The Daily Worker Newspaper, June 18, 1927, Page 9

era ay “Contest Editor” (A Story) plone BRILL paid little.or no attention to the many people who pressed against his knees as he sat in the crowded subway train. He was think- ing, not of life’s usual perplexities but of figures. Decimals, ones, and oughts formed curious links and danced grotesque rituals in his head. In front of him was the tabloid into which he gazed diffi- dently. Unable to concentrate on the news, he shifted his eyes to the right, where a girl was reading the same paper. He watched her turn the pages, then focussed his glance at the men and ‘women, crowding to reach for a strap. Sometime later he looked thru the window as the downtown bound train rolled to a stop. It was 14th Street and he should have alighted at Grand Central. Hurriedly arising he pushed his way thru the center door, crossed the platform to the other side, and rode up one station. At the uptown branch of Peabody and Wicks where Brill was employed as ‘margin clerk, activity started. Upon arriving he exchanged “good morn- ings” with those. who acknowledged his entrance and took his usual seat at a high desk table. From a drawer he extracted a green eyeshade which he fitted over his brow. A look of mild interest nestled over his face as he made an effort to concentrate on the numerous bond receipts lying before him. He couldn’t, the figures still swam before his eyes, clogging thoughtful concentration. The room gradually began to take on the aspects which characterize a bond broker’s office. Runners carrying securities began filtering thru the door. Telephones buzzed. Clerks darted from desk to desk? Typewriters clicked noisely. Orders to buy and sell were heard, and news tickers began to reel out coils of price quotations. Holdings were im- periled! A tension of anxiety gripped everybody, even Brill soon relaxed into a state of busy occu- pation. The pen he was constantly dipping into an inkwell ran up and down the ledger in slow delib- erate strokes. : It was nearing eleven o’clock. Another clerk working alongside of Brill winked his eye. “How’s the old contest getting on Brill?” Morton made no reply, an enigmatic smile broke thru his lips, which faded away in an instant. “Leave him alone, he’s figuring out how to spend the ten thousand dollars,” chimed in another. Still no answer, other than a grunt was evoked from Brill. The staff’s favorite sport, that of kidding Mr. Brill commenced, and promised to continue indefin- itely. At times this jocular horseplay was justified, as there was something about his person ‘that invited ridicule. Just what it was is difficult to determine, it may be attributed to the seriousness with which he took the jests, or, perhaps his ap- pearance, yet Morton Brill was, much to his dis- comforture the butt of constant jokes, This person Brill was a type, nay, more than that, a formula, symbol—a perfect example of the petty bourgeois circle he gravitated in. In the office, he, for reasons of antiquity became a fix- ture. People grew used to seeing him at his desk, as to the desk itself. He seemed to belong there. Lacking entirely in initiative or intelligence he regulated his habits by standards. Brill did only what the “best people” did, and to him they rep- resented the successful in life. The ones to be looked up to, admired, and imitated. His own life was so totally devoid of interest that for sheer want of something to occupy his time with he thrilled at. other people’s victories and grieved at other people’s losses. Minding someone else’s business was his chief source of enjoyment, and as a result his head became a walking almanac. He could téll you without a minute’s hesitation how many divorce cases the Supreme Court handled last year, or the salaries and income taxes of famous movie stars. In this fashion he sublimated his men- tal vacrum into an illusory region, where he fancied himself being a man of importance. His dress was orderly, usually a blue serge suit covered his spavined franie. He was partly bald, thin faced, and a pair of spectacles always stuck on his nose. To him, another genuine pleasure unfolded in strutting about exclusive hotel lobbies on Sun- days. For such occasions he would wear an open wing collar and a polka dotted bat tie. He studied himself in the mirror before starting on his excur- sion. “I look like a banker with this hat on” would pass thru his mind as he fitted on some head cover- ing. Simultaneously with such thoughts, a smile would animate his features, Brill really believed that people were impressed by his appearance, tho one look was sufficient to convince any observer that he was a poser, a mimicker indulging in a carnivalic pantomime. ’ His vices, if such they can be called, fitted in with his virtues. Whenever a play was about to be censored he made it a point to see it. Or should he read of*a salacious book, on the verge of sup- pression by the authorities he would secretly read it in the library, tho openly ape, “The younger gen- eration must be safeguarded, even at the cost of liberty from this civilization.” All such quotations he politely borrowed from the editorial page of his tabloid. : ‘ At a late age he learned how to dance, but never correctly, and as a result his wife seldom went anywhere with him, outside of the neighboring vau- deville house. In company, should the political situa- tion be discussed, he* would break in, with an au- thoritative tone. “I don’t think Mr. So and So has a chance to become president. He lacks the fibre of which leaders are molded.” Or, “Europe will never recover her economic balance unless our country can- cels its debts.” These sporadic outbreaks of learn- ing only betrayed the complete ignorance he lived in. Of such characteristics was Brill. His one delight was participating in contests. It mattered not what the contest was about, he joined them all. If some company advertised for a slogan Morton Brill was certain to offer suggestions. This he kept up until it became his pet diver- sion. His vigilance was once rewarded by his re- ceiving a suit of underwear from a concern for whom he composed a four line stanza. Another time he won a pair of theatre tickets for a correct cross- ‘word puzzle. This greatly inflated his fatuous pride, for Brill was one of those asinine beings in whose imagination little deeds swell to heroic proportions. At present he was partaking in the presidential picture contest. run by his favorite tabloid. Each day three different cuts were printed, and it was the task of participants to cut out those parts and reconstruct them, so as to make the correct face of a former president. Their next duty was to guess his name and in what year he held office. Into this contest Brill pitched in with a remarkable zeal. Since its inauguration he laid everything else aside in a determined effort to win the first prize of “$10,000.” Every evening, upon returning from work, he would closet himself in a room and begin to clutter up the house with fragments of news- papers. At times he would ask his wife, who looked HE HATES THE NIGGERS He hates the niggers. . ; For two dollars and seventy-five cents a day he puts out advertising circulars. He eats, rooms, and dresses accordingly. , , But by God the niggers were brot here to be slaves and not have votes like white men! He hates the niggers. HENRY GEORGE WEISS. —4— By ALEX JACKINSON on with interest to verify his judgment. When she offered an opinion which didn’t coincide with his, he’d snap, “Your crazy, this can’t be Madison, don’t you know he wore a mustache when he was presi- dent.” To aid him in achieving his goal, Brill bought an Atlas out of which he cut every president’s picture and used them for comparison with his own. That he thought was a bit of ingenuity, no one else would think of. In a short time this contest became an obsession with him. He dreamt, spoke, and thought about it without using discretion as to time and place. In the subway or at the office he would suddenly lay aside his work and begin concentrating on the correctness of some cut which puzzled him. At such moments the $10,000 would swim before his eyes. He couldn’t get it out of his mind, so he did the very opposite and allowed his imagination full reign, and always imagining that he would be the winner. As the contest became more difficult Brill became more irritable, and extremely jealous of every other person competing with him. There was a deep motive underlying his mad de- sire to win. For the past twelve years Brill was glued down to a salary on which he was barely able to get along. He sensed somehow that a pre- mature senility was beginning to hover about his middle age and wanted to safeguard against it. In an effort. to do so, he at one time invested one hundred dollars in a stock of which he lost almost half. That cured him of further gambling. As can be expected of one possessing his eccen- tricities, Brill was a staunch believer. Nothing could shake his faith in the belief that fate would finally reward him by bestowing the prize upon him. It gave him immense pleasure to think about it. He began to live ‘on that one hope, which soon became the reef on which he clung to life. Then came a day when the last of the series ap- peared. Brill stayed away from work then, having a cigar clerk whom he patronized phone his em- ployer that he was ill. Instead he hied off to the library where he spent all day going over the pic- tures. He carefully fitted, refitted and pasted to- gether the many parts, making slight changes here and there. Toward evening he finally sealed them in an envelope, and with a heart full of anticipa- tion mailed them. Following that came a long period of watchful waiting, sometimes yarieted by agonizing despair. The very next morning he phoned the newspaper to see whether his contribution arrived. “No in- fermation given over the phone,” drifted thru the receiver. He was crestfallen. A day later he called in person, and was informed that it would take at least a month before the winner was announced. Ere the week elapsed he called again. During this time his mind began to undergo @ complete change. Brill began to live in a state of unreality. He often visioned his name in bold head- line, “Mr. Morton Brill winner of the $10,000 pie- ture contest.” He worked himself into a lethal fever thinking about it. His eyelids would flutter, and his mouth broaden into what onced served as a smile as he did. This phantom chasing became an inseparable part of his daily routine. As a result he could no longer think clearly, and made constant errors. in his work. He didn’t even get the usual extra week’s pay when he was fired. To his wife he said that he was “laid off,” but she instinctively sensed the true reason. His conduct was, if anything, more accentuated at home. Mrs. Brill was a former choir singer who married Morton at a mature age. There was nothing ro- mantic about their meeting, and subsequent mar- riage. Both believed in the “sanctity of the home,” tho neither could explain what that meant. In time they adjusted their mental faculties to think in one direction, and their marriage ran smoothly thru the years. In Morton’s placid demeanor Mrs. Brill saw something she alone termed as poise. And in her Brill saw the ideal wife, obedient, thrifty and virtuous. They had two children which partly filled the empty gaps in their lives. Of recent days Brill’s conduct took a turn for the worse. With the loss of his position came the in- creased desire to win, and he made no effort to find another one. “The ten thousand dollars will put me on easy street,” he kept telling and convincing himself ‘that such would be the case. Brill already figured out how best to invest the money. His wife attempted to cheer him by sympathetic noddings of her head, but then seeing that encouragement only increased his abnormal attitude she said nothing, but inwardly worried a great deal. With victory Brill visioned himself becoming a man of men. His name would be read by millions, and envied by still more. This puffed his insuffer- able ego to lofty heights, One day he spent six hours writing a statement in. which he credited his suc- cess to “clean living and a love for his wife.” He believed the newspaper would want such a of him, and even dug up an old photo of himself to accompany it. Just what brought about his complete breakdown cannot be ase but symptoms of it began to show the day after he mailed his- offering. It was now a month later, and as the days passed into weeks his deportment became more mechanical, (Continued on page 6)