Monday, Apr. 22, 1946
Shakedown I
Citizens of Albuquerque, N. Mex. read the newspapers dutifully but a little lackadaisically. What really made them hot under the collar was the new Santa Fe timetable.
For years, on Sunday and Wednesday afternoons, they had taken visitors to the railroad station and said: "Now just watch." At 3:35 the Chief rolled in, at 3:40 the Super-Chief, and at 3:47 El Capitan slid in off the main line. There were three famous streamliners, all emitting compressed air, Hollywood producers and blondes wearing dark glasses. But after June 2, damn-it-all, the trains would come in separately at 2:45, 3:10 and 4:20.
In Buffalo, the sensation-of-the-week was one Edward O'Dea, who toured downtown gin mills after having publicly taken a poke at U.S. Senator Jim Mead. Fort Worth had something to goggle about, too. Publisher Amon Carter. Fort Worth's native sun, moon and stars who embarrasses even Texans by his Texasity. had reserved two whole floors of the Blackstone Hotel for guests at his daughter's wedding. In Atlanta, the Tulip Show made wonderful conversation: it had been necessary to import 45,000 plants because local flowers had bloomed two weeks too soon.
Lesser Sounds. Atlanta, Albuquerque and Buffalo were not the only towns where gossipy local items seemed as interesting again as more ponderous news. The nation, which had been deafened a little by the last big bang of World War II, was beginning to listen to lesser sounds. By now the U.S. had become matter-of-fact about peace: the new civilian clothes on veterans had lost that store press, the words "President Truman" no longer sounded odd, and Rosie the Riveter seemed almost as dated as the Gibson Girl.
Citizens who had expected a more dramatic transition--something like a motion-picture battle shot dissolving to a sylvan scene--had given up the idea. Life seemed just about as difficult and complicated as it was during the war. A good job was already hard to find. And where was the beer?
There was still fear, despair and violent death in the land. At Wilmington, Mass., a 21-year-old ex-soldier killed himself by piping exhaust fumes into an automobile, saw fit to record his last sensations. "Joints feel funny," he scribbled. "Chest filling up fast . . . going . . . go . . . go. . . ."
Many a good burgher had been stuck up with a souvenir pistol from Germany.
At the same time a lot of things were looking up--were fine as frog's hair. The spring-legged, limber-armed postwar baseball players seemed amazing (see SPORT). So did the first few of the shiny new cars and taxicabs. Nobody really wanted to argue with Father Divine's most widely quoted conclusion. It had just taken time to get used to it.
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