Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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Each day he grew weaker. Each day the buzzing in his head grew louder; the dizzy spells came oftener. He applied at relief head- quarters some time in February and they promised to investigate his case immediately. He continued along for many weeks. Begging bread here, a few pennies there, always on the lookout for the never-attain- able employment. In April he again returned to the relief agency. But of course! Someone must have been assigned to investigate his case. Why yes, agent BD77q had been dircted to look into the matter. How careless. There never had been an agent BD77q. What a mistake. But you go right home and wait. We ' ll send a man immediately. They wouldn ' t listen to his protest that he had no home. Sorry, that comes under the Reconstruction Branch office. We can do nothing for you. That was the first time he laughed in a long while. The tears streamed down his cheeks, and it was so hearty that the clerk in charge became frightened. He was still laughing when he left the office. In May, about seven months after he had lost his job, he began going to meetings, meetings protesting that so many like himself were starving. At the beginning he was but a silent spectator, not even cheering at the appropriate places. Later his enthusiasm overcame his natural shyness. He yelled as heartily as the next fellow, and even when he shouldn ' t have been, he was talking loudly, incoherently. The movement was in his blood. He spent his time talking to others who warmed the city ' s benches. He stood in line outside of relief head- quarters, arguing with men too dazed to reason, arguing that the pittance they were receiving to keep them alive temporarily was not enough. They must take steps to remedy the causes of such a con- dition. His fervor increased. He didn ' t even mind when some horse ' s behind was shoved into his face by an over-zealous policeman. But one day it caught up with him. Someone in the crowd threw a brick. It broke a window — all that was needed to set the guardians of the law into action. Down charged the cossacks. Horses plunging, they rode into the crowd. A swinging night stick caught him behind the ear and he fell without a murmur. A rearing horse dashed his brains out. He died knowing no pain. There was nothing unusual about him. They took NINETY-ONE

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COMMONPLACE by Daniel I. Rothbaum There was nothing unusual about him. Nothing that would make you turn around when he passed in the street. You just took him for granted; his sombre clothes, his detached look, they seemed to have been born with him. His daily routine was the same. Seven o ' clock found him sleepily awake, waiting his turn at the wash stand. His toilet wasn ' t very detailed. Washing his teeth, a rinsing of his hands, and an absent-minded combing of knotted hair sufficed. The problem of whether a clean shirt was in order always imet the same decision. Tomorrow. Tomorrow never came. His shirts looked it. Perhaps that ' s why he lost his job. Slovenly was the word the manager used. My dear fellow, this store has a reputation for keeping only neat and intelligent help. You are neither. The cashier will give you your pay envelope. Neat and intelligent hell! A bunch of pasty-faced idiots who did all but fondle the manager to keep in his good graces. And they were satisfied to continue in their aimless way. Yes madame, it looks beautiful on you. It should look that way on everybody, or, I ' ve seen that suit on many men, but never did it look like that. Why it looks as if it grew on you. Intelligent! The blubbering fools didn ' t know anything outside of their own little world. From Monday at nine until Saturday at noon they thought only of the store. Saturday night they went out. Took the girl friend to a picture or a dance, then up to her apartment. They spent the greater part of Sunday boasting about how far they ' d gotten the night before. Coarse pigs. They weren ' t fit company for dogs. And they were called intelligent. Boy, that was a laugh! A tour of the agencies proved fruitless. He wasn ' t anxious to get a job washing dishes, but after a time even that would have been wel- come. He ' d been thrown out of his boarding house long ago, and the shabby suit was a series of patches. Some holes weren ' t repaired, and when the wind blew he nearly froze. A kind soul gave him an overcoat, but it didn ' t assuage the gnawing in the pit of his stomach. NINETY

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him to the morgue, tied a tag on his toe, and stretched him out on a long white slab. The tag flapped whenever they opened the door to admit another accidental death. He was buried in September without benefit of pomp. Even in death he was ordinary, just a pine box and a space in Potters Field. The attendants didn ' t look twice. They lowered the box and kicked in some dirt. Rest in peace. Bud. Amen. C sf i-g NINETY-TWO