MEN
I’M NOT
MARRIED TO
No matter where my route may lie,
No matter whither I repair,
In brief—no matter how or why
Or when I go, the boys are there.
On lane and byways, street and square,
On alley, path and avenue,
They seem to spring up everywhere—
The men I am not married to.
I watch them as they pass me by;
At each in wonderment I stare,
And, “but for heaven’s grace,” I cry,
“There goes the guy whose name I’d wear!”
They represent no species rare,
They walk and talk as others do;
They’re fair to see—but only fair—
The men I am not married to.{2}
I’m sure that to a mother’s eye
Is each potentially a bear.
But though at home they rank ace-high,
No change of heart could I declare.
Yet worry silvers not their hair;
They deck them not with sprigs of rue.
It’s curious how they do not care—
The men I am not married to.
L’Envoi
In fact, if they’d a chance to share
Their lot with me, a lifetime through,
They’d doubtless tender me the air—
The men I am not married to.
Freddie
“Oh, boy!” people say of Freddie.
“You just ought to meet him some time! He’s a riot, that’s what he is—more fun
than a goat.”
Other, and more imaginative souls
play whimsically with the idea, and say that he is more fun{3} than a barrel of
monkeys. Still others go at the thing from a different angle, and refer to him
as being as funny as a crutch. But I always feel, myself, that they stole the
line from Freddie. Satire—that is his dish.
And there you have, really, one
of Freddie’s greatest crosses. People steal his stuff right and left. He will
say something one day, and the next it will be as good as all over the city.
Time after time I have gone to him and told him that I have heard lots of
vaudeville acts using his comedy, but he just puts on the most killing expression,
and says, “Oh, say not suchly!” in that way of his. And, of course, it gets me
laughing so that I can’t say another word about it.{4}
That is the way he always is,
just laughing it off when he is told that people are using his best lines
without even so much as word of acknowledgment. I never hear any one say “There
is such a thing as being too good-natured” but that I think of Freddie.
You never knew any one like him
on a party. Things will be dragging along, the way they do at the beginning of
the evening, with the early arrivals sitting around asking one another have
they been to anything good at the theatre lately, and is it any wonder there is
so much sickness around with the weather so changeable. The party will be just
about plucking at the coverlet when in will breeze Freddie, and from that
moment on the evening is little{5} short of a whirlwind. Often and often I have
heard him called the life of the party, and I have always felt that there is
not the least bit of exaggeration in the expression.
What I envy about Freddie is that
poise of his. He can come right into a room full of strangers, and be just as
much at home as if he had gone through grammar school with them. He smashes the
ice all to nothing the moment he is introduced to the other guests by
pretending to misunderstand their names, and calling them something entirely
different, keeping a perfectly straight face all the time as if he never
realized there was anything wrong. A great many people say he puts them in mind
of Buster Keaton that way.
He is never at a loss for a{6}
screaming crack. If the hostess asks him to have a chair Freddie comes right
back at her with “No, thanks; we have chairs at home.” If the host offers him a
cigar he will say just like a flash, “What’s the matter with it?” If one of the
men borrows a cigarette and a light from him Freddie will say in that dry voice
of his, “Do you want the coupons too?” Of course his wit is pretty fairly
caustic, but no one ever seems to take offense at it. I suppose there is
everything in the way he says things.
And he is practically a whole
vaudeville show in himself. He is never without a new story of what Pat said to
Mike as they were walking down the street, or how Abie tried to cheat Ikie, or
what old Aunt Jemima answered when{7} she was asked why she had married for the
fifth time. Freddie does them in dialect, and I have often thought it is a
wonder that we don’t all split our sides. And never a selection that every
member of the family couldn’t listen to, either—just healthy fun.
Then he has a repertory of song
numbers, too. He gives them without accompaniment, and every song has a
virtually unlimited number of verses, after each one of which Freddie goes
conscientiously through the chorus. There is one awfully clever one, a big
favourite of his, with the chorus rendered a different way each time—showing
how they sang it when grandma was a girl, how they sing it in gay Paree and how
a cabaret performer would do it.{8} Then there are several along the general
lines of Casey Jones, two or three about negroes who specialized on the banjo,
and a few in which the lyric of the chorus consists of the syllables “ha, ha,
ha.” The idea is that the audience will get laughing along with the singer.
If there is a piano in the house
Freddie can tear things even wider open. There may be many more accomplished
musicians, but nobody can touch him as far as being ready to oblige goes. There
is never any of this hanging back waiting to be coaxed or protesting that he
hasn’t touched a key in months. He just sits right down and does all his
specialties for you. He is particularly good at doing “Dixie” with one hand and
“Home, Sweet Home” with the{9} other, and Josef Hofmann himself can’t tie
Freddie when it comes to giving an imitation of a fife-and-drum corps
approaching, passing, and fading away in the distance.
But it is when the refreshments
are served that Freddie reaches the top of his form. He always insists on
helping to pass plates and glasses, and when he gets a big armful of them he
pretends to stumble. It is as good as a play to see the hostess’ face. Then he
tucks his napkin into his collar, and sits there just as solemnly as if he
thought that were the thing to do; or perhaps he will vary that one by folding
the napkin into a little square and putting it carefully in his pocket, as if
he thought it was a handkerchief. You just ought to see him making believe{10}
that he has swallowed an olive pit. And the remarks he makes about the food—I
do wish I could remember how they go. He is funniest, though, it seems to me,
when he is pretending that the lemonade is intoxicating, and that he feels its
effects pretty strongly. When you have seen him do this it will be small
surprise to you that Freddie is in such demand for social functions.
But Freddie is not one of those
humourists who perform only when out in society. All day long he is bubbling
over with fun. And the beauty of it is that he is not a mere theorist, as a
joker; practical—that’s Freddie all over.
If he isn’t sending long
telegrams, collect, to his friends, then he is sending them packages of{11}
useless groceries, C. O. D. A telephone is just so much meat to him. I don’t
believe any one will ever know how much fun Freddie and his friends get out of
Freddie’s calling them up and making them guess who he is. When he really wants
to extend himself he calls up in the middle of the night, and says that he is
the wire tester. He uses that one only on special occasions, though. It is
pretty elaborate for everyday use.
But day in and day out, you can
depend upon it that he is putting over some uproarious trick with a dribble
glass or a loaded cigar or a pencil with a rubber point; and you can feel
completely sure that no matter where he is or how unexpectedly you may come
upon him, Freddie will be right there with a{12} funny line or a comparatively
new story for you. That is what people marvel over when they are talking about
him—how he is always just the same.
It is right there, really, that
they put their finger on the big trouble with him.
But you just ought to meet
Freddie sometime. He’s a riot, that’s what he is—more fun than a circus.
Mortimer
Mortimer had his photograph taken
in his dress suit.
Raymond
So long as you keep him well
inland Raymond will never give any trouble. But when he gets down to the
seashore he affects a{13} bathing suit fitted with little sleeves. On wading
into the sea ankle-deep he leans over and carefully applies handfuls of water
to his wrists and forehead.
Charlie
It’s curious, but no one seems to
be able to recall what Charlie used to talk about before the country went what
may be called, with screaming effect, dry. Of course there must have been a lot
of unsatisfactory weather even then, and I don’t doubt that he slipped in a
word or two when the talk got around to the insanity of the then-current styles
of women’s dress. But though I have taken up the thing in a serious way, and
have gone about among his friends making inquiries, I cannot seem to find{14}
that he could ever have got any farther than that in the line of conversation.
In fact, he must have been one of those strong silent men in the old days.
Those who have not seen him for
several years would be in a position to be knocked flat with a feather if they
could see what a regular little Chatterbox Charlie has become. Say what you
will about prohibition—and who has a better right?—you would have to admit, if
you knew Charlie, that it has been the making of him as a conversationalist.
He never requires his audience to
do any feeding for him. It needs no careful leading around of the subject, no
tactful questions, no well-timed allusions, to get him nicely loosened up. All
you have{15} to do is say good evening to him, ask him how everybody over at
his house is getting along, and give him a chair—though this last is not
essential—and silver-tongued Charlie is good for three hours straight on where
he is getting it, how much he has to pay for it, and what the chances are of
his getting hold of a couple of cases of genuine pinch-bottle, along around the
middle of next week. I have known him to hold entire dinner parties spellbound,
from cocktails to finger bowls, with his monologue.
Now I would be well down among
the last when it came to wanting to give you the impression that Charlie has
been picked for the All-American alcoholic team. Despite the wetness of his
conver{16}sation he is just a nice, normal, conscientious drinker, willing to
take it or let it alone, in the order named. I don’t say he would not be able
to get along without it, but neither do I say that he doesn’t get along
perfectly splendidly with it. I don’t think I ever saw any one who could get as
much fun as Charlie can out of splitting the Eighteenth Amendment with a
friend.
There is a glamour of vicarious
romance about him. You gather from his conversation that he comes into daily
contact with any number of picturesque people. He tells about a friend of his
who owns three untouched bottles of the last absinth to come into the country;
or a lawyer he knows, one of whose grateful clients sent{17} him six cases of
champagne in addition to his fee; or a man he met who had to move to the
country in order to have room for his Scotch.
Charlie has no end of anecdotes
about the interesting women he meets, too. There is one girl he often dwells
on, who, if you only give her time, can get you little bottles of chartreuse,
each containing an individual drink. Another gifted young woman friend of his
is the inventor of a cocktail in which you mix a spoonful of orange marmalade.
Yet another is the justly proud owner of a pet marmoset which becomes the
prince of good fellows as soon as you have fed him a couple of teaspoonfuls of
gin.
It is the next best thing to
knowing these people yourself to hear{18} Charlie tell about them. He just
makes them live.
It is wonderful how Charlie’s
circle of acquaintances has widened during the last two years; there is nothing
so broadening as prohibition. Among his new friends he numbers a conductor on a
train that runs down from Montreal, and a young man who owns his own truck, and
a group of chaps who work in drug stores, and I don’t know how many proprietors
of homey little restaurants in the basements of brownstone houses.
Some of them have turned out to
be but fair-weather friends, unfortunately. There was one young man, whom
Charlie had looked upon practically as a brother, who went particularly bad on
him. It seems he had taken a pretty{19} solemn oath to supply Charlie, as a
personal favour, with a case of real Gordon, which he said he was able to get
through his high social connections on the other side. When what the young man
called a nominal sum was paid, and the case was delivered, its bottles were
found to contain a nameless liquor, though those of Charlie’s friends who gave
it a fair trial suggested Storm King as a good name for the brand. Charlie has
never laid eyes on the young man from that day to this. He is still unable to
talk about it without a break in his voice. As he says—and quite rightly,
too—it was the principle of the thing.
But for the most part his new
friends are just the truest pals a man ever had. In more time than{20} it takes
to tell it, Charlie will keep you right abreast with them—sketch in for you how
they are, and what they are doing, and what their last words to him were.
But Charlie can be the best of
listeners, too. Just tell him about any little formula you may have picked up
for making it at home, and you will find the most sympathetic of audiences, and
one who will even go to the flattering length of taking notes on your
discourse. Relate to him tales of unusual places where you have heard that you
can get it or of grotesque sums that you have been told have been exchanged for
it, and he will hang on your every word, leading you on, asking intelligent
questions, encouraging you by references to like experiences of his own.{21}
But don’t let yourself get
carried away with success and attempt to branch out into other topics. For you
will lose Charlie in a minute if you try it.
But that, now I think of it,
would probably be the very idea you would have in mind.
Lloyd
Lloyd wears washable neckties.
Henry
You would really be surprised at
the number of things that Henry knows just a shade more about than anybody else
does. Naturally he can’t help realizing this about himself, but you mustn’t
think for a minute that he has let it spoil him. On the contrary,{22} as the
French so well put it. He has no end of patience with others, and he is always
willing to oversee what they are doing, and to offer them counsel. When it
comes to giving his time and his energy there is nobody who could not admit
that Henry is generous. To a fault, I have even heard people go so far as to
say.
If, for instance, Henry happens
to drop in while four of his friends are struggling along through a game of
bridge he does not cut in and take a hand, thereby showing up their playing in
comparison to his. No, Henry draws up a chair and sits looking on with a kindly
smile. Of course, now and then he cannot restrain a look of pain or an
exclamation of surprise or even a burst of laughter as he{23} listens to the
bidding, but he never interferes. Frequently, after a card has been played, he
will lean over and in a good-humoured way tell the player what he should have
done instead, and how he might just as well throw his hand down then and there,
but he always refuses to take any more active part in the game. Occasionally,
when a uniquely poisonous play is made, I have seen Henry thrust his chair
aside and pace about in speechless excitement, but for the most part he is
admirably self-controlled. He always leaves with a few cheery words to the players,
urging them to keep at it and not let themselves get discouraged.
And that is the way Henry is
about everything. He will stroll over to a tennis court, and stand{24} on the
side lines, at what I am sure must be great personal inconvenience, calling
words of advice and suggestion for sets at a stretch. I have even known him to
follow his friends all the way around a golf course, offering constructive
criticism on their form as he goes. I tell you, in this day and generation, you
don’t find many people who will go as far out of their way for their friends as
Henry does. And I am far from being the only one who says so, too.
I have often thought that Henry
must be the boy who got up the idea of leaving the world a little better than
he found it. Yet he never crashes in on his friends’ affairs. Only after the
thing is done does he point out to you how it could have been done just a
dash{25} better. After you have signed the lease for the new apartment Henry
tells you where you could have got one cheaper and sunnier; after you are all
tied up with the new firm Henry explains to you where you made your big mistake
in leaving the old one.
It is never any news to me when I
hear people telling Henry that he knows more about more things than anybody
they ever saw in their lives.
And I don’t remember ever having
heard Henry give them any argument on that one.
Joe
After Joe had had two cocktails
he wanted to go up and bat for the trap drummer. After he had{26} had three he
began to get personal about the unattractive shade of the necktie worn by the
strange man at the next table.
Oliver
Oliver had a way of dragging his
mouth to one side, by means of an inserted forefinger, explaining to you,
meanwhile, in necessarily obscured tones, the work which his dentist had just
accomplished on his generously displayed back teeth.
Albert
Albert sprinkled powdered sugar
on his sliced tomatoes.