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Authors: Lawrence S. Kaplan
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staircase, stopping on the last step at the sight of Preston’s four pieces of luggage and an oversized steamer trunk. “I thought Newman was kidding.”
“My…,” Preston said, catching himself before saying that his mother packed for him, “rule is to be prepared for anything.”
They swiftly carried the four pieces of luggage up to Preston’s room. The steamer trunk was another matter. Half way up the staircase, Clark lost his grip, dropping the trunk. The resulting crash and tidal wave of curses drew a raucous crowd, and Ellis Price from his office behind the reception desk.
Price, sans his suit jacket, stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his vest. Laughter and catcalls turned to silence as Price glowered at Clark andPreston. “What are you waiting for? Give them a hand,” Price said to the audience on the landing.
As two volunteers stepped forward, Clark waved them off. “We’ll do it ourselves.” Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.
“Let them…,” Preston started to protest.
Clark cinched up his trousers and then worked his fingers under his side of the trunk. Preston lifted his end. “Let’s go,” Clark ordered.
Price watched as Preston bearing the weight of the trunk against his chest nearly fell backwards. Price shook his head and muttered, “Eight months of Clark Johnson.”
The pair manhandled the trunk to their room. “Did you leave anything,” Clark asked out of breath as he opened the door, “in New York?”
Preston wiped his face with a linen handkerchief. “You should’ve let the two guys help.”
Clark gave the trunk a kick with his shoe. “I wouldn’t give Price the fucking satisfaction. We’ll push it into your room.”
The trunk slid on the hardwood floor without difficulty. Preston undid the leather straps securing the lid and flipped it open. He removed blankets, pillows, four sets of sheets and placed them on the bed. A gooseneck lamp was unwrapped from a large bath towel and placed on the desk with a
Webster’s
dictionary.
Clark stuck a cigarette in his mouth as he watched Preston search the bottom of the trunk. “Looking for gold?”
With both hands, Preston removed another bath towel wrapped object. “To me it’s worth its weight in gold.” He removed the towel to reveal the latest portable model RCA radio. “With this baby, I’ll be able to pull in all the New York stations. You know what that means?”
Clark exhaled a burst of smoke in Preston’s direction. “What does it mean?” he asked in a girlie whine.
“That baseballs cracking off the bats of Gehrig and Ruth will fill the air as the Yankees win the pennant.” Preston plugged the radio in a wall socket behind the desk and switched it on, producing nothing but hums and crackles.
“Should’ve bought a Philco,” Clark said.
Preston adjusted the antennae on the back of the radio and rotated the tuner to 660, NBC’s 50,000 watt New York station. Benny Goodman’s
Stomping at the Savoy
came in loud and clear.
“Sounds better than the Philco I left home,” Clark said with a broad grin. “I’ll need to use it later to listen to Father Coughlin’s show.”
Preston recoiled at the mention of Coughlin’s name. “How can you listen to the guy?”
Clark flicked cigarette ash into the palm of his hand. “Me and three and a half million others agree with him that Roosevelt and the Jews are working behind the scenes to involve the United States in the next war in Europe and help the Russian communists destroy Christianity.” Red-faced, he pointed the cigarette at Preston. “Father Coughlin is a personal friend of my family. I’ve spent many Sundays at his church in Royal Oak.” Clark huffed out of the room.
Preston spent the remainder of the afternoon unpacking and closeting his clothes, making up his bed, and arranging his desk where he sat reviewing the paraphernalia he received from Coordinator Stan Phillips. According to the schedule, the next two days were
“My…,” Preston said, catching himself before saying that his mother packed for him, “rule is to be prepared for anything.”
They swiftly carried the four pieces of luggage up to Preston’s room. The steamer trunk was another matter. Half way up the staircase, Clark lost his grip, dropping the trunk. The resulting crash and tidal wave of curses drew a raucous crowd, and Ellis Price from his office behind the reception desk.
Price, sans his suit jacket, stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his vest. Laughter and catcalls turned to silence as Price glowered at Clark andPreston. “What are you waiting for? Give them a hand,” Price said to the audience on the landing.
As two volunteers stepped forward, Clark waved them off. “We’ll do it ourselves.” Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.
“Let them…,” Preston started to protest.
Clark cinched up his trousers and then worked his fingers under his side of the trunk. Preston lifted his end. “Let’s go,” Clark ordered.
Price watched as Preston bearing the weight of the trunk against his chest nearly fell backwards. Price shook his head and muttered, “Eight months of Clark Johnson.”
The pair manhandled the trunk to their room. “Did you leave anything,” Clark asked out of breath as he opened the door, “in New York?”
Preston wiped his face with a linen handkerchief. “You should’ve let the two guys help.”
Clark gave the trunk a kick with his shoe. “I wouldn’t give Price the fucking satisfaction. We’ll push it into your room.”
The trunk slid on the hardwood floor without difficulty. Preston undid the leather straps securing the lid and flipped it open. He removed blankets, pillows, four sets of sheets and placed them on the bed. A gooseneck lamp was unwrapped from a large bath towel and placed on the desk with a
Webster’s
dictionary.
Clark stuck a cigarette in his mouth as he watched Preston search the bottom of the trunk. “Looking for gold?”
With both hands, Preston removed another bath towel wrapped object. “To me it’s worth its weight in gold.” He removed the towel to reveal the latest portable model RCA radio. “With this baby, I’ll be able to pull in all the New York stations. You know what that means?”
Clark exhaled a burst of smoke in Preston’s direction. “What does it mean?” he asked in a girlie whine.
“That baseballs cracking off the bats of Gehrig and Ruth will fill the air as the Yankees win the pennant.” Preston plugged the radio in a wall socket behind the desk and switched it on, producing nothing but hums and crackles.
“Should’ve bought a Philco,” Clark said.
Preston adjusted the antennae on the back of the radio and rotated the tuner to 660, NBC’s 50,000 watt New York station. Benny Goodman’s
Stomping at the Savoy
came in loud and clear.
“Sounds better than the Philco I left home,” Clark said with a broad grin. “I’ll need to use it later to listen to Father Coughlin’s show.”
Preston recoiled at the mention of Coughlin’s name. “How can you listen to the guy?”
Clark flicked cigarette ash into the palm of his hand. “Me and three and a half million others agree with him that Roosevelt and the Jews are working behind the scenes to involve the United States in the next war in Europe and help the Russian communists destroy Christianity.” Red-faced, he pointed the cigarette at Preston. “Father Coughlin is a personal friend of my family. I’ve spent many Sundays at his church in Royal Oak.” Clark huffed out of the room.
Preston spent the remainder of the afternoon unpacking and closeting his clothes, making up his bed, and arranging his desk where he sat reviewing the paraphernalia he received from Coordinator Stan Phillips. According to the schedule, the next two days were
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