ones.
Only a grownup who is screwy would let a kid get in trouble with crooks, no matter how much he just wanted to help. But Inspector Conne lets Skippy get caught by spies all the time, like they are dumb enough to think that a 10-year-old boy with a shortwave radio just showed up by accident.
How come Skippy Dare doesn’t know any Jews? In Footprints Under the Window by Franklin W. Dixon, there’s the Hardy Boys (Christian), Phil Cohen (Jewish), Tom Wat (Chinese), Tony Prito (Italian), and Chet Morton (fat). Aren’t all men supposed to be created equal? Not to Skippy Dare.
In Mein Kampf, Hitler says the exact same thing, only out loud. He thinks there are three kinds of people in the world. The ones who own everything, the ones who sweep the floors and do the laundry for the ones who own everything, and the ones who get shot. If you don’t believe me, ask London. How would you like to wake up at 2:00 in the morning to go to the bathroom, but just when you flush the toilet your house blows up? They call it the Blitz. And it happens every night. “This is Murrow. America, can you hear me?”
I think we need to have a classroom discussion about Fascists who write books like this for kids. Hugh Lloyd isn’t the only one. Mark Twain stinks too. Remember what he said about Negroes and Indians?
I did not like Held for Ransom by Hugh Lloyd.
* * *
* * *
Alexander Hamilton Junior High School
To: All Students
From: Herbert Demarest, Principal
Re: Mrs. Hicks
I know you all join me in wishing Mrs. Hicks a pleasant trip to the Caribbean. Although her leave of absence was a sudden one, we can expect to see her cheerful smile again in time for Hallowe’en.
In the meantime, Mrs. Adeline Diehl will be taking over her classes. Let’s all do our best to make Mrs. Diehl feel welcome.
* * *
* * *
Dear Charlie,
I need to write a hundred word essay on Huey Long for our substitute teacher Mrs. Diehl, and I want to do a good job because this one cries. But I was only eight when Huey Long died so I wasn’t paying attention, except for the part about calling him “Swordfish”. What should I say?
Joey
P.S. Are you still sore at me?
P.S.2. When are you coming over for dinner? You promised.
* * *
* * *
Dear Joey,
There are two chances I am coming over for dinner. Fat and slim. The only reason I said I was going to was to scare the piss out of that fartmouth who had his hands around your neck and the other one who was standing on your buddy’s head. And it worked, didn’t it? Your damn lucky I batted you home from third—now don’t jinx the dirt. Your the one who said you were going to tell Hazel the truth. Instead she was almost ready to call the New York Times and get them to invent a new charity for you. You bet your ass I am still sore. Check with me again in 1978.
And stop sending me your damn Re-Elect FDR handouts. All I use them for is toilet paper. Two terms was bad enough—your not suppose to get 3. Yeah, he’s not going to dope us into the Big Smoke over there, is he? Not much he isn’t. That’s why he just started drafting us. No wonder you like him. He’s a bigger double crosser than you are.
We will be leaving tomorrow for our last road trip of the season. We will be in Cincy for 5 days and Saint Louis for another 5 and then Chic. for 4. You can write to me at Crosley Field and Sportsmans Park and Wrigley in those places.
Charlie
P.S. It wasn’t “Swordfish”, but “Kingfish”. And start with “Huey Long was a sack of shit.” How many words does that leave left?
P.S.2. What kind of a Jew are you anyway? I thought you were suppose to have long pieces of hair all the way down your face.
P.S.3. I guess you saw in the papers that Hazel wants to be my girl again. This time she says it’s because of you. I don’t know what you said to her but I guess this makes us even.
* * *
* * *
Dear Chucky,
I told her to put up or shut up. Then I pushed a grapefruit in her face like Cagney did to Mae Clark. Girls like that.
I saw a picture in the Tribune of the fuckin Reds game. You probably know which one it was. You had your knuckles in Ernie Fuckin Lombardi’s teeth and it was just before the front one fell out. Charlie, I’m not saying I’m on Lombardi’s side or anything, but I don’t think he did it on purpose. His fuckin butt just got in the way of the fuckin ball is all. I mean, they didn’t give you a fuckin error or anything so I don’t get it.
Joey
P.S. There are three kinds of Jews. The ones with sidelocks are Orthodoxes. They wear long black coats and sing scary songs and they aren’t allowed to ride roller coasters. Second is Conservative like Aunt Carrie and third is Reformed like me and my Mom. After that comes Lutheran I think, but I’m not sure.
* * *
* * *
Dear Iron Fist
s,
I don’t know what they teach you in that school of yours or whether you are too busy pissing into our drinking water to listen, but I would bet that the old 10 commandments show up sooner or later, and you will notice that nowhere in it does it say anything about some Red son-of-a-bitch sticking his ass into the middle of a routine throw to first just on account of blowing all of their previous chances and merely wishing to stay alive. So go gripe to E. Lombardi. Maybe if he learned how to run.
Cincy is the shit hole of the world and if you ever get on a tour or something and Cincy is a part of it, if I was you I would ask them to change my plans and send me somewhere else. Even Hell. The thing they call downtown is on this river, the Cincinattie I think, and if you want to get a good education in smell, just wait until it is the summer and 95 degrees and 2:00 in the a.m. while you are trying to sleep, and the Noodlehead up there who is in charge of the weather decides it is time to send a breaze into your hotel room. Jordy Stuker, my new roommate after I started bowing to Carl Hubbell and calling him “Pius The First”, is also a rookie but he grew up in Kansas and Cleavland so he has been to this area before and brought nose plugs. Only that means you have to breathe that shit in through your mouth and no thank you ma’am. You probably need a picture post card of this place like a third foot, but I’m sticking one in anyway. Smell it and see what I mean about Cincy. I drew an arrow on the front pointing to where our hotel is, only you really can’t see it on account of the Court House being in the way. Tomorrow we play one more in this arm pit before we can lam out of here to Saint Louis which come to think of it is not a whole Hell of alot better.