job-"gave character to a boy." And while I was doing that, Marge was taking lessons on the violin at rates up to thirty-five dollars an hour. And she hated the violin, and I loved it…
I used to get her instrument out of its case, and run the scales, and saw out things like "Home Sweet Home" and "Turkey in the Straw"; and I guess it was pretty awful. And Pop would fidget, and after while he'd ask me if I didn't have some work to do. Or he'd dismiss me with: "That's good. Now let's hear you play, Marge."
I wanted to be a violinist. At least, I wanted to get away from jobs where people snubbed and swore at you. I wanted never to have to ask any one for money. I wanted attention, and admiration, and the chance to express myself. I started to write. You could get a pencil and a piece of paper anywhere.
Oddly enough, I sold the first thing I wrote, a sketch about a golf game; but it was a very long time between that first story and the second. And, although I never gave up writing, I kept at it largely from habit. Pop went broke and his was the irremediable brokeness of a man past fifty who has never worked for other people. I had to distinguish myself and support the family at the same time. And even at fifteen, a high-school freshman, I knew I wasn't going to do it by writing.
I got a job as a bellhop in the largest hotel in town. They didn't want me because I was so tall-they didn't have a uniform that would fit me. But I kept going down, standing around the lobby and looking wistful; and I dug up an old pair of blue serge pants and had some braid sewed on them. And, finally, when one of the night boys was careless enough to get himself arrested for pandering, they put me on.
My hours were from ten at night until seven in the morning. I went to high school from eight-thirty until three-thirty. I didn't think I could do it, at first. I wasn't even sure that it was worth the effort. You see I thought that a bellboy was supposed to carry ice water and baggage to the rooms. And my first month I barely made expenses.
When I found out about the other things, it made me a little sick. But I didn't know what to do then, any more than I do now; I didn't see any other way out. We needed money, and this, apparently, was the only way of getting it. I began to get.
Mom wasn't very worldly-wise, and I'm pretty sure she really did not know how those thick rolls of ones and fives and tens were produced. Pop-well, Pop knew. And he came to despise me for it. But he didn't do anything about it. He didn't produce any money himself.
Well, I drank. "Give the bellhop a drink" was party etiquette in those Prohibition days. Most of the stuff was poison, but after a few drinks I began to forget my shame and my fear of exposure and arrest, and I could concentrate on the all-important business of making money. I bolstered myself with other things also. I bought Society Brand suits and twenty-dollar Borsalinos and Florsheim shoes. And I bought a snappy Dort coupe. But nothing took the place of drink. Some of the "boys"-they ranged up to forty-five in age-sniffed cocaine; and I tried it several times. But I always preferred liquor.
In my second year I was sick in bed for six weeks. I was delirious most of the time, and I burned and froze by turns. The doctors called it malaria. It was beyond their ken, I guess, that a sixteen-year-old boy could be suffering from alcoholism.
The 'twenty-nine boom was building up, then, and it cost me a hundred dollars to buy my job back, plus two dollars and a half a night to work. And I had to go after the money harder than ever. In my fourth year I broke down completely-tuberculosis, alcoholism, nervous exhaustion.
Marge was engaged to Walter then, and our home had to be maintained. And I'm sure-I have to be sure- that the family didn't know how sick I was. I struck out by myself. I got drunk in Mineral Wells and lost the little money I had, and I suppose I would have got a stiff jail sentence if they hadn't
I used to get her instrument out of its case, and run the scales, and saw out things like "Home Sweet Home" and "Turkey in the Straw"; and I guess it was pretty awful. And Pop would fidget, and after while he'd ask me if I didn't have some work to do. Or he'd dismiss me with: "That's good. Now let's hear you play, Marge."
I wanted to be a violinist. At least, I wanted to get away from jobs where people snubbed and swore at you. I wanted never to have to ask any one for money. I wanted attention, and admiration, and the chance to express myself. I started to write. You could get a pencil and a piece of paper anywhere.
Oddly enough, I sold the first thing I wrote, a sketch about a golf game; but it was a very long time between that first story and the second. And, although I never gave up writing, I kept at it largely from habit. Pop went broke and his was the irremediable brokeness of a man past fifty who has never worked for other people. I had to distinguish myself and support the family at the same time. And even at fifteen, a high-school freshman, I knew I wasn't going to do it by writing.
I got a job as a bellhop in the largest hotel in town. They didn't want me because I was so tall-they didn't have a uniform that would fit me. But I kept going down, standing around the lobby and looking wistful; and I dug up an old pair of blue serge pants and had some braid sewed on them. And, finally, when one of the night boys was careless enough to get himself arrested for pandering, they put me on.
My hours were from ten at night until seven in the morning. I went to high school from eight-thirty until three-thirty. I didn't think I could do it, at first. I wasn't even sure that it was worth the effort. You see I thought that a bellboy was supposed to carry ice water and baggage to the rooms. And my first month I barely made expenses.
When I found out about the other things, it made me a little sick. But I didn't know what to do then, any more than I do now; I didn't see any other way out. We needed money, and this, apparently, was the only way of getting it. I began to get.
Mom wasn't very worldly-wise, and I'm pretty sure she really did not know how those thick rolls of ones and fives and tens were produced. Pop-well, Pop knew. And he came to despise me for it. But he didn't do anything about it. He didn't produce any money himself.
Well, I drank. "Give the bellhop a drink" was party etiquette in those Prohibition days. Most of the stuff was poison, but after a few drinks I began to forget my shame and my fear of exposure and arrest, and I could concentrate on the all-important business of making money. I bolstered myself with other things also. I bought Society Brand suits and twenty-dollar Borsalinos and Florsheim shoes. And I bought a snappy Dort coupe. But nothing took the place of drink. Some of the "boys"-they ranged up to forty-five in age-sniffed cocaine; and I tried it several times. But I always preferred liquor.
In my second year I was sick in bed for six weeks. I was delirious most of the time, and I burned and froze by turns. The doctors called it malaria. It was beyond their ken, I guess, that a sixteen-year-old boy could be suffering from alcoholism.
The 'twenty-nine boom was building up, then, and it cost me a hundred dollars to buy my job back, plus two dollars and a half a night to work. And I had to go after the money harder than ever. In my fourth year I broke down completely-tuberculosis, alcoholism, nervous exhaustion.
Marge was engaged to Walter then, and our home had to be maintained. And I'm sure-I have to be sure- that the family didn't know how sick I was. I struck out by myself. I got drunk in Mineral Wells and lost the little money I had, and I suppose I would have got a stiff jail sentence if they hadn't
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