The Talking Clock

Chapter Eight

Fourth Avenue, between Hennepin and Nicollet in Minneapolis, looked exactly like Market Street in St. Louis, West Madison in Chicago, and the Bowery in New York. The bums and hoboes congregated here by the hundreds and thousands. They gathered about the signs put out by the employment agencies, sat on the curb soaking up the sun and perhaps thinking of their lost years.

These streets always discouraged Johnny Fletcher. He’d been on them before and they were ever present, as horrible examples. He led Sam Cragg back to Hennepin and headed uptown.

Passing under the canopy of the Hennepin Theater, a man stepped out and beckoned to them. “You fellows,” he said, sharply, “you want jobs?”

“Ha!” exclaimed Johnny. “Do we want jobs? We do, Mister. What sort of jobs do you have?”

“What the hell do you care what the work is? You get paid two dollars at nine o’clock tonight.”

“From now until nine tonight for two bucks?” Sam protested.

The man fell back. “Okay, wise guys, if that’s the way you feel… I can get a hundred men…”

“We’ll take the job!” Johnny said, smartly. “Lead on.” The man led them into the darkened theater, where the ushers were just going through their morning drill. They went down a long tunnel, then climbed a short flight of stairs and were backstage. There their guide pointed to a door. “Your uniforms are in there. Be ready in five minutes.”

“Uniforms?” Johnny Fletcher’s nostrils flared. He pushed open the door and recoiled.

In the room were three gigantic caricatures of Pinocchio. Live caricatures. They wore huge shoes, short wool socks, had bare knees and above the knees short pantaloons with suspenders that covered flaming yellow shirts. Papier-mâché masks blessedly covered the wearer’s faces and were surmounted by saucy little hats.

“No!” Johnny whispered.

One of the Pinocchios leered at them. “You the other chumps? There’re your outfits.”

“I won’t,” moaned Sam Cragg. “I won’t go out in public wearing an outfit like that.”

“That’s what we said,” another Pinocchio offered, “but two bucks is two bucks and they just threw off five thousand more men from the WPA.”

Johnny stumbled into the room and from a chair picked up one of the costumes. He looked at Sam Cragg and a shudder ran through him. “How hungry are you, Sam?”

“Too hungry,” Sam groaned. He began stripping off his coat.

They had scarcely finished dressing when Simon Legree, alias the manager of the theater, pounded on the door. “Come on, you Pinocchios, you’re late.”

Like condemned men the quintet of Pinocchios filed out of the dressing room. They followed the manager to the lobby of the theater, where he gave them their instructions.

“We’re showing Walt Disney’s Pinocchio this week, see,” he said. “This is a publicity stunt to attract attention. The main thing to remember is to act like Pinocchios. Pinocchio was a lively youngster. He jumped and hopped and skipped. He was never still a moment. Catch on? I could use dummies just as well as you birds… I’m paying you two bucks a day to move around. And remember, I’ll be watching you. Now, go out there and give me a good day’s work. You bring enough people into the theater and I may hire you all again tomorrow. Scram!…”

There was a small queue of ticket buyers already lined up before the ticket window when the Pinocchios finally reached the sidewalk. At sight of the Pinocchios, passers-by on the sidewalk stopped.

“Oh, look!” a young thing exclaimed to her escort, a broad-faced Swede. “Aren’t they cute!”

Cold sweat broke out all over Johnny Fletcher’s body. A thick-bodied Pinocchio reeled against him. “God, what a man’ll do when he’s hungry!”

The manager of the theater came out and signaled to the Pinocchios. They shuffled over. “You’re standing around like a bunch of dopes,” he snapped. “Put some ginger into it or I’ll fire the whole lot of you right away… and you can sue me for the wages. Go on, now!”

Back to the sidewalk they went. They did little jigs, stamped their feet and bobbed up and down. They played a game of leapfrog. And hundreds and hundreds of people stopped and blocked the sidewalks and the traffic on the street.

Policemen blew whistles and could not break the traffic snarl. After a while an emergency squad came and began regimenting the crowds. The manager of the theater stood beside the ticket office, a broad smile on his mean face as customers plunked down their money and bought tickets.

The Pinocchios played Ring Around the Rosie, London Bridge Is Falling Down and other little games that kept them moving about. They played until they were exhausted, then shuffled about on leaden feet until the manager came out and urged them on again. After two hours of it, he finally decided to let them rest in stretches of fifteen minutes each.

When it came Johnny’s turn he staggered to the dressing room. There was no couch in the room but he stretched out on the floor. He was too tired even to remove his mask. He had been lying on the floor for ten minutes before he was aware that there was a folded newspaper in the small of his back. He rolled over and removed the paper. A headline caught his eye and he took off his mask and opened the door.

Most of the front page was devoted to the Brooklands affair. According to the paper, one Tom Quisenberry, aged twenty, had been strangled in the Brooklands Jail, by three tramps who called themselves, respectively: John Doe, John Smith and John Jones. John Doe, according to a statement made by Ora Fitch, the Brooklands constable, was a superannuated, feeble-minded bindle stiff. John Smith and John Jones, however, were young, vicious characters. They had attacked Fitch, the constable, and one or the other of them had stabbed him, inflicting a painful though not a serious wound.

A widespread police dragnet was out for the desperadoes and the state police expected to make an arrest shortly.

In another column was news of Diana Rusk. The former fiancee of Tom Quisenberry had been arrested the evening before near Moose Lake, after being seen with two men whose descriptions fitted those of Smith and Jones. The desperadoes had made their escape after a thrilling chase, but Diana Rusk had denied that the men in her car had been more than casual hitchhikers. The police, however, had held her until Eric Quisenberry, father of the murdered youth, who had just arrived from Hillcrest, New York, had interceded in her behalf.

Quisenberry, the paper went on to say, was taking the body of his son back to New York for burial, but before leaving had announced an offer of $1,000 for the capture of John Smith and John Jones.

“I’ve a good notion to claim that reward,” Johnny said to himself. “I may never be worth that much money again.”

“Hey, Pinocchio!” yelled a man outside the dressing room. “You’ve stayed over your time.” The door was kicked in by an irate Pinocchio and Johnny picked himself up from the floor with a groan.

The day dragged on leaden feet. The five Pinocchios made merry, crowds stared at them, made audible comments and bought tickets. There was a line a half block long by mid-afternoon, trying to get into the theater, but still the Pinocchios were given no relief. They were allowed, one at a time, a half hour for lunch, but the manager vigorously resisted giving any advance on their salaries and Johnny and Sam had to content themselves with a nap for lunch.

Evening and nine o’clock came at long last. On the stroke of the hour, the five Pinocchios headed for the theater and the dressing room. Johnny and Sam had peeled off their costumes and donned their own clothing when the manager finally came with their wages.

“You be needing us tomorrow?” Johnny asked.

The manager fidgeted. “Why, uh, I don’t think so. Maybe… later in the week.”

“You said if we did a good job you’d hire us again tomorrow,” complained one of the other Pinocchios.

“I know, but we had such a crowd today that there’s sure to be an overflow tomorrow.”

“Is that so,” Sam Cragg said. “Well, in that case…” He put his big hand in the manager’s face and shoved so hard that the manager was hurtled back against the wall. By the time he bounced back, Sam and Johnny were at the door.

“Food!” cried Johnny.

“A nice, thick steak…”