P.S. Read Online Free Page A
Book: P.S. Read Online Free
Author: Studs Terkel
the silent-film comedian Raymond Griffith my alter ego. As
a jewel thief, he fled to Mexico with his accomplice. When she felt the need to return to the United States and become respectable, he solicitously drove her back. When his two fiancées insisted on marrying him, he agreed and drove to Salt Lake City. Of course. When people talk to me of their lives, I offer the sympathetic ear. I nod understandingly as I watch the reel of tape revolving. It’s tougher with a cassette; there is nothing to watch.
There was a good deal to watch during the Kefauver investigation of organized crime. It was televised. One afternoon, especially, caught my attention. And my heart. Lou Farrell, an Omaha businessman, his hair a distinguished silver-gray, was on the stand. Senator Tobey, the righteous New Englander, was trying to give the witness a hard time. I paraphrase from memory:
“Your name is Luigi Fratto, is it not?” Not Louis, not Lou, nor, for that matter, Lewis. Luigi. What Cromwell was to the Irish, this bald Cotton Mather was to Mr. Fratto’s people. A sense of decorum was maintained by the witness. “Senator, you seen too many movies. My name is Lou Farrell.” It was offered with the rough grace and that proper note of impertinence of a Cassius Clay telling off inquisitors: “My name is Muhammad Ali.” The witness had indeed been Louis Fratto, my McKinley High School fellow alumnus. Was I perverse as, seated before the TV set, I glowed with pride?
Pride cometh before the Fall. I was to make this discovery one balmy spring night. It was a reunion of McKinley graduates. In middle age, we gathered: politicians, lawyers, a doctor, a judge or two, a funeral director, a disc jockey. It was a West Side restaurant built in a rococo style. A huge fountain in the lobby below, with water flowing from out of the generous
hands of a sculpted Roman goddess. Angels in stone, smiling beatifically at all the patrons from walls and ceiling. And here, amid all this salubriousness, I experienced mortification.
As a tribute was paid to teachers of the past, to honored alumni, among them Walt Disney, I was called upon. It wasn’t too long after Mr. Farrell’s television appearance. There was a good round of applause. I spoke of those more traditional schools, far less colorful, that boast of bankers, generals, senators, film stars, and philanthropists among their alumni. They are as nothing, I proclaimed. We of McKinley High have produced stars of the highest-rated show in the history of TV—the Kefauver Quiz. Where I had expected appreciative laughter, there was a dead silence.
The toastmaster, a judge well respected by Mayor Daley, whispered hoarsely, “For shame, Studs, for shame.” From the tables, I saw only smoke rings from Upmann Fancy Tales, being thoughtfully puffed. Oh God how I tried to recover, to win back the affection of my fellows. I talked of old glories, of our baseball teams that lost 15 to 2, of basketball teams that lost 95 to 23. I told fast and funny stories of the olden days: of Old Powles, a nineteenth-century remainder, of Mr. Brimblecom, of scraggly gray beard and mean, nasty, nasal putdowns of “Mediterraneans,” and of Mr. Potter, who favored his prize students with subscriptions to the Dearborn Independent , Henry Fords’s anti-Semitic journal. My words tumbled out, one on top of the other.
I heard one person laugh. It was more of a nervous giggle. As I sat down, two guests clapped their hands in a slow, measured beat. About three claps. At the table, a companion murmured softly, “Kid, you went over like a lead balloon.” And yet, in retrospect, it was no ethnic slur at all. I was right in expressing pride.
Consider this. Who have been more patriotic, more devoted to the service of our country in a pinch than those most often condemned by the righteous? Whom did the CIA call upon when, it was felt, our national security was endangered? When harsh measures were demanded, such as the doing in of
a jewel thief, he fled to Mexico with his accomplice. When she felt the need to return to the United States and become respectable, he solicitously drove her back. When his two fiancées insisted on marrying him, he agreed and drove to Salt Lake City. Of course. When people talk to me of their lives, I offer the sympathetic ear. I nod understandingly as I watch the reel of tape revolving. It’s tougher with a cassette; there is nothing to watch.
There was a good deal to watch during the Kefauver investigation of organized crime. It was televised. One afternoon, especially, caught my attention. And my heart. Lou Farrell, an Omaha businessman, his hair a distinguished silver-gray, was on the stand. Senator Tobey, the righteous New Englander, was trying to give the witness a hard time. I paraphrase from memory:
“Your name is Luigi Fratto, is it not?” Not Louis, not Lou, nor, for that matter, Lewis. Luigi. What Cromwell was to the Irish, this bald Cotton Mather was to Mr. Fratto’s people. A sense of decorum was maintained by the witness. “Senator, you seen too many movies. My name is Lou Farrell.” It was offered with the rough grace and that proper note of impertinence of a Cassius Clay telling off inquisitors: “My name is Muhammad Ali.” The witness had indeed been Louis Fratto, my McKinley High School fellow alumnus. Was I perverse as, seated before the TV set, I glowed with pride?
Pride cometh before the Fall. I was to make this discovery one balmy spring night. It was a reunion of McKinley graduates. In middle age, we gathered: politicians, lawyers, a doctor, a judge or two, a funeral director, a disc jockey. It was a West Side restaurant built in a rococo style. A huge fountain in the lobby below, with water flowing from out of the generous
hands of a sculpted Roman goddess. Angels in stone, smiling beatifically at all the patrons from walls and ceiling. And here, amid all this salubriousness, I experienced mortification.
As a tribute was paid to teachers of the past, to honored alumni, among them Walt Disney, I was called upon. It wasn’t too long after Mr. Farrell’s television appearance. There was a good round of applause. I spoke of those more traditional schools, far less colorful, that boast of bankers, generals, senators, film stars, and philanthropists among their alumni. They are as nothing, I proclaimed. We of McKinley High have produced stars of the highest-rated show in the history of TV—the Kefauver Quiz. Where I had expected appreciative laughter, there was a dead silence.
The toastmaster, a judge well respected by Mayor Daley, whispered hoarsely, “For shame, Studs, for shame.” From the tables, I saw only smoke rings from Upmann Fancy Tales, being thoughtfully puffed. Oh God how I tried to recover, to win back the affection of my fellows. I talked of old glories, of our baseball teams that lost 15 to 2, of basketball teams that lost 95 to 23. I told fast and funny stories of the olden days: of Old Powles, a nineteenth-century remainder, of Mr. Brimblecom, of scraggly gray beard and mean, nasty, nasal putdowns of “Mediterraneans,” and of Mr. Potter, who favored his prize students with subscriptions to the Dearborn Independent , Henry Fords’s anti-Semitic journal. My words tumbled out, one on top of the other.
I heard one person laugh. It was more of a nervous giggle. As I sat down, two guests clapped their hands in a slow, measured beat. About three claps. At the table, a companion murmured softly, “Kid, you went over like a lead balloon.” And yet, in retrospect, it was no ethnic slur at all. I was right in expressing pride.
Consider this. Who have been more patriotic, more devoted to the service of our country in a pinch than those most often condemned by the righteous? Whom did the CIA call upon when, it was felt, our national security was endangered? When harsh measures were demanded, such as the doing in of
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