They set off for town. The hours passed and they didn't come back, and there was no sign of a wrecking car. I squirmed and struggled to free myself. All it got me was exhaustion. Finally, breathless and numb and worn out, I gave up the futile struggle.
It was around dawn when I heard the creak of harness and wagon wheels. I shouted and there was an answering hail. The sounds quickened and came nearer. They ceased, and a grizzled face appeared at the car window.
It was a farmer, on his way to town with a wagonload of corn. He stared in at me and the squaw, eyes widening incredulously. Then, guffawing and slapping his knees, helpless with merriment, he collapsed against the embankment.
I could see nothing at all funny about the situation. But my profane remarks to that effect seemed only to make him laugh the harder. Finally, upon my angry statement that he was laughing at a dying man, he got himself under a modicum of control.
He unhitched his mules and hitched them onto my car. It came easily upright, and back onto the road.
The farmer refused payment for his help. Gasping, tears of amusement streaming down his face, he claimed that he was actually in my debt.
"Ain't—'haw, haw, haw!—'ain't laughed like that since I don't know when. How in the heck did you get in such a dagnabbed fix?"
"Never mind," I said grimly. "Just never mind."
I drove off. The last I saw him he was hugging the neck of one of the mules—haw-hawing hilariously while the animal hee-hawed.
A few hundred yards down the road I encountered the tow truck, Tom and Skinny riding with the driver. They had been confused about the location of my car and had toured the countryside all night attempting to find it.
We got Fatty revived. The driver agreed to take her and the other squaw to wherever they wanted to go. He also made us a present of a gallon can of gasoline, which, he mysteriously insisted, we were "cert'n'y gonna need."
He was right. Tom and I sneaked in the side door of the hotel, and reached our room unobserved. And we remained there, with the shades drawn, for the next twelve hours. We had to. It took us that long to remove the warpaint, and we didn't quite get it all off then. There were certain areas of our anatomy which were just too tender for the brush and gasoline treatment.
Fortunately, their location was such as to make public exposure unnecessary.
In the fall of 1938, I received a visit from two old-timers in the Oklahoma labor movement. They were pioneers in the state, and men of some substance. They bore warm letters of introduction from several members of the Oklahoma congressional delegation. They wanted the writers' project to do a history of labor in the state.
Well, I liked these gentlemen very much, and I was personally sympathetic to their plan. But it was inadvisable on a great many counts. I explained this to my callers and they left—quite friendly, but intimating that the matter would be carried over my head. I immediately sent a long letter to Washington.
I wrote that we would undoubtedly be politically pressured to do the book, but that we should and must withstand it. Labor was sensitive about its mistakes. It would consider unfriendly a book that was merely accurate and complete. Then, there were the various inter-union quarrels—long-standing jurisdictional disputes, for example. We could hardly ignore them in the proposed history, but the skimpiest mention was certain to offend some organization. Before the book was finished, we would have pleased no one and angered everyone.
I did not believe (I wrote) that labor was yet sure enough of itself to accept an honest, factual history. And even if this were not the case, there was an excellent reason for steering clear of the job. Federal expenditures were intended to benefit all the public. The one contemplated would not. If we did a history of labor we would lay ourselves open to demands from other segments of the population. We could be asked for a history of the state chamber of commerce, or some other such group, and we would have no legitimate grounds for refusing.
I got no reply to my letter; no acknowledgment of it. Washington simply wrote me, a couple of weeks later, to proceed with the labor history.
I did so.
All the problems that I had foreseen, and then some, arose. I could never get the different labor leaders together without the danger of a knock-down, drag-out brawl. Any unfavorable mention of a union was invariably "a goddamned lie" and "that guy sittin' over there" (the leader of an opposition union) should be compelled to admit it. As for me, I was charged with everything from stupidity to personal prejudice to taking pay from the National Association of Manufacturers.
I was fortunate in having the confidence of Pat Murphy and Jim Hughes, respectively the state commissioner and assistant commissioner of labor. Their help in oiling the troubled waters was invaluable. Oddly enough, however, I received the most assistance from a man who had profanely declined to appear at publication committee meetings and who had threatened to kick me out of his office if I ever walked into it.
I called on him. He didn't give me the promised booting, but I did get an ear-blistering cursing out. He had "heard all about" the way his union had been slandered; an acquaintance of his on the committee had tipped him off. Well, if I let one word of it get into print, all hell was going to pop in Congress. And if I thought he couldn't make it pop, I was a bigger damned fool than I looked.
I asked him why he thought I would want to injure his union. He grumbled that he didn't know, but he knew damned well that I had. Laying the manuscript before him, I asked him to look at a portion dealing with another union.
The section was not flattering to the organization involved, and as he read he began to nod approvingly. I had those bastards dead to rights, he said. Someone had at last told the truth about them, and about time, too. I pointed out some other sections to him—likewise unflattering and dealing with other unions. He read through them beaming.
"Could have made it a little stronger, though," he said. "I could tell you things about those sons-of-bitches that would make your hair curl."
"I imagine we'll have to tone it down a lot," I said. "They've been kicking about it."
"Naturally, they're kickin'," he declared. "The truth always hurts."
He nodded to me, piously. Then, after a moment, a slow flush spread over his face, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"Of course," he said, "we shouldn't be too hard on people. Now, I got just about the biggest union in the state, and there's bound to've been a few times when—we—uh—got out of line a little, but—"
I looked at him, torn between the desire to laugh and blow my top. Suddenly, I stood up and reached for the manuscript.
"Let's have it," I said. "I thought I could talk sense to a man as big as you are, but you're even worse than the others."
"Now, wait a minute. All I said was—"
"At least they don't insist on a brag-book. That's what you want. You're good at dishing it out, and when it comes to taking a little you start crying. Everyone's picking on you and you're going to raise hell in Congress, and—"
"Sit down," he said firmly. "Maybe I had you all wrong and maybe you've got me a little wrong. Let's start all over again."
I sat down, and we went through the manuscript together. He was by no means pleased with some of the references to his union, but he felt impelled to prove his fairness—to show me and the other labor organizations how a 'big' man operated. And with his example to point to, I was able to swing the others into line.
I don't mean to say that we, the writers' project, got everything into the manuscript that should have been in it. But this was as much due to the lack of publishing funds as it was to the attitude of the unionists. We published as comprehensive a book as we could for the money we had.
I should mention here that the government furnished no funds for publishing, 'per se;' only for the actual preparation of the manuscript. So, at the beginning, I had set up an apparatus among the unions for soliciting and handling money. It did not function; there were too many conflicts among its members. Too much distrust. In the end, or rather, long before the end, I became the treasurer-solicitor.
By late summer of 1939, we had the funds to publish a modest volume and the manuscript was finished. Washington approved it, I sent it to the printer. A few days later, with the type already set, I was called into state headquarters of the various work projects. They flatly ordered me to kill the book.
Flabbergasted, I wanted to know why. If there was any part of the book which they had justifiable objection to I would gladly cut it out. So much had been cut already that a little more wouldn't be missed. I was told that they "had not had time" to read the manuscript (they had had a copy for days), and the matter was not pertinent. The book simply should not be published 'period.'
I said it would be published 'period.'
I returned to my office...and found a long-distance call from Washington awaiting me. They had just talked with the state officials. They agreed with the latter that the book should be killed.
I was so furious that I could hardly talk. "You shoved this thing down my throat," I said. "I didn't want to touch it and I told you why—and you ordered me to go ahead anyway. Well, now we've spent a fortune in government funds on research and writing. Now we've collected publishing funds from the unions and contracted with a printer and got the book set in type. And now, without any explanation, you tell me to forget the whole thing. I'm not going to do it. I couldn't do it if I wanted to, and I don't want to."
I slammed up the phone. Calling my secretary, I wrote my fourth and very final resignation.
I knew what lay behind the ultimatum handed me—a very shabby kind of politics. A national election was impending. The administration had decided to take a sharp turn to the right, to do nothing that might even remotely offend the conservatives. It was not necessary to do anything for labor or to show any particular regard for it. Labor could be kicked in the teeth, and it would still tag along with the administration. It had no place else to go. The conservatives, on the other hand, must be appeased. No chances could be taken with their vote.
Washington responded to my "insubordination" by sending an official out to see me. We met at his hotel room. A rather prim, old-maidish guy, he was much more conciliatory than I had expected. Washington did not want me to resign, he said. They were sure, and so was he, that some kind of compromise could be worked out to the satisfaction of all parties.
I said that nothing would make me happier, and that, meanwhile, I would delay my resignation.
To abridge events considerably, we got quite companionable as the afternoon waned. He brought out a bottle, and with the first few drinks his prim manner disappeared. I was a swell guy, he declared—a pleasant relief from the stuffed shirts who usually surrounded him. We had been talking business for hours, so now how about a little fun? What could we do tonight by way of relaxation?
Well, in a city without night clubs or a legitimate theater, there was not a very wide choice of entertainments. Anyway, he was not interested in more of "the same old things." We kicked the subject around, continuing to drink, and finally we went out to an amusement park.
We went on a number of rides, he getting gayer and gayer. We arrived eventually at the penny arcade, and here the bag-punching device caught his eye.
"Challenge you," he said. "Go ahead and hit it, and then I will. Bet I can sock it harder than you can."
I dropped a coin in the slot, pulled the bag down on its chain and hit it. He glanced at the dial which registered the impact, and waved me to stand aside.
He wound up, more in the manner of a ballplayer than a boxer. Grunting for me to "just watch this one," he swung. The bag crashed against the dial. It came hurtling back. And since he had not removed himself from its path, it smashed squarely into his face.
That ended the evening's entertainment. In an icy, accusing silence, I drove him back to his hotel. He was going to have a couple of very unlovely black eyes. I, who had seen him at a gross disadvantage, was to receive a figurative shiner. At least, I had a strong hunch that he would slam me as soon as he got back to Washington.
All my life, it seemed, things had been turning out this way. I would work myself into exhaustion, maintain the most correct of attitudes. Then, flukish Fate would take a hand and something preposterous and wholly unrelated would edge into the picture. And all my work and rightness would be as naught.
My hunch was correct.
The gentleman returned to Washington.
Washington "regretfully" decided to accept my resignation.
I refused to quit. My project funds were cut off. I remained at work unpaid, as did my executive staff, until the labor history was through the printers.
With a little string pulling, my staffers were relocated in other jobs. I then did some very earnest pulling on my own behalf.
A few weeks later, through the instrumentality of the University of North Carolina Press, I received a year's research grant-in-aid from the Rockefeller Foundation.
A few nights ago, during one of the rare periods of quiet around our domicile, my wife and I fell to reminiscing about the "good old days" when we and our children were young.
"I don't know how we stood it," said Alberta, with a mixture of fondness and horror. "Of all the nutty, headstrong kids anyone ever had! I guess they must have got it from you, Jimmie."
"Oh, undoubtedly," I said. "It's unthinkable that 'you' might—"
"Well, naturally," Alberta shrugged. "Naturally, no woman in her right mind would have married you in the first place. Or if she did, she'd soon go crazy. And speaking of marriage, Mr. Thompson..."