A Thousand and One Afternoons in Chicago by Ben Hecht

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All right. Three a.m. Bring out the lions and the Christians now. The
master of ceremonies is a fat man with little, ineffectual hands and a
voice that bows and genuflects and throws itself politely worshipful at
our feet.

Amateur night, says the voice, and some ladies and gentlemen will seek to
entertain us with a few specialties for our amusement. And will the ladies
and gentlemen of the audience applaud according to the merit of each
performer? For the one who gets the most applause, he or she will win the
grand first prize of fifty bones.

Attaboy! Will we applaud? Say, bring 'em out I Bring 'em out! Ah, here she
is. A pale, trembling little morsel with frightened eyes and a worn blue
serge skirt. The floor is slippery. "Miss Waghwoughblngsz," says the
voice, "will sing for your entertainment."

A terrified little squeak. A Mae Marsh grimace of courage. Good! Say,
she's great! Look at her try to swing her body. And her arms have lost
their joints. And she's forgotten the words. Poor little tyke. Throw her
something. Pennies. While she's singing. See who can hit her.

So we throw her pennies and nickels and dimes. They land on her head and
one takes her on the nose. And her voice dies away like a baby bird
falling out of a nest. And she stands still--jerking her mouth and the
pennies falling all around her. And a cynical-looking youth bounces out
and picks them up. Bravo! She tried to bow and slipped. Another round of
applause for that. All right, take her away. What did she sing? What was
the song that mumbled itself through the laughter and the rain of pennies?

* * * * *

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sghsgbrszsg will endeavor to entertain you with
a ballad for your amusement. That's fine. After three a.m. outside. Cold
and dark. But nothing cold or dark about us. We're just getting started.
Bring 'em out. Bring out the ballad singer.

Ah, there's a lad for you. His shoes all shined and a clean collar on and
his face carefully shaved at home. But his hands wouldn't wash clean. The
shop grime lingers on his hands and in his broken nails. But his eyes are
blue and he's going to sing. The boys at the shop know his songs. The noon
hour knows them.

But his voice sounds different here under the beating tungstens. It
quavers. Something about Ireland. A little bit of heaven. He can't sing.
If he was in his shirt sleeves and the collar was off and his face didn't
hurt from the dull safety razor blade--it would sound better. But--pennies
for him. Hit the singing boy in the eye and win the hand-painted cazaza.

"A little bit of heaven called Ireland," is what he's singing. And the
noises start. The pennies and nickels rain. Finis! Not so good. He sang it
all the way through and his voice grew better and better. Take him away.
We didn't like the way his eyes blazed back at us when the pennies fell.
Not so good. Not so good.

Here she is. Little Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. In the flesh. And
walking across the slippery dance floor with her French heeled patent
leathers wiggling under her. Bertha's the doodles. This is the way she
stood at the piano at Sadie's party. This is the way she smiled at the
errand boys and counter jumpers at Sadie's party. This is the way she
bowed and this is the song she sang to them that they applauded so much.

And this is too good to be true. Bravo six times. Dimes and quarters and a
majestic half dollar that takes Bertha on the ear. Bravo eleven times.
Bertha stands smirking and moving her shoulders and singing in a piping
little shop-girl voice. Encore, _cherie!_ Encore! And it goes to
Bertha's head. The applause and laughter, the lights and the pounding of
the pennies falling out of heaven around her feet--these are too much for
Bertha. She ends. Her arms make a gesture, a weak little gesture as if she
were embracing one of the errand boys in a vestibule, saying good-night. A
vague radiance comes over Bertha's face. Bravo twenty-nine times. The
grand prize of fifty bones is hers. Wait and see if it ain't.

More lions and more Christians. Bring 'em out. The sad-looking boy with
the harmonica. He forgets the tune all the time and we laugh and hit him
with pennies. The clerk with the shock of black hair who does an Apache
dance, and does it well. Too well. And the female impersonator who does a
can-can female dance very well. Much too well.

Nobody wants them. We want Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. There was a
thrill to her. The way she looked when the applause grew loud. The way her
girl arms reached out toward something. As if we at the tables rolling
around in our seats and laughing our heads off and all dressed up and
guzzling sandwiches and ginger ale, as if we were something at a rainbow
end.

Bring her on again. Line 'em up. Now we'll applaud the one we liked the
best. For his nobs who gargled the Irish ballad, two bravos. If he hadn't
got mad at us. Or if he'd got madder and spat a little more behind the
music that came from him. But he didn't. The first gal who died on the
floor. Whose heart collapsed. Whose eyes went blank with terror. Nine
bravos for her. There was a thrill to her. Bravos for the rest of them,
too. But Bertha wins the hand-painted cazaza. Fifty bucks for Bertha. Here
you are, Bertha. You win.

Look, she's crying. That's all right, li'l girl. That's all right. Don't
cry. We just gave you the prize because you gave us a thrill. That's fair
enough. Because of all the geniuses who performed for our amusement and
whom we bombarded with pennies you were the only one who threw out your
arms and your eyes to us as if we were rainbow's end.

MRS. SARDOTOPOLIS' EVENING OFF

Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried along without looking into the store window. She
was carrying her baby home from the doctor's office. The doctor said,
"Hurry on. Get him home and don't buy him any ice cream on the way." Mrs.
Sardotopolis lived in a place above a candy, book and notion store at 608
South Halsted street.

It was late afternoon. Greeks, Jews, Russians, Italians, Czechs, were busy
in the street. They sat outside their stores in old chairs, hovered
protectingly over the outdoor knick-knack counters, walked lazily in
search of iced drinks or stood with their noses close together arguing.

The store windows glittered with crude colors and careless peasants'
clothes. It was at such times as this, hurrying home from a doctor's
office or a grocery store, that Mrs. Sardotopolis enjoyed herself. Her
little eyes would take in the gleaming arrays of tin pans, calico
remnants, picture books, hair combs and things like that with which the
merchants of Halsted Street fill their windows.

But this time Mrs. Sardotopolis had seven blocks to go to her home and
there was no time for looking at things. Despite the heat she had
carefully wrapped the baby in her arms in a shawl.

* * * * *

When Mrs. Sardotopolis got home there would be eight other children to
take care of. But that was a simple matter. None of them was sick. When
the eight children weren't sick they tumbled, shrieked and squealed in the
dark hallway or in the street. Anywhere. Mrs. Sardotopolis only listened
with half an ear. As long as they made noise they were healthy. So from
day to day she listened not for their noise but to hear if any of them
grew quiet.

Joe had grown quiet. Joe was the baby, a year and a half, and quite a
citizen. After several days Mrs. Sardotopolis couldn't stand Joe's quiet
any more. His skin, too, made her feel sad. His skin was hot and dry. So
she had hurried off to the doctor.

There was hardly time in her day for such an errand. Now she must get home
quickly. Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers would be home before it
got dark. In the kitchen in the big pot she had left three chickens
cooking.

* * * * *

A gypsy leaned out of a doorway. She was dressed in many red, blue and
yellow petticoats and waists. Beads hung from her neck and her withered
arms were alive with copper bracelets.

"Tell your fortune, missus," she called.

Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried by with no more than a look. Some day she would
let the gypsy tell her fortune. It cost only twenty-five cents. But now
there was no time. Too much to do. Her arms--heavy, tireless arms that
knew how to work for fifteen hours each day--clung to the bundle Joe made
in his shawl.

But the doctor was a fool. What harm could ice cream do? When anybody was
sick ice cream could make them well. So Mrs. Sardotopolis lifted Joe up
and turned her eyes toward an ice cream stand. She stopped. If Joe said,
"Wanna," she would buy him some. But Joe didn't seem to know what she was
offering, although usually he was quite a citizen. So she said aloud,
"Wanna ice cream, Joe?"

To this Joe made no answer except to let his head fall back. Mrs.
Sardotopolis grew frightened and walked fast.

As she came near her home Mrs. Sardotopolis was leaning over the bundle in
her arms, crying, "Joe! Joe! Do you hear, Joe?"

The streets swarmed with the early evening crowds of men and women going
home. In the cars the people stood packed as if they were sardines.

A few feet from her door beside the candy and notion store Mrs.
Sardotopolis stopped. Her heavy face had grown white. She raised the
bundle closer to her eyes and looked at it.

"Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?"

The bundle was silent. So Mrs. Sardotopolis pinched it. Then she stared at
the closed eyes. Then she seized the bundle and crushed it desperately in
her heavy arms, against her heavy bosom.

"Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?"

The glazier sitting in front of his glassware store stood up and blinked.

"Whatsamatter?" he asked.

Mrs. Sardotopolis didn't answer, but stood in front of her house, holding
the bundle in her arms and repeating its name. A small crowd gathered. She
addressed herself to several women of her race.

"I knew, before it come," she said. "He didn't want no ice cream."

Mrs. Sardotopolis walked upstairs and laid the bundle down on the table.
It lay without moving and Mrs. Sardotopolis stood over it without moving.
Then she sat down in a chair beside it and began to cry.

* * * * *

When Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers came home from driving the
wagon they found her still crying.

"Joe is dead," she said.

The other children were all properly noisy. Mr. Sardotopolis said, "I will
call my sisters and mother." He went over, looked at the child that lay
dead on the table and stroked its head.

The sisters and mothers arrived. They took charge of the big pot with the
three chickens in it, of the eight squalling little ones and of the silent
bundle on the table. There were four sisters. As it grew dark Mrs.
Sardotopolis found that she was sitting alone in a corner of the room. She
felt tired. There was no use hugging the baby any more. Joe was dead. In a
few days he would be buried. Tears. Yes, particularly since in a few
months he would have had a smaller brother. Now Mrs. Sardotopolis was
frightened. Joe was the first to die.

She walked out of the house, down the dark hallway into the street. "It
will do her good," said her mother-in-law, who watched her.

In the street there was nothing to do. There were no errands to make. She
could just walk. People were just walking. Young people arm in arm. It was
a summer night in Halsted Street. Mrs. Sardotopolis walked until her eyes
grew clearer. She took a deep breath and looked about her nervously. There
was a gypsy leaning out of the doorway. Mrs. Sardotopolis stared at her.

"Tell your fortune, missus," called the gypsy.

Mrs. Sardotopolis nodded and entered the hallway. Her head felt dizzy. But
there was nothing to do until tomorrow, when they buried Joe. With a
curious thrill under her heavy bosom, Mrs. Sardotopolis held out her
work-coarsened palm to the gypsy.

THE GREAT TRAVELER

Alexander Ginkel has been around the world. A week ago he came to Chicago
and, after looking around for a few days, located in one of the less
expensive hotels and started to work as a porter in a well-known
department store downtown.

A friend said, "There's a man living in my hotel who should make a good
story. He's been around the world. Worked in England, Bulgaria, Russia,
Siberia, China and everywhere. Was cook on a tramp steamer in the south
seas. A remarkable fellow, really."

In this way I came to call on Ginkel. I found him after work in his room.
He was a short man, over 30, and looked uninteresting. I told him that we
should be able to get some sort of story out of his travels and
experiences. He nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I've been all around the world."

Then he became silent and looked at me hopefully.

I explained, "People like to read about travelers. They sit at home
themselves and wonder what it would be like to travel. You probably had a
lot of experiences that would give people a vicarious thrill. I understand
you were a cook on a tramp steamer in the south seas."

"Oh, yes," said Ginkel, "I've been all over. I've been around the world."

* * * * *

We lighted pipes and Ginkel removed a book from a drawer in the dresser.
He opened it and I saw it was a book of photographs--mostly pictures taken
with a small camera.

"Here are some things you could use," he said. "You wanna look at them."

We went through the pictures together.

"This one here," said Ginkel, "is me in Vladivostok. It was taken on the
corner there."

The photograph showed Ginkel dressed just as he was in the hotel room,
standing near a lamp post on a street corner. There was visible a part of
a store window.

"This one is interesting," said Ginkel, warming up. "It was taken in the
archipelago. You know where. I forget the name of the town. But it was in
the south seas."

We both studied it for a space. It showed Ginkel standing underneath
something that looked like a palm tree. But the tree was slightly out of
focus. So were Ginkel's feet.

"It is interesting," said Ginkel, "But it ain't such a good picture. The
lower part is kind of blurred, you notice."

We looked through the album in silence for a while. Then Ginkel suddenly
remembered something.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "There's one I think you'll like. It was
taken in Calcutta. You know where. Here it is."

He pointed proudly toward the end of the book. We studied it through the
tobacco smoke. It was a photograph of Ginkel dressed in the same clothes
as before and standing under a store awning.

"There was a good light on this," said Ginkel, "and you see how plain it
comes out."

Then we continued without comment to study other photographs. There were
at least several hundred. They were all of Ginkel. Most of them were
blurred and showed odds and ends of backgrounds out of focus, such as
trees, street cars, buildings, telephone poles. There was one that finally
aroused Ginkel to comment:

"This would have been a good one, but it got light struck," he said. "It
was taken in Bagdad."

* * * * *

When we had exhausted the album Ginkel felt more at ease. He offered me
some tobacco from his pouch. I resumed the original line of questioning.

"Did you have any unusual adventures during your travels or did you get
any ideas that we could fix up for a story," I asked.

"Well," said Ginkel, "I was always a camera bug, you know. I guess that's
what gave me the bug for travelling. To take pictures, you know. I got a
lot more than these, but I ain't mounted them yet."

"Are they like the ones in the book."

"Not quite so good, most of them," Ginkel answered. "They were taken when
I hadn't had much experience."

"You must have been in Russia while the revolution was going on, weren't
you?"

"Oh, yes. I got one there." He opened the book again. "Here," he said.
"This was in Moscow. I was in Moscow when this was taken."

It was another picture of Ginkel slightly out of focus and standing
against a store front. I asked him suddenly who had taken all the
pictures.

"Oh, that was easy," he said. "I can always find somebody to do that. I
take a picture of them first and then they take one of me. I always give
them the one I take of them and keep the one they take of me."

"Did you see any of the revolution, Ginkel?"

"A lot of monkey business," said Ginkel. "I seen some of it. Not much."

The last thing I said was, "You must have come in for a lot of sights. We
might fix up a story about that if you could give me a line on them." And
the last thing Ginkel said was:

"Oh, yes, I've been around the world."

THUMBS UP AND DOWN

Later the art jury will sit on them. The art jury will discuss tone and
modelling, rhythm and chiaroscuro and perspective. And in the light of
these discussions and decisions the art jury will sort out the
masterpieces that are to be hung in the Chicago artists' exhibition and
the masterpieces that are not to be hung.

Right now, however, Louis and Mike are unwrapping them. Every day between
nine and five Louis and Mike assemble in the basement of the Art
Institute. The masterpieces arrive by the bushel, the truckload, the
basketful. Louis unwraps them. Mike stacks them up. Louis then calls off
their names and the names of geniuses responsible for them. Mike writes
this vital information down in a book.

* * * * *

Art is a contagious business. Perfectly normal and marvelously
wholesome-minded people are as likely to succumb to it as anybody else. It
is significant that the Purity League meeting in the city a few weeks ago
discussed the dangers which lay in exposing even decent, law-abiding
people to art, any kind of art.

The insidious influence of art cannot, as a matter of fact, be
exaggerated. I personally know of a number of very fine and highly
respected citizens who have been lured away from their very business by
art.

However, this is no place to sound the alarm. I will some day talk on the
subject before the Rotary Club. To return to Louis and Mike. After Mike
writes the vital information down in a book Louis carts the canvas over to
a truck and it is ready for the jury room.

When they started on the job Louis and Mike were frankly indifferent. They
might just as well have been unwrapping herring cases. And they were
exceedingly efficient. They unwrapped them and catalogued them as fast as
they came.

In three days, however, the workmanlike morale with which Louis and Mike
started on the job has been undermined. They have grown more leisurely.
They no longer bundle the pictures around like herring cases. Instead they
look at them, try them this way and that way until they find out which way
is right side up. Then they pass judgment.

Louis unwraps them. I was standing by in the basement with Bert Elliott,
who has submitted a modernistic picture of Michigan Avenue, the Wrigley
Building and the sky, called "Up, Straight and Across."

"'The Home of the Muskrat,'" Louis called. Mike wrote it down. "Wanna look
at it, Mike?"

"Yeah, let's see." Time out for critical inspection. "Say, this guy never
saw a muskrat house. That ain't the way."

"'Isle of Dreams,'" called Louis. "Hm! You can't tell which is right side
up. I guess it goes like this."

"No. The other," said Mike. "Try it on its side. There, I told you so.
'Isle of Dreams.' I don't see no isle."

"Here's a cuckoo," called Louis, suddenly. "'Mist.'"

"What?"

"'Mist,' it says, only 'Mist,' Mike. I'll say he missed. It ain't no
picture at all. That's a swell idee. Draw a picture in a fog and have the
fog so heavy you can't see nothing, then you don't have to put any picture
in. Can you beat it?"

"Go on. Try another."

"All right. Here's one. 'The Faithful Friend.' Now there's what I call a
picture. I knowed a guy who owned a dog that looked just like this. A
setter or something."

"Go on. That ain't a setter. It's a spaniel."

"You're cuckoo, Mike. Tell me it's a spaniel! Let's put it up ahead. It's
probably one of the prize winners. Here's a daffy one. 'At Play.' What's
at play? I don't see nothin' at play. Take a look, Mike."

"It's a sea picture. There's the sea, the gray part."

"You're nuts. Hennessey has a sea picture over the bar with some gals on
the rocks. You know the one I mean. And if this is a sea picture I'm a
orang-outang."

"Well, Louis, it's probably a different sea. Can you imagine anybody
sending a thing like that in? It ain't hardly worth the work of unwrapping
it. Hurry up, Louis, we're way behind."

"Well, take this, then. 'Children of the Ice.' Hm, I don't see no kids. I
suppose this stuff here is the ice. But where's the kids?"

"He probably means the birds over there, Louis."

"If he means the birds why don't he say birds instead of children? Why
don't he say 'birds of the ice'? What's the sense of saying 'children of
the ice' when he means birds?"

"Go on, Louis. Don't argue with me. Hurry up."

"Here's some photographs."

"Them ain't photographs, you nut. They're portraits."

"Well, they look almost as good as photographs. 'My Favorite Pupil.' It's
pretty good, Mike. See, there's the violin. He's a violin pupil. You can
tell. Got it?"

"Yeah. Bring on the next."

* * * * *

A silence came over Louis. He stood for several minutes staring at
something.

"Hurry up," called Mike. "It's getting late."

"This is a mistake," called Louis. "Here's one that's a mistake."

"How come, Louis?"

"Well, look at it. You can see for yourself. The guy made a mistake."

"What does it read on the back? Hurry, we can't waste no more time."

"It reads 'Up, Down and Across' or something. It's a mistake though."
Louis remained eyeing the canvas raptly. "It ain't finished, Mike. We
ought to send it back."

"Let's see, Louis." Time out for critical inspection. "You're right. It is
a mistake. 'Up, Down and Across,' you said. Well, we'll let it ride. It's
not our fault. What's the name of the guy?"

"Bert Elliott," called Louis. A laugh followed. Louis turned to me and my
friend.

"You see this?" he said. "I get it now. That's the Wrigley Building over
there. What do you know about that?"

Louis seized his sides and doubled up. Mr. Elliott, beside me, cleared his
throat and glanced apprehensively at his canvas.

"I'll say it's the first one he laughed at," said Mr. Elliott, pensively.
"He didn't laugh at any of the others. Look, he's still looking at it.
That's longer than he looked at any of the others."

"All right, Louis," from Mike. "Come on."

"Ho, ho," Louis went on, "I'd like to see this guy Elliott. Anybody who
would draw a picture like that. Hold your horses, Mike, here's another.
'The Faun." What's a faun, Mike? I guess he means fern. It looks like a
fern."

"It does that, Louis. But we'll have to let it go as a faun. It's probably
a foreign word. Most of these artists are foreigners, anyway."

Mr. Elliott and I left, Mr. Elliott remarking on the way down the
Institute steps, "Ho, hum."

ORNAMENTS

Ornaments change, and perhaps not for the best. The scherzo architecture
of Villon's Paris, the gabled caprice of Shakespeare's London, the Rip Van
Winkle jauntiness of a vanished New York, these are ghosts that wander
among the skyscrapers and dynamo beltings of modernity.

One by one the charming blunders of the past have been set to rights.
Highways are no longer the casual folderols of adventure, but the
reposeful and efficient arteries of traffic. The roofs of the town are no
longer a rumble of idiotic hats cocked at a devil-may-care angle. Windows
no longer wink lopsidedly at one another. Doorways and chimneys, railings
and lanterns have changed. Cobblestones and dirt have vanished, at least
officially.

Towns once were like improvised little melodramas. Men once wore their
backgrounds as they wore their clothes--to fit their moods. A cap and
feather, a gable and a latticed window for romance. A glove and rapier, a
turret and a postern gate for adventure. And for our immemorial friend
Routine a humpty-dumpty jumble of alleys, feather pens, cobblestones,
echoing stairways and bouncing milk carts.

* * * * *

These things have all been properly corrected. Today the city frowns from
one end to the other like a highly efficient and insanely practical
platitude. Mood has given way to mode. An essential evolution, alas!
D'Artagnan wore his Paris as a cloak. And perhaps Mr. Insull wears his
Chicago as a shirt front. But most of us have parted company with the
town. It is a background designed and marvelously executed for our
conveniences. The great metronomes of the loop with their million windows,
the deft crisscross of streets, the utilitarian miracles of plumbing,
doorways, heating systems and passenger carriers--these are monuments to
our collective sanity.

But if one is insane, if one has inherited one's grandfather's
characteristics as idler, loafer, lounger, dreamer, lover or picaroon,
what then? Eh, one stays at home and tells it to the typewriter or, more
likely, one gets run down, chewed up and bespattered while darting across
State Street in quest of an invigorating vanilla phosphate.

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