that corner, up in that elevator, into that shop. What he expected in
fear (he thought of it as fear) didn’t actually happen until he met Elaine
again, after the war started.
We wouldn’t always remember, later on, how many of us didn’t
expect a big war, how little we wanted one, how we felt we owed nobody
anything on that score. President Roosevelt wanted to get us into it, we
thought, but he wanted us to do a lot of things: he sometimes seemed
like a wonderful fighting dad we wanted to please but didn’t always
want to mind. He wanted us to care about the displaced persons in for-
eign lands. He wanted us to give our dimes to charity to help him stop
infantile paralysis too, and we did if we could, poor man.
“It is glorious to have one’s birthday associated with a work like
this,” he told us over the radio in that big warm voice. “One touch of
nature makes the whole world kin.”
“What’s that mean?” Fred asked. He and Prosper stood at the bar,
looking upward at the big varnished box—Prosper wondered why
F O U R F R E E D O M S / 181
people do that, stare at a radio from which somebody’s speaking. It
was the night of the President’s Birthday Ball, 1941, and a lot of dance
bands were playing for a lot of city big shots and socialites who’d given
money for infantile paralysis. There were balls all around the country,
the excited announcer said, and the President was speaking to all of
them over a special national hookup.
“In sending a dime,” the President said, “and in dancing that others
may walk, we the people are striking a powerful blow in defense of
American freedom and human decency.”
In those days you let talk like that go by without thinking very
much about it, everything was a blow for freedom, but Prosper said,
“Hear that? You gotta dance, so I can walk.”
“Sure,” Mert said. “Rex here’ll dance. Come on, Rex.”
Mert had adopted a little dog, one of the eager lean big-eyed kind
with clicking toenails at the end of his breakable-looking legs (that’s
how Prosper felt about him). Mert was teaching him tricks. He lifted
Rex up by his front paws and they danced to “I’m in the Mood for
Love” like a hippo with a weasel.
“Keep it up,” Fred called out. “No effect so far.”
“We,” said the President. “We believe in and insist on the right of
the helpless, the right of the weak, and the right of the crippled every-
where to play their part in life—and survive.”
Prosper (who’d not get a cent from those dimes, they were for the
polios alone, though his uncles believed he could probably pass for one
at need) stood propped at the bar, listening some to the President,
laughing some at Rex, mostly considering his drink and waiting, for
nothing and everything, and feeling in danger of getting the blues. The
next time he heard the President speak he was telling us that the Japa-
nese Empire had attacked Hawaii, so like it or not, whether we were
for it or not, we were at war. That’s what Prosper, without knowing it,
had been awaiting, everything and nothing: and yet for him, for a long
while, just as many things remained the same as changed.
“So take a look at this,” Mert said. From within his jacket he extracted
a folded paper wallet, its cover decorated with a rampant eagle astride
a stars-and-stripes shield or badge. The badge shape was one Prosper
182 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
loved to look at and create. gas ration book it said, and on the other
side (the recto Prosper knew to call it) it said drive under 35! and
compliments of your local texaco service station. From within
this folder, Mert drew out a little pamphlet printed in red. Another
badge shape urged the bearer to buy war bonds. It was his gasoline
ration stamp book, an A, the lowest rating—four gallons a week now,
probably not even that much in the months and years to come.
“Okay,” Prosper said.
“Here’s the question,” Mert said. “With the stuff around here—the
stuff we got for you, your own stuff, the stuff, the Ditto machine there,
the inks—would it be possible—theoretically—to make one of these?”
“Make the B or the C,” Fred put in. “Twice the gas.”
Prosper eyed the thing, felt the paper, studied the letters and type.
He knew the rule, that you couldn’t use the stamps without the book—
stamps torn from the book were invalid. You’d have to make the whole
book.
“Don’t worry about that,” Mert said. “We can make just the stamps,
sell them to the gas stations. The gas stations sell them to the custom-
ers, then take ’em right back and give ’em the gas, and turn in the
stamps to the government.”
“Easy as pie,” said Fred.
“The book’s a different matter,” Mert said. “If we can make the
whole book we can sell it and clean up. Cut out the middle man.”
Prosper was still holding the book. punishments as high as ten
years’ imprisonment or $10,000 fine or both may be imposed
by united states statutes for the violation thereof.
“I can get twenty bucks a book,” Mert said.
“But you shouldn’t,” Prosper said, not knowing he would till he did.
“It won’t be many,” Mert said. “A few.”
“There’s a war on,” Prosper said. “It’s not right.”
“Listen,” Mert said. He took hold of Prosper’s shoulders. “Here’s
the real skinny, all right? There’s plenty of gas in Texas. We ain’t going
to run out. You know why they ration it? So people don’t use their
tires. It’s the rubber they don’t have. The Japs got all the rubber now.
See? Don’t give people gas, they can’t use their tires, they don’t waste
rubber. See?”
“It’s a good idea,” Fred said. “The stamps. The books too. It’ll work.”
F O U R F R E E D O M S / 183
“You think I’m not behind the war effort?” Mert asked Prosper. “Is
that it? You know I fought for this country? Same as your dad. I can
show you my medals. Good Conduct.”
“Ha ha,” said Fred.
“It’s not that,” Prosper said.
“You don’t think you can do it? That’s what I need to know.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t want to.”
Mert turned away to gaze out the somewhat clouded window of the
office (he liked it clouded) and put his fists on his hips. “Hell of a
note,” he said, sounding wounded. “Well. Hell with it. Let’s knock off
for the day.”
More or less in silence, they closed the office: called out good nights
and instructions to the night people, rang up the ice shed on the house
telephone (Mert cranking the magneto with what seemed fury to Pros-
per) and told them the office was locking up, finally turning the sign in
the glass of the door from open to closed.
Not much was said during the ride back to downtown. Finally Mert
threw his arm over the seat and looked back at Prosper. “You can have
it your way, son,” he said. “But I’ll just tell you something. There might
not be any other work for you around the place. If you can’t do this.”
Stony-faced. Prosper tried to cast his own face in stone.
“Just think about it,” Fred said into the rearview mirror.
“He’s thought about it,” Mert said, still regarding Prosper. “So
where can we drop you?”
“Um.” He didn’t want to go back to the Mayflower Beauty Salon,
but he didn’t want to be too far from home either. “Drop me at the
Paramount,” he said.