Every day Justin Horgenschlag, thirty-dollar-a-weekprinter’s assistant, saw at close quarters approximately sixty women whom hehad never seen before. Thus in the few years he had lived in New York,Horgenschlag had seen at close quarters about 75,120 different women. Of these75,120 women, roughly 25,000 were under thirty years of age and over fifteenyears of age. Of the 25,000 only 5,000 weighed between one hundred five and onehundred twenty-five pounds. Of these 5,000 only 1,000 were not ugly. Only 500were reasonably attractive; only 100 of these were quite attractive; only 25could have inspired a long, slow whistle. And with only 1 did Horgenschlag fallin love at first sight.
Now, there are two kinds of femme fatale.There is the femme fatale who is a femme fatale in every sense of the word, andthere is the femme fatale who is not a femme fatale in every sense of the word.
Her name was Shirley Lester. She was twentyyears old (eleven years younger than Horgenschlag), was five-foot-four(bringing her head to the level of Horgenschlag’s eyes), weighed 117 pounds(light as a feather to carry). Shirley was a stenographer, lived with andsupported her mother, Agnes Lester, an old Nelson Eddy fan. In reference toShirley’s looks people often put it this way: “Shirley’s as pretty as apicture.”
And in the Third Avenue bus early onemorning, Horgenschlag stood over Shirley Lester, and was a dead duck. Allbecause Shirley’s mouth was open in a peculiar way. Shirley was reading acosmetic advertisement in the wall panel of the bus; and when Shirley read,Shirley relaxed slightly at the jaw. And in that short moment while Shirley’smouth was open, lips were parted, Shirley was probably the most fatal one inall Manhattan. Horgenschlag saw in her a positive cure-all for a giganticmonster of loneliness which had been stalking around his heart since he hadcome to New York. Oh, the agony of it! The agony of standing over ShirleyLester and not being able to bend down and kiss Shirley’s parted lips. Theinexpressible agony of it!
That was the beginning of the story Istarted to write for Collier’s. I was going to write a lovely tenderboy-meets-girl story. What could be finer, I thought. The world needsboy-meets-girl stories. But to write one, unfortunately, the writer must goabout the business of having the boy meet the girl. I couldn’t do it with thisone. Not and have it make sense. I couldn’t get Horgenschlag and Shirleytogether properly. And here are the reasons:
Certainly it was impossible for Horgenschlag to bendover and say in all sincerity:
“I beg your pardon. I love you very much. I’m nutsabout you. I know it. I could love you all my life. I’m a printer’s assistantand I make thirty dollars a week. Gosh, how I love you. Are you busy tonight?”
This Horgenschlag may be a goof, but not that big agoof. He may have been born yesterday, but not today. You can’t expect Collier’sreaders to swallow that kind of bilge. A nickel’s a nickel, after all.
I couldn’t, of course, all of a sudden giveHorgenschlag a suave serum, mixed from William Powell’s old cigarette case andFred Astaire’s old top hat.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss. I’m a magazineillustrator. My card. I’d like to sketch you more than I’ve ever wanted tosketch anyone in my life. Perhaps such an undertaking would be to a mutualadvantage. May I telephone you this evening, or in the very near future?(Short, debonair laugh.) I hope I don’t sound too desperate. (Another one.) Isuppose I am, really.”
Oh, boy. Those lines delivered with a weary,yet gay, yet reckless smile. If only Horgenschlag had delivered them. Shirley,of course, was an old Nelson Eddy fan herself, and an active member of theKeystone Circulating Library.
Maybe you’re beginning to see what I was up against.
True, Horgenschlag might have said thefollowing:
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Wilma Pritchard?”
To which Shirley would have replied coldly,and seeking a neutral point on the other side of the bus:
“No.”
“That’s funny,” Horgenschlag could have goneon, “I was willing to swear you were Wilma Pritchard. Uh. You don’t by anychance come from Seattle?”
“No.”—More ice where that came from.
“Seattle’s my home town.”
Neutral point.
“Great little town, Seattle. I mean it’s reallya great little town. I’ve only been here—I mean in New York—four years. I’m aprinter’s assistant. Justin Horgenschlag is my name.”
“I’m really not interested.”
Oh, Horgenschlag wouldn’t have got anywherewith that kind of line. He had neither the looks, personality, or good clothesto gain Shirley’s interest under the circumstances. He didn’t have a chance.And, as I said before, to write a really good boy-meets-girl story it’s wise tohave the boy meet the girl
.
Maybe Horgenschlag might have fainted, and in doing sograbbed for support: the support being Shirley’s ankle. He could have torn thestocking that way, or succeeded in ornamenting it with a fine long run. Peoplewould have made room for the stricken Horgenschlag, and he would have got tohis feet, mumbling: “I’m all right, thanks,” then, “Oh, say! I’m terriblysorry, Miss. I’ve torn your stocking. You must let me pay for it. I’m short ofcash right now, but just give me your address.”
Shirley wouldn’t have given him her address. She justwould have become embarrassed and inarticulate. “It’s all right,” she wouldhave said, wishing Horgenschlag hadn’t been born. And besides, the whole ideais illogical. Horgenschlag, a Seattle boy, wouldn’t have dreamed of clutchingat Shirley’s ankle. Not in the Third Avenue Bus.
But what is more logical is the possibility thatHorgenschlag might have got desperate. There are still a few men who lovedesperately. Maybe Horgenschlag was one. He might have snatched Shirley’shandbag and run with it toward the rear exit door. Shirley would have screamed.Men would have heard her, and remembered the Alamo or something.
Horgenschlag’s flight, let’s say, is now arrested. Thebus is stopped. Patrolman Wilson, who hasn’t made a good arrest in a long time,reports on the scene. “What’s going on here?”” Officer, this man tried to stealmy purse.”
Horgenschlag is hauled into court. Shirley, of course,must attend session. They both give their addresses; thereby Horgenschlag isinformed of the location of Shirley’s divine abode.
Judge Perkins, who can’t even get a good, really goodcup of coffee in his own house, sentences Horgenschlag to a year in jail.Shirley bites her lip, but Horgenschlag is marched away.
In prison, Horgenschlag writes the following letter toShirley Lester:
“Dear Miss Lester:
“I did not really mean to steal your purse. I justtook it because I love you. You see I only wanted to get to know you. Will youplease write me a letter sometime when you get the time? It gets pretty lonelyhere and I love you very much and maybe even you would come to see me some timeif you get the time.
Your friend,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Shirley shows the letter to all her friends. They say,“Ah, it’s cute, Shirley.” Shirley agrees that it’s kind of cute in a way. Maybeshe’ll answer it. “Yes! Answer it. Give’me a break. What’ve you got to lose?”So Shirley answers Horgenschlag’s letter.
“Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:
“I received your letter and really feel very sorryabout what has happened. Unfortunately there is very little we can do about itat this time, but I do feel abominable concerning the turn of events. However,your sentence is a short one and soon you will be out. The best of luck to you.
Sincerely yours,
Shirley Lester”
“Dear Miss Lester:
“You will never know how cheered up you made mefeel when I received your letter. You should not feel abominable at all. It wasall my fault for being so crazy so don’t feel that way at all. We get movieshere once a week and it really is not so bad. I am 31 years of age and comefrom Seattle. I have been in New York 4 years and think it is a great town onlyonce in a while you get pretty lonesome. You are the prettiest girl I have everseen even in Seattle. I wish you would come to see me some Saturday afternoonduring visiting hours 2 to 4 and I will pay your train fare.
Your friend,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Shirley would have shown this letter, too, to all herfriends. But she would not answer this one. Anyone could see that thisHorgenschlag was a goof. And after all. She had answered the first letter. Ifshe answered this silly letter the thing might drag on for months andeverything. She did all she could do for the man. And what a name.Horgenschlag.
Meanwhile, in prison Horgenschlag is having a terribletime, even though they have movies once a week. His cell-mates are Snipe Morganand Slicer Burke, two boys from the back room, who see in Horgenschlag’s face aresemblance to a chap in Chicago who once ratted on them. They are convincedthat Ratface Ferrero and Justin Horgenschlag are one and the same person.
“But I’m not Ratface Ferrero,” Horgenschlag tellsthem.
“Don’t gimme that,” says Slicer, knocking Horgenschlag’smeager food rations to the floor.
“Bash his head in,” says Snipe.
“I tell you I’m just here because I stole a girl’spurse on the Third Avenue Bus,” pleads Horgenschlag. “Only I didn’t reallysteal it. I fell in love with her, and it was the only way I could get to knowher.”
“Don’t gimme that,” says Slicer.
“Bash his head in,” says Snipe.
Then there is the day when seventeen prisoners try tomake an escape. During play period in the recreation yard, Slicer Burke luresthe warden’s niece, eight-year-old Lisbeth Sue, into his clutches. He puts hiseight-by-twelve hands around the child’s waist and holds her up for the wardento see.
“Hey, warden!” yells Slicer. “Open up them gates or it’scurtains for the kid!”
“I’m not afraid, Uncle Bert!” calls out Lisbeth Sue.
“Put down that child, Slicer!” commands the warden,with all the impotence at his command.
But Slicer knows he has the warden just where he wantshim. Seventeen men and a small blonde child walk out the gates. Sixteen men anda small blonde child walk out safely. A guard in the high tower thinks he seesa wonderful opportunity to shoot Slicer in the head, and thereby destroy theunity of the escaping group. But he misses, and succeeds only in shooting thesmall man walking nervously behind Slicer, killing him instantly.
Guess who?
And, thus, my plan to write a boy-meets-girl story forCollier’s, a tender, memorable love story, is thwarted by the death of my hero.
Now, Horgenschlag never would have been among thoseseventeen desperate men if only he had not been made desperate and panicky byShirley’s failure to answer his second letter. But the fact remains that shedid not answer his second letter. She never in a hundred years would haveanswered it. I can’t alter facts.
And what a shame. What a pity that Horgenschlag, inprison, was unable to write the following letter to Shirley Lester:
“Dear Miss Lester:
“I hope a few lines will not annoy or embarrassyou. I’m writing, Miss Lester, because I’d like you to know that I am not acommon thief. I stole your bag, I want you to know, because I fell in love withyou the moment I saw you on the bus. I could think of no way to becomeacquainted with you except by acting rashly—foolishly, to be accurate. Butthen, one is a fool when one is in love.
“I loved the way your lips were so slightly parted.You represented the answer to everything to me. I haven’t been unhappy since Icame to New York four years ago, but neither have I been happy. Rather, I canbest describe myself as having been one of the thousands of young men in NewYork who simply exist.
“I came to New York from Seattle. I was going tobecome rich and famous and well-dressed and suave. But in four years I’velearned that I am not going to become rich and famous and well-dressed andsuave. I’m a good printer’s assistant, but that’s all I am. One day the printergot sick, and I had to take his place. What a mess I made of things, MissLester. No one would take my orders. The typesetters just sort of giggled whenI would tell them to get to work. And I don’t blame them. I’m a fool when Igive orders. I suppose I’m just one of the millions who was never meant to giveorders. But I don’t mind anymore. There’s a twenty-three-year-old kid my bossjust hired. He’s only twenty-three, and I am thirty-one and have worked at thesame place for four years. But I know that one day he will become head printer,and I will be his assistant. But I don’t mind knowing this anymore.
“Loving you is the important thing, Miss Lester.There are some people who think love is sex and marriage and six o’clock-kissesand children, and perhaps it is, Miss Lester. But do you know what I think? Ithink love is a touch and yet not a touch.
“I suppose it’s important to a woman that otherpeople think of her as the wife of a man who is either rich, handsome, witty orpopular. I’m not even popular. I’m not even hated. I’m just—I’m just—JustinHorgenschlag. I never make people gay, sad, angry, or even disgusted. I thinkpeople regard me as a nice guy, but that’s all.
“When I was a child no one pointed me out as beingcute or bright or good-looking. If they had to say something they said I hadsturdy little legs.
“I don’t expect an answer to this letter, MissLester. I would like an answer more than anything else in the world, buttruthfully I don’t expect one. I merely wanted you to know the truth. If mylove for you has only led me to a new and great sorrow, only I am to blame.
“Perhaps one day you will understand and forgiveyour blundering admirer,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Such a letter would be no more unlikely than thefollowing:
“Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:
“I got your letter and loved it. I feel guilty andmiserable that events have taken the turn they have. If only you had spoken tome instead of taking my purse! But then, I suppose I should have turned theconversational chill on you.
“It’s lunch hour at the office, and I’m alone herewriting to you. I felt that I wanted to be alone today at lunch hour. I feltthat if I had to go have lunch with the girls at the Automat and they jabberedthrough the meal as usual, I’d suddenly scream.
“I don’t care if you’re not a success, or that you’renot handsome, or rich, or famous or suave. Once upon a time I would have cared.When I was in high school I was always in love with the Joe Glamor boys. DonaldNicolson, the boy who walked in the rain and knew all Shakespeare’s sonnetsbackwards. Bob Lacey, the handsome gink who could shoot a basket from themiddle of the floor, with the score tied and the chukker almost over. HarryMiller, who was so shy and had such nice, durable brown eyes.
“But that crazy part of my life is over.
“The people in your office who giggled when yougave them orders are on my black list. I hate them as I’ve never hated anybody.
“You saw me when I had all my make-up on. Withoutit, believe me, I’m no raving beauty. Please write me when you’re allowed tohave visitors. I’d like you to take a second look at me. I’d like to be surethat you didn’t catch me at a phony best.
“Oh, how I wish you’d told the judge why you stolemy purse! We might be together and able to talk over all the many things Ithink we have in common.
“Please let me know when I may come to see you.
Yours sincerely,
Shirley Lester”
But Justin Horgenschlag never got to know ShirleyLester. She got off at Fifty-Sixth Street, and he got off at Thirty-SecondStreet. That night Shirley Lester went to the movies with Howard Lawrence withwhom she was in love. Howard thought Shirley was a darn good sport, but thatwas as far as it went. And Justin Horgenschlag that night stayed home and listenedto the Lux
Toilet Soap radio play. He thought about Shirley allnight, all the next day, and very often during that month. Then all of a suddenhe was introduced to Doris Hillman who was beginning to be afraid she wasn’tgoing to get a husband. And then before Justin Horgenschlag knew it, DorisHillman and things were filing away Shirley Lester in the back of his mind. AndShirley Lester, the thought of her, no longer was available.
And that’s why I never wrote a boy-meets-girl storyfor Collier’s. In a boy-meets-girl story the boy should always meet the girl.