It seemed like hours but it was all over in a few minutes. When I could no longer muster a yell, when my terror had exhausted itself and I was resignedly awaiting my seemingly inevitable demise—then the insane ride ended. The car turned smoothly into a side road and came to a gentle stop.
I rubbed my eyes, incredulous. Every nerve standing on end, I turned around in the seat.
Allie was not, of course, drunk. He grinned at me, the lap robe kicked aside, and pointed down at his feet. I looked. I began to curse him.
"Dual controls! Allie, I'll murder you for this if it's the last damned thing—"
I stuttered and choked up with fury. Then, suddenly, reaction set in, and I began to howl with laughter. I laughed until I was breathless and my face streamed with tears.
"Allie," I gasped at last, "what did those controls cost you?"
"Oh," he shrugged, "around sixty dollars. Of course, it'll cost something more to get them taken out."
"And you did that just for this—just to break the ice between us? It was worth that much to you?"
"Well..."
"Why don't we go out on the town tonight?" I said. "Have a real beer bust, like we used to in the old days, and make a tour of the burly houses, and—"
"About your question—" Allie climbed back behind the wheel, beaming—"It was worth it."
I had less than no pull in Oklahoma political circles, and as chief editor of the state writers' project I did not endear myself at Washington headquarters. I went out of my way to be unaccommodating to politically "right people." I would not accept a foolish directive simply because it came from Washington. I got my directorship by hard work—and because (or so a Washington official informally informed me) it would have shrieked of misfeasance to appoint another.
I soon began to wish that someone else had got the appointment.
To begin with, I did not, for a long time, draw a director's salary. The former incumbent had accumulated months of annual leave, and he continued to draw his pay throughout those months. Since the budget allowed for only one director, I was stuck with my relatively meager editor's salary. It was an irksome and embarrassing situation.
It was bad enough to be doing an executive's work at a subordinate's pay. But the struggle to meet my increased expenses, the newly imposed obligations to entertain, became downright maddening. I had practically given up free-lance writing to devote myself to the project. Our third child had just been born, and we were head over heels in debt. Several times, in order to finance an unavoidable dinner party, my wife and I pawned everything but the clothes we were wearing.
I got back into free-lance writing fast, and finally worked my way out of the financial mess. But the holding of two full-time jobs, which was what it amounted to, was beginning to tell on me. And finances were only part of my troubles.
My predecessor had been left relatively free of political interference, and so had I for the first few months. There were hints—some pretty strong ones—that it might be well to favor this person or that group, but there was never an outright demand followed up by retaliation if one refused. The national administration felt itself too strongly entrenched. It saw little need anywhere to curry political favor, and it saw none at all in the "Solid South." Now, however, the situation changed.
A national election was not far off. There were signs that the administration might have trouble achieving a third term. So it began making up to the local boys, giving in to their hitherto evaded demands. In effect the actual control of the various projects passed from Washington to the states.
Well, I was and am a long way from puritanism, but I could not stomach the squandering of relief moneys for political purposes. Also, I could not (and cannot) be shoved very far along a course which I believe to be wrong. So I resisted the pressure, and was promptly punished.
Travel orders and expense accounts were held up. Requisitions for supplies were delayed interminably. My worker quota and the quota of available workers shifted swiftly from month to month. I couldn't get the people I needed, or I was in danger of employing workers without authorization, having to pay their wages out of my own pocket.
Interested as I was in the job, it seemed foolish and futile to stick with it. I sent in my resignation to Washington.
Washington refused to accept the resignation. It was pointed out to me—with considerable truth—that I held the threads of the various project endeavors and that they would become hopelessly snarled if I should let go. Much time and work would be lost if a new man had to take over. As for my complaints, well, I was doubtless "looking on the dark side" and had unwittingly "exaggerated the situation" but perhaps something could be done about it.
Apparently, Washington did protest to the state officials, and the latter thought it wise to ease up a little. Then gradually they reapplied the pressure, and I fired in another resignation.
This one was also refused with much the same sort of letter as the first. Again the pressure went off and on, and again I resigned.
In all, I sent in four resignations before I finally got an acceptance, but it is not yet time to relate the tragi-comic circumstances surrounding that event. Moreover, in rushing ahead, I am giving the impression that the job was an unrelieved headache. It was not at all.
The phrase "big happy family" has become so abused as to be ridiculous. But, in the main, it accurately describes my project. My people knew that I was fighting to protect their jobs. They knew that they could advance themselves with good work—and in no other way—and the knowledge gave them a dignity and pride that was far from common among relief-roll workers. Many were poorly educated, while others had had no previous work experience. I set up after-hours classes in a number of such subjects as spelling, typing, shorthand and business etiquette. And, as a result, any number of hitherto "unemployables" found jobs in private industry.
This was no more than I should have done, of course, and I don't mean to hold myself up as a model of virtue. It is only that, in relating so much that is ribald and unflattering about myself, I feel compelled to show something of my better, or at least more socially acceptable, side.
And, now, having done this...
One Saturday, I and one of my editors—I'll call him Tom—drove down to a town in southwestern Oklahoma. An Indian celebration was being held there which we intended to cover. Our travel authorization being held up as usual, we went on our own time and at our own expense.
We took in the afternoon events of the "celebration," and they proved to be pretty poor stuff. As long as we were there, however, we decided to stay through the next day. So we checked in at a hotel, had dinner and started to drive around the town.
It was much more colorful than the ceremonies had been. Reservation Indians were everywhere. Many of them appeared to have been drinking, and were having a hell of a time for themselves. But no one interfered. The Federal law, ordinarily unbending in the matter of whiskey and Indians, seemed to have been temporarily—if unofficially—suspended.
Tom and I were stopped at a street light, when two slangy female voices hailed us:
"Hey, you writer fellows—where you going?" and "How about giving us a ride?"
Startled, we looked toward the curb.
Two reservation squaws stood there, grinning at us. Blankets were draped around their beaded dresses, their hair hung in long black braids. They were about fifty years of age, I imagine. One was some six feet tall and extremely thin. Her companion was around five feet, and must have weighed a full three hundred pounds.
I pulled in at the curb. They peered through the car window, and I got a whiff of very good bourbon.
"How about that ride?" the thin one asked. "You guys got nothing else to do."
"I'm afraid we do have," I said. "We're here to write up your celebration, and—"
"Nuts!" Fatty scoffed. "We saw you out there this afternoon—just wastin' your time. That's missionary stuff. We don't do any real dancing for those yokels. You want to see the genuine article, we'll show you where to go."
Tom murmured that it might be a good idea; it was probably the only way we could see any truly authentic dances.
I hesitated, glancing at the large, suspiciously bulging handbag which each of the squaws was carrying.
"What about the whiskey? You're not supposed to have it, are you?"
"What do you care?" said Skinny on a note of belligerence. "I figure we're old enough to drink if we want to."
"Well, of course you are but—"
"So, what's the argument?" said Fatty comfortably. "You didn't sell it to us or give it to us, so there's no need to worry. Just open the door and let's get going."
The car springs groaned as she climbed into the back seat. Skinny joined her and, rather uneasily, I drove on.
We were quite a while in reaching our destination, an isolated section of the river bottoms. The ladies liked their drinks mixed—their bags contained several bottles of pop—and it was necessary to stop for the mixing. Naturally, we took a drink out of courtesy. Naturally—after that first one—we took a great many more. When we finally rolled up at the dance site, we were all four the warmest of friends and in a state of high hilarity.
About twenty-five or thirty Indians, male and female, were gathered there. The women were dressed as our friends were; the men wore breechclouts and paint. Tom and I waited in the car while our erstwhile companions conferred with their tribesmen. They beckoned to us after a moment; we had passed muster. We got out, shook hands all around and were presented with tin cups of a potent beverage which one of the squaws dipped from a large iron pot.
I can't recall the name of the stuff now. But it was made, I learned later, from a base of corn and saliva. The squaws chewed corn to a pulp and spit it into the pot. When they had a sufficient quantity of this mash, they filled the pot with water, added sugar and allowed it to ferment. That was all there was to it, except for an occasional skimming. In a few weeks the stuff had a kick like an army mule.
Things began to get a little fuzzy after our first few drinks. But somehow or another we were divested of our clothes and equipped with breechclouts, and someone—or several someones—decorated us from head to foot with bright clay paint. Tom and I preened and strutted. The braves shouted their approval. Then the fire was built up and the squaws formed in two opposite lines, creating an aisle to the flames. The men arranged themselves single-file at the head of this lane. Tom and I fell in at the end of the line.
There was a wild war whoop; the squaws began a rhythmic stamping and clapping and the dance was on.
Whooping, weaving and bobbing, the Indian at the head of our line danced down the aisle and made a whirling leap over the flames. He started back around to the end of the line, and the next man did his dance and leap. Then, the next, and the next, until everyone had performed but Tom and me. We decided to do a duet.
I wish someone could have gotten a picture of us, for we must have been one of the prize comedy bits of all time. Every time we revolved in the dance one of us socked or kicked the other, and when the crucial moment of our leap arrived we were off-balance and groggy. We leaped, anyway, whirling and whooping.
Tom's flailing feet booted me in the back. I clutched at them instinctively. Thus entangled we soared up and above the fire. We hung poised over it for a moment; then, our forward momentum lost, we dropped smack down into the middle of the flames.
Our friends had been prepared, I suspect, for some such fiasco; otherwise, there would have been a couple of barbecued writers. As it was, however, we were snatched out and rolled in the dust before we could even be singed. And we suffered nothing more than a slight and temporary tingling in our painted hides.
An intermission was declared for refreshments and to allow us to recover. The dance resumed then, and Tom and I resumed our places in the line. But you may be sure that we did no more double acts.
A sudden downpour of rain put an end to the festivities. I had gotten a little too close to the fire on some of my leaps, with a consequent mild toasting of my feet. But the furious exercise had been an antidote for the drink, and except for my smarting soles I was about as near normal as I ever am. Still, Tom insisted that I was in no condition to drive. He would take over, he said, with Skinny to give him directions. The fat squaw and I should sit in the back.
I let him have his way. We started off. In the blinding rain, Skinny became confused; and an hour later we were still wandering around the narrow trails of the back country.
The better to see, Tom rolled down the window and leaned out. He yelled and swung the wheel. He was too late. In the instant that his eyes were off the road, the car had slid onto the rain-caved shoulder.
It lurched, wobbled, and toppled. Then it was lying on its top in the bottom of the ditch, and three hundred pounds of squaw were lying on top of me.
Neither of us was injured, but she had passed out from the booze and all her avoirdupois was so much dead weight. I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe. Tom and Skinny climbed out and tried to pull her off of me, but they could get no leverage, due to the position of the car, and with that much to heft they needed a chain hoist. They tickled her feet, pinched her—did everything they could to revive her. She remained inert, snoring peacefully, and I remained pinned down.
I told them for God's sake to get into town; doubtless they could find their way on foot. "Send out a tow car! And 'hurry!' I can't take much of this!"