Then the War came along and everything came unstuck.
Naturally, the people who can be depended on for the in-and-out-of-season grind of volunteer politics are also the ones who took the War the most seriously. From Pearl Harbor to Hiroshima they had no time for politics. It's a wonder the city hall wasn't stolen during the War—bolted to its foundations, I guess.
On my way home I stopped at a drive-in for a hamburger and some thought. Another car squeezed in close beside me. I glanced up, then blinked my eyes. "Well, I'll be—Miss Nelson! Who let you out alone?"
She jerked her head around, ready to bristle, then turned on the vote-getter. "You startled me. You're Mr. Ross, aren't you?"
"Your future councilman," I agreed. "You startled
me.
How's the politicking? Where's Cliff Meyers? Dump him down a sewer?"
She giggled. "Poor Mr. Meyers! I said goodnight to him at my door, then came over here. I was hungry."
"That's no way to win elections. Why didn't you invite him in and scramble some eggs?"
"Well, I just didn't want—I mean I wanted a chance to think. You won't tell on me?" She gave me the you-great-big-strong-man look.
"I'm the enemy—remember? But I won't. Shall I go away, too?"
"No, don't. Since you are going to be my councilman, I ought to get acquainted. Why are you so sure you will beat me, Mr. Ross?"
"Jack Ross—your friend and mine. Have a cigar. I'm not at all sure I can beat you. With your natural advantages and Tully's gang behind you I should 'a stood in bed."
Her eyes went narrow; the vote-getter smile was gone. "What do you mean?" she said slowly. "I'm an independent candidate."
It was my cue to crawl, but I passed. "You expect me to swallow that? With Cliff Meyers at your elbow—" The car hop interrupted us; we placed our orders and I resumed. She cut in.
"I
do
want to be alone," she snapped and started to close her window.
I reached out and placed a hand on the glass. "Just a moment. This is politics; you are judged by the company you keep. You show up at your first meeting and Cliff Meyers has you under his wing."
"What's wrong with that? Mr. Meyers is a perfect gentleman."
"And he's good to his mother. He's a man with no visible means of support, who does chores for Boss Tully. I thought what everybody thought, that the boss had sent him to chaperone a green candidate."
"It's not true!"
"No? You're caught in the jam cupboard. What's your story?"
She bit her lip. "I don't have to explain anything to you."
"No. But if you won't, the circumstances speak for themselves." She didn't answer. We sat there, ignoring each other, while we ate. When she switched on the ignition, I said, "I'm going to tail you home."
"It's not necessary, thank you."
"This town is a rough place since the War. A young woman should not be out alone at night. Even Cliff Meyers is better than nobody."
"That's why I let them— Do as you see fit!" I had to skim red lights, but I kept close behind her. I expected her to rush inside and slam the door, but she was waiting by the curb. "Thank you for seeing me home, Mr. Ross."
"Quite all right." I went up on her front porch with her and said goodnight.
"Mr. Ross—I shouldn't care what you think, but I'm not with Boss Tully. I'm independent." I waited. Presently she said, "You don't believe me." The big, beautiful eyes were shiny with tears.
"I didn't say so—but I'm waiting for you to explain."
"But what is there to explain?"
"Plenty." I sat down on the porch swing. "Come here, and tell papa. Why did you decide to run for office?"
"Well . . ." She sat down beside me; I caught a disturbing whiff of perfume. "It started because I couldn't find an apartment. No, it didn't—it was farther back, out in the South Pacific. I could stand the insects and the heat. Even the idiotic way the Army does things didn't fret me much. But we had to queue up to use the wash basins. There was even a time when baths were rationed. I hated it. I used to lie on my cot at night, awake in the heat, and dream about a bathroom of my own. A bathroom of my own! A deep tub of water and time to soak. Shampoos and manicures and big, fluffy towels! I wanted to lock myself in and live there. Then I got out of the Army—"
"Yes?"
She shrugged. "The only apartment I could find carried a bonus bigger than my discharge pay, and I couldn't afford it anyhow."
"What's wrong with your own home?"
"This? This is my aunt's home. Seven in the family and I make eight—one bathroom. I'm lucky to brush my teeth. And I share a three-quarters bed with my eight-year-old cousin."
"I see. But that doesn't tell why you are running for office."
"Yes, it does. Uncle Sam was here one night and I was boiling over about the housing shortage and what I would like to do to Congress. He said I ought to be in politics; I said I'd welcome the chance. He phoned the next day and asked how would I like to run for his seat? I said—"
"Uncle Sam—Sam Jorgens!"
"Yes. He's not my uncle, but I've known him since I was little. I was scared, but he said not to worry, he would help me out and advise me. So I did and that's all there is to it. You see now?"
I saw all right. The political acumen of an Easter bunny—except that the bunny rabbit was likely to lick the socks off me. "Okay," I told her, "but housing isn't the only issue. How about the gas company franchise, for example and the sewage disposal plant? And the tax rate? What airport deal do you favor? Do you think we ought to ease up on zoning and how about the freeways?"
"I'm going after housing. Those issues can wait."
I snorted. "They won't let you wait. While you're riding your hobbyhorse, the boys will steal the public blind—again."
"Hobbyhorse! Mister Smarty-Britches, getting a house is the most important thing in the world to the man who hasn't one. You wouldn't be so smug if you were in that fix."
"Keep your shirt on. Me, I'm sleeping in a leaky trailer. I'm strong for plenty of housing—but how do you propose to get it?"
"How? Don't be silly. I'll back the measures that push it."
"Such as? Do you think the city ought to get into the building business? Or should it be strictly private enterprise? Should we sell bonds and finance new homes? Limit it to veterans, or will you help me, too? Heads of families only, or are you going to cut yourself in on it? How about pre-fabrication? Can we do everything you want to do under a building code that was written in 1911?" I paused for breath. "Well?"
"You're being nasty, Jack."
"I sure am. But that's not half of it. I'll challenge you to debate on everything from dog licenses to patent paving materials. A nice, clean campaign and may the best man win—providing his name is Ross."
"I won't accept."
"You'll wish you had, before we're through. My boys and girls will be at all your meetings, asking embarrassing questions."
She looked at me. "Of all the dirty politics!"
"You're a candidate, kid; you're supposed to know the answers."
She looked upset. "I
told
Uncle Sam," she said, half to herself, "that I didn't know enough about such things, but he said—"
"Go on, Frances. What did he say?"
She shook her head. "I've told you too much already."
"I'll tell you. You were not to worry your pretty head, because he would be there to tell you how to vote. That was it, wasn't it?"
"Well, not in so many words. He said—"
"But it amounted to that. And he brought Meyers around and said Meyers would show you the ropes. You didn't want to cause trouble, so you did what Meyers told you to do. Right?"
"You've got the nastiest way of putting things."
"That's not all. You honestly think you are independent. But you do what Sam Jorgens tells you and Sam Jorgens—your sweet old Uncle Sam—won't change his socks without Boss Tully's permission."
"I don't believe it!"
"Check it. Ask some of the newspaper boys. Sniff around."
"I shall."
"Good. You'll learn about the birds and the bees." I stood up. "I've worn out my welcome. See you at the barricades, comrade."
I was halfway to the street when she called me back. "Jack!"
"Yes, Frances?" I went back up on the porch.
"I'm going to find out what connection, if any, Tully has with Uncle Sam, but, nevertheless and notwithstanding, I'm an independent. If I've been led around by the nose, I won't be for long."
"Good girl!"
"That's not all. I'm going to give you the fight of your life, whip the pants off you, and wipe that know-it-all look off your face!"
"Bravo! That's the spirit, kid. We'll have fun."
"Thanks. Well, goodnight."
"Just a second." I put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned away from me warily. "Tell me, darling: who writes your speeches?"
I got kicked in the shins, then the screen door was between us. "Goodnight, Mr. Ross!"
"One more thing—your middle name, it can't be 'Xavier.' What
does
the X stand for?"
"Xanthippe—want to make something of it?" The door slammed.
I was too busy the following month to worry about Frances Nelson. Ever been a candidate? It is like getting married and having your appendix out, while going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. One or more meetings every evening, breakfast clubs on Saturdays and Sundays, a Kiwanis, Rotary, or Lions, or Chamber of Commerce lunch to hit at noon, an occasional appearance in court, endless correspondence, phone calls, conferences, and, to top it off, as many hours of doorbell pushing as I could force into each day.
It was a grass-roots campaign, the best sort, but strenuous. Mrs. Holmes, by scraping the barrel, rounded up volunteers to cover three-quarters of the precincts; the rest were my problem. I couldn't cover them all, but I could durn well try.
And every day there was the problem of money. Even with a volunteer, unpaid organization, politics costs money—printing, postage, hall rental, telephone bills, and there is gasoline and lunch money for people who can't carry their own expenses. A dollar here and a dollar there and soon you are three thousand bucks in the red.
It is hard to tell how a campaign is going; you tend to kid each other. We made a mid-stream spot check—phone calls, a reply post-card poll, and a doorbell sampling. And Tom and I and Mrs. Holmes got out and sniffed the air. All one day I bought gasoline here, a cola there, and a pack of cigarettes somewhere else, talking politics as I did so, and never offering my name. By the time I met Tom and Mrs. Holmes at her home I felt that I knew my chances.
We got our estimates together and looked them over. Mine read: "Ross 45%; Nelson 55%; McNye a trace." Tom's was: "fifty-fifty, against us." Mrs. Holmes had written, "A dull campaign, a light vote, and a trend against us." The computed results of the formal polls read; Ross 43%, Nelson 52%, McNye 5%—probable error plus-or-minus 9%.
I looked around. "Shall we cut our losses, or go on gallantly to defeat?"
"We aren't licked yet," Tom pointed out.
"No, but we're going to be. All we offer is the assumption that I'm better qualified than the little girl with the big eyes—a notion in which Joe Public is colossally uninterested. How about it, Mrs. Holmes? Can you make it up in the precincts?"
She faced me. "Jack, to be frank, it's all uphill. I'm working the old faithfuls too hard and I can't seem to stir out any new blood."
"We need excitement," Tom complained. "Let's throw some mud."
"At what?" I asked. "Want to accuse her of passing notes in school, or shall we say she sneaked out after taps when she was a WAC? She's got no record."
"Well, tackle her on housing. You've let her hog the best issue."
I shook my head. "If I knew the answers, I wouldn't be living in a trailer. I won't make phony promises. I've drawn up three bills, one to support the Federal Act, one to revise the building code, and one for a bond election for housing projects—that last one is a hot potato. None of them are much good. This housing shortage will be with us for years."
Tom said, "Jack, you shouldn't run for office. You don't have the fine, free optimism that makes a good public figure."
I grunted. "That's what I told you birds. I'm the manager type. A candidate who manages himself gets a split personality."
Mrs. Holmes knit her brows. "Jack—you know more about housing than she does. Let's hold a rally and debate it."
"Okay with me—I just work here. I once threatened to make her debate everything from streetcars to taxes. How about it, Tom?"
"Anything to make some noise."
I phoned at once. "Is this the Stooge with the Light Brown Hair?"
"That must be Jack Ross. Hello, Nasty. How's the baby-kissing?"
"Sticky. Remember I promised to debate the issues with you? How about 8 p.m. Wednesday the 15th?"
She said, "Hold the line—" I could hear a muffled rumble, then she said, "Jack? You tend to your campaign; I'll tend to mine."
"Better accept, kid. We'll challenge you publicly. Is Miss Nelson afraid to face the issues, quote and unquote."
"Goodbye, Jack."
"Uncle Sam won't let you, will he?" The phone clicked in my ear.
We went ahead anyway. I sold some war bonds and ordered a special edition of the Civic League News, with a Ross-for-Councilman front page, as a throw-away to announce the rally—prizes, entertainment, movies, and a super-colossal, gigantic debate between Ross in this corner and Nelson in that. We piled the bundles of papers in Mrs. Holmes' garage late Sunday night. Mrs. Holmes phoned about seven-thirty the next morning—"Jack," she yipped, "come over right away!"
"On my way. What's wrong?"
"Everything. Wait till you get here." When I did, she led me out to her garage; someone had broken in and had slit open our precious bundles—then had poured dirty motor oil on them.
Tom showed up while we were looking at the mess. "Pixies everywhere," he observed. "I'll call the Commercial Press."
"Don't bother," I said bitterly. "We can't pay for another run." But he went in anyhow. The kids who were to do the distributing started to show up; we paid them and sent them home. Tom came out. "Too late," he announced. "We would have to start from scratch—no time and too expensive."