The Zebra Derby Read online

  I said nothing, but I made a mental note that if I were ever faced with unemployment, I knew a very unlikely place to look for jobs.

  The line moved slowly forward.

  chapter twenty-two

  A newsboy went by selling papers, and it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t read a newspaper since my discharge from the Army. I bought one from the boy. Now that the war was over, I thought, what were the newspapers printing on the front page? Instead of war news, I supposed, were proceedings of the United Nations Security Council, news of the diplomatic world, dispatches from foreign parliaments, and other such accounts. For in this shrinking world, now united for peace as never before, events in neighbor nations were of prime interest to Americans, and newspapers, which had kept our people so well informed during the war, would now, I thought, perform a like function in peace.

  I looked at the front page.

  The headline said: HUNT CONTINUES FOR BEAVER PELT KILLER, and here is the story that followed:

  Jacques le Strap, the crazed cook of Otter Haunch, Saskatchewan, was still at large today, but Royal Canadian Mounted Police officials promised an early arrest.

  Le Strap fled from Otter Haunch three days ago after murdering his employer, Jean-Batiste de Horn, a trapper, and de Horn’s common-law wife, Formidable Reynaud, in their bed. Le Strap took with him six dollars’ worth of valuable beaver pelts.

  It is believed, however, that robbery was not the primary motive for the crime. For days before the murder, le Strap, who dabbled in occult sciences, had been telling the villagers of Otter Haunch that he had had a divine command to murder de Horn and Miss Reynaud. At this the villagers only laughed and slapped their thighs, crying, “Crazy old Jacques!”

  Mackenzie Oncocken, chief of the Otter Haunch Mounted Police Constabulary, said to reporters yesterday, “Don’t worry. We’ll get le Strap. The Mounted Police always gets its shrdlu.”

  The rest of the front page was filled with a kidnaping in Guatemala, arson in Trans-Jordan, adultery in Tierra del Fuego, breaking and entering in Monaco, sodomy in British Somaliland, embezzlement in Swat, and rustling in New South Wales. In addition there was a photograph of firemen removing a kitten from a tree in front of 419 Locust Street, Plentywood, Montana.

  I turned the page and looked inside the newspaper. An ad caught my eye:

  Having contributed in no small measure to the final defeat of our insidious enemies … LUCKY STRIKE GREEN IS BACK FROM WAR.

  Another ad said:

  After all that Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer did during the war to keep up your morale, you’d sure have to be an ungrateful sonofabitch to stop drinking it now.

  Another ad said:

  DON’T GET GAMY NOW THAT HE’S BACK …

  All through the war we asked you to buy our perfume so that you would be fragrant when he came home.… Just because he’s back now, you don’t have to go around smelling like a polecat … keep buying and using …

  HELOVA HOT NUIT PARFUM

  This ad brought a tear to my eye:

  DEAR G.I. JOE,

  I waited for you. It was lonely and the days were long and the nights were without end. But I waited—faithfully.

  Now you’re home. Your return is all the reward I ask for my long vigil. I want nothing more.

  But there is something I think you will want for me. You fought the war and defeated our ghastly enemies so that you could come home and find me the same as I was when you left me. And you did find me that way. Now keep me that way—with PARD, the only dog food containing riboflavin.

  All my love,

  ROVER

  I turned to the classified-ad page and read this ad:

  FOR RENT: twelve-room apartment, three bathrooms, swimming pool, completely furnished including linens. Maid service provided. No lease required. Children allowed. Pets permitted. Keep chickens if desired. Wild parties encouraged. Rent $20 a month but will take less. Call Nestor 4767 any hour of day or night. Don’t worry about waking me.

  The housing shortage must be letting up a little, I thought as I turned to the travel and resorts section. I read this ad:

  FOR GOD’S SAKE, WON’T SOMEBODY COME TO MIAMI BEACH? Honest, fellows, we didn’t mean to treat you bad during the war. It was just war nerves, see? Just war nerves. We’re really swell when you get to know us. Why not let bygones be bygones? Come on down to Miami Beach. Let’s get somebody in the hotels besides chambermaids.

  THE MIAMI BEACH CHAMBER OF COMMERCE

  I turned to the editorial page and read this editorial:

  J’ACCUSE!

  The guns of war are still. Everywhere men at peace are quietly working, building, planning, making a new life. Freed from the war-born need to think in terms of armies and nations, men are once more devoting all their thoughts and energies to private pursuits.

  That is natural. It is natural that each man should concentrate on his own life and his own business.

  It is natural, but it is not altogether good.

  For there are those among us who lay in wait for times of civic indifference. They wait for a moment when the people are preoccupied with their own personal affairs. Then they strike.

  Such a situation is now with us. This newspaper means to put an end to it.

  This newspaper believes that its function is to be a watchdog for the little man, to protect his rights; to seek redress for his grievances.

  That is our mission, and we accept it with pleasure. We love the little man. God, how we love the little man. The littler he is, the more we love him.

  That’s the way it’s been from the beginning, and we guess that’s the way it always will be. Sure, some people call us stupid. “Why don’t you get wise to yourself?” they say. Why, only last week a vested interest came in and took a cigar out of his vest and said, “Why don’t you get wise to yourself?” We just shrugged and turned a Gioconda smile on him. No use to explain to the likes of him how we felt about the little man. He wouldn’t understand.

  Well, that’s the way it is. It’s that way, and that’s the way it is.

  But we digress. We were deploring a deplorable situation that has lately arisen because peace had lulled the people to indifference. This newspaper, thank God, was not lulled. Alert and straining at the leash like the little man’s watchdog that we are, we have uncovered this sink of municipal iniquity. And, that the little man might know, we mean to expose it here and now.

  We refer to the flagrant nepotism in the office of the city poultry inspector.

  This newspaper opposed the appointment of Louis Leghorn as chief poultry inspector from the beginning. To be sure, we never printed anything about Leghorn in our paper, but, if you will recall, at the time of Leghorn’s appointment our editorial columns were crowded with entries in our “My Biggest Fishing Thrill” contest. However, if any of you had taken the trouble to phone us, we could have told you then that Leghorn was not the man for the job.

  Leghorn’s appointment was an out-and-out payment for a political debt. Leghorn had supplied bunting for Mayor La-Ganglia’s election-campaign rallies. [Photostatic copies of Leghorn’s canceled bills for the bunting may be found on the facing page, unless Walgreen’s decided at the last minute to take an eight-column ad instead of a six.] Leghorn was appointed as a reward for the bunting.

  Well, let’s be realistic. This type political deal is common enough, and sometimes it even turns out to be a good thing. A man is appointed to a job about which he knows nothing, so he gets himself some competent help, and the office runs smoothly.

  But do you think Leghorn got himself some qualified assistants? He should live so long.

  Who do you think the deputy poultry inspector is? None other than Edna Leghorn, by a strange coincidence wife to Louis Leghorn. Mrs. Leghorn brings to her job twenty years’ experience—as a night clerk in the Fireproof Hotel.

  Who is the new director of pinfeather research? One Sam Leghorn, out of Edna Leghorn by Louis Leghorn. Sam was last employed at the jute mill of the s
tate penitentiary.

  In charge of wings and drumsticks is Max Leghorn, brother of Louis Leghorn, whose previous occupation was posing for W.C.T.U. posters. The gullet and craw division is under the able supervision of Quintus Leghorn, another brother. Alfred Leghorn, ditto, runs the liver and giblet division. Quintus and Albert drove taxis before this job. The coxcomb division is headed by Morris Nidrick, brother-in-law, previously a mechanical-doll salesman.

  We could go on and tell you more about the nepotism in the poultry inspector’s office. We could fill columns with the list of Leghorn kith and Leghorn kin who are now inspecting poultry at your expense. But there is no need to continue.

  We have sounded the alarum, little man, for which we ask no thanks. It was nothing more than our duty. Now it is up to you.

  The war for freedom has ended, but the war goes on. Eternal vigilance is the price of freedom. This newspaper will continue to expose malfeasance in high places, no matter what the cost. God helping us, little man, we can do no other.

  chapter twenty-three

  While I was reading the paper the line moved forward. By the time I was through with the paper most of the men in front of me had already gone into the office of the Co-ordinator of Veterans’ Affairs and come out. Jones, the ex-grocer, came out with a job in a grocery; Smith, the ex-reporter, came out with a job on a newspaper; Green, the ex-upholsterer, came out with a job as an upholsterer; Black, the ex-bank teller, came out with a job as a bank teller; Gray, the ex-cobbler, came out with a job as a cobbler; White, the ex-plumber, came out with a job as a plumber; Blue, the ex-sexton, came out with a job as a sexton.

  Now I was in the Co-ordinator of Veterans’ Affairs’ office, and there was only one man ahead of me. I could hear him talking to the Co-ordinator as I sat waiting in the anteroom.

  I heard the Co-ordinator say, “Now, as I understand it, you want your prewar job back.”

  “Yes,” said the veteran. “The G.I. Bill of Rights says that I can have my old job back if I want it, and I want it.”

  “To be sure,” said the Co-ordinator, “but your case isn’t as simple as all that. Remember, the law states that in order to have a claim on your old job you must have been a permanent employee. Now, my records show that you were hired at the Minneapolis Ordnance Works to replace one Sven Aslaksen. Aslaksen later was drafted. So Aslaksen has first call on the job, and he was here this morning and said he wanted it.”

  “He’s a liar,” said the veteran. “It’s true that I took over Sven Aslaksen’s job at the Minneapolis Ordnance Works, but he took over the job from me in the first place. You see, I was working at the Minneapolis Ordnance Works when I heard they were giving fifteen-minute rest periods every hour over at the Flour City Gunpowder Company. So I quit my job at the Minneapolis Ordnance Works and got a job at the Flour City Gunpowder Company. Then when I found out that the Minneapolis Ordnance Works was giving outboard motors to any employee who worked a week without being absent, I quit my job and went back to work there. Meanwhile Sven Aslaksen had quit his job at the Minneapolis Ordnance Works and gone to work at the Gopher Cast Iron Foundry when he heard that they were showing movies during lunch hour. So I took over Sven Aslaksen’s job, which was my old job in the first place.”

  “Yes, I know all that,” said the Co-ordinator. “But before you first got a job at the Minneapolis Ordnance Works, Sven Aslaksen had been working there. He quit to take a job at the Northern Armament Corporation when he heard that they had put in hostesses. So when you came there, you got the job that Sven Aslaksen had just quit.”

  “I know that,” said the veteran, “but I was working there before he got the job that he quit to go over to the Northern Armament Corporation. I was working at the Minneapolis Ordnance Works first. I quit my job to go over to the Grainbelt Tank Armory, where I heard that there was soda pop in the drinking fountains. Then Sven Aslaksen took my job. Then I heard that the Minneapolis Ordnance Works was giving free flying lessons to employees, so I quit at the Grainbelt Tank Armory and went back to the Minneapolis Ordnance Works. Meanwhile Sven Aslaksen had quit and gone over to the Northern Armament Corporation. Then I quit and went to the Flour City Gunpowder Company, and Sven Aslaksen came back to the Minneapolis Ordnance Works. Then I quit at the Flour City Gunpowder Company and went back to the Minneapolis Ordnance Works where Sven Aslaksen, meanwhile, had quit and gone to the Gopher Cast Iron Foundry. Then we were both drafted. But I still had the job at the Minneapolis Ordnance Works before he did.”

  “Well, I guess you did,” agreed the Co-ordinator. “But it doesn’t make any difference anyhow. The G.I. Bill of Rights says you can’t get your job back if ‘conditions have so changed as to make it unreasonable or impossible,’ and the Minneapolis Ordnance Works has gone back to making bottle caps with their original three employees. So I guess you’re out of luck. I wish there was something I could do for you.”

  “Oh, you make me sick,” said the veteran.

  “Sick?” asked the Co-ordinator excitedly. “You say you’re sick. That’s just fine. Orderly, take this man to the Veterans’ Hospital immediately.”

  While the man was carried out, kicking and screaming, to the Veterans’ Hospital, I entered the Co-ordinator’s private office.

  “How do you do?” he said, rising. “My name is Rodney Unctious and I’m here to help you. We owe you boys a great debt—a great debt. Just tell me what you want and I’ll see that you get it.”

  I brushed aside a tear.

  “Would you like to start a small business?” asked Rodney Unctious. “We can lend you half of your capital up to two thousand dollars. The other half of your capital you will have to borrow from a bank. We want the banks to have a little business too; it’s the least we can do for them after the way they served the Home Front during the war. Never a murmur of complaint. No sir. You would have been proud of our banks, son, proud.”

  “I don’t want to start a small business, please, sir,” I said. “I hate small businesses.”

  “Then it’s a job you want,” he said, his face falling. “All right, where did you work last?”

  “No place,” I said.

  “Then you’re not claiming a prewar job?” he asked, brightening.

  “No sir.”

  “You want a new job, then?”

  “I want,” I cried, “to fill my place in the new civilization, to secure my niche in the millennium, to take up my torch in the bright parade of humanity toward the Utopia that is at hand.”

  “I see,” he said. “Now, what kind of work would you like to do?”

  “That in which I can best serve my nation and all humanity,” I answered simply.

  “Hmm,” he said. “What kind of work have you done before?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “A little farming.”

  “Fine!” he exclaimed. “We’ll place you right away. Back to the land, eh, son? The sturdy, simple things. Ah, how I envy you. You’ve made a wise choice, young man.”

  “You can’t keep me down on the farm,” I said. “I’ve seen Paree.”

  “Oh. Let me see, now.” He looked through some papers on his desk. “Here’s a job as a cook in Otter Haunch, Saskatchewan. Interested?”

  “No,” I said simply.

  He looked through the papers some more and then shoved them aside. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said unhappily. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any college?”

  “A year at the University of Minnesota,” I said modestly.

  He slapped the desk. “Young man,” he exclaimed, “it’s back to college for you! And not a penny will it cost you. No sir. You’ll have tuition paid and sixty-five dollars a month to live as hilariously as you like. We haven’t forgotten our obligation to our dear veterans. No sir. What do you say, son? Will you go back to college?”

  I nodded wordlessly, not trusting myself to speak. Then suddenly I could not contain my em
otions and I fell to the floor, tears of gratitude pouring from my eyes.

  In a moment the orderly had grasped my legs and was dragging me out.

  “No, no,” said the Co-ordinator. “Not to the Veterans’ Hospital. This one goes to college.”

  chapter twenty-four

  THE UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA!

  How fine it was to set foot again on the campus of my alma mater! Joy exploded inside me like a rocket. So great was my elation that I threw myself to the turf and rolled over and over on the green blanket of awnless brome. (It should be pointed out here that this demonstration of ecstasy occurred in front of the Mechanical Engineering Building. That is the only place on the campus where awnless brome grows. Most of the other grass at the university is bearded fescue, save for a smallish patch of dwarf poa in front of the Sigma Alpha Epsilon house, which was planted in honor of a Hawaiian dwarf named Edgar Allan Poa who served honorably as bursar of Sigma Alpha Epsilon from 1930 to 1933. At one time there was also a sizable tract of shama millet near the library, but this disappeared, quite unaccountably, in 1933. An investigation was ordered by the state legislature, but before the investigation was even under way a Republican landslide swept all incumbents out of office and the shama millet disappearance was forgotten in the commotion over an alien exclusion act that the new legislature passed. The Hawaiian dwarf, Poa, incidentally, was one of the first deported under this act. Later, when public opinion forced a repeal of the law, Poa was invited to return to Minnesota, but he declined with dignity, saying, “While I realize that the alien exclusion act was a hasty, ill-considered one and did not reflect the true temper of the people, and while I am without malice toward the residents of Minnesota, I cannot be unconscious of the possibility of a recurrence. My answer, gentlemen, is no.” Poa today operates a papaya-juice stand on Forty-seventh Street off Broadway, where he works on a plank supported by two sawhorses so as to be able to reach the papaya spigots.)