Maymeys from Cuba
There is nothing new in this. It has all been done before. Buttell me, what is new? Does the aspiring and perspiring summervaudeville artist flatter himself that his stuff is going big?Then does the stout man with the oyster-colored eyelids in thefirst row, left, turn his bullet head on his fat-creased neck toremark huskily to his companion:"The hook for him. R-r-r-rotten! That last one was an oldWeber'n Fields' gag. They discarded it back in '91. Say, the goodones is all dead, anyhow. Take old Salvini, now, and Dan Rice.Them was actors. Come on out and have something."Does the short-story writer felicitate himself upon havingdiscovered a rare species in humanity's garden? The Blase Readerflips the pages between his fingers, yawns, stretches, and remarksto his wife:"That's a clean lift from Kipling--or is it Conan Doyle?Anyway, I've read something just like it before. Say, kid, guesswhat these magazine guys get for a full page ad.? Nix. That's justlike a woman. Three thousand straight. Fact."To anticipate the delver into the past it may be stated thatthe plot of this one originally appeared in the Eternal BestSeller, under the heading, "He Asked You For Bread, and Ye Gave Hima Stone." There may be those who could not have traced myplagiarism to its source.Although the Book has had an unprecedentedly long run it issaid to be less widely read than of yore.Even with this preparation I hesitate to confess that this isthe story of a hungry girl in a big city. Well, now, wait aminute. Conceding that it has been done by every scribbler fromtyro to best seller expert, you will acknowledge that there is thepossibility of a fresh viewpoint--twist--what is it the sportingeditors call it? Oh, yes--slant. There is the possibility ofgetting a new slant on an old idea. That may serve to deflect theline of the deadly parallel.Just off State Street there is a fruiterer and importer whoought to be arrested for cruelty. His window is the mostfascinating and the most heartless in Chicago. A line ofopen-mouthed, wide-eyed gazers is always to be found before it.Despair, wonder, envy, and rebellion smolder in the eyes of thosegazers. No shop window show should be so diabolically set forth asto arouse such sensations in the breast of the beholder. It is awork of art, that window; a breeder of anarchism, a destroyer ofcontentment, a second feast of Tantalus. It boasts peaches, dewyand golden, when peaches have no right to be; plethoric, purplebunches of English hothouse grapes are there to taunt theten-dollar-a-week clerk whose sick wife should be in the hospital;strawberries glow therein when shortcake is a last summer's memory,and forced cucumbers remind us that we are taking ours in the formof dill pickles. There is, perhaps, a choice head of cauliflower,so exquisite in its ivory and green perfection as to be fit for abride's bouquet; there are apples so flawless that if the garden ofEden grew any as perfect it is small wonder that Eve fell for them.There are fresh mushrooms, and jumbo cocoanuts, and green almonds;costly things in beds of cotton nestle next to strange andmarvelous things in tissue, wrappings. Oh, that window is no placefor the hungry, the dissatisfied, or the man out of a job. Whenthe air is filled with snow there is that in the sight ofmuskmelons which incites crime.Queerly enough, the gazers before that window foot up thesame, year in, and year out, something after this fashion:Item: One anemic little milliner's apprentice in coat andshoes that even her hat can't redeem.Item: One sandy-haired, gritty-complexioned man, with adrooping ragged mustache, a tin dinner bucket, and lime on hisboots.Item: One thin mail carrier with an empty mail sack, gauntcheeks, and an habitual droop to his left shoulder.Item: One errand boy troubled with a chronic sniffle, ashrill and piping whistle, and a great deal of shuffling foot-work.Item: One negro wearing a spotted tan topcoat, frayedtrousers and no collar. His eyes seem all whites as he gazes.Enough of the window. But bear it in mind while we turn toJennie. Jennie's real name was Janet, and she was Scotch. Canny?Not necessarily, or why should she have been hungry and out of ajob in January?Jennie stood in the row before the window, and stared. Thelonger she stared the sharper grew the lines that fright andunder-feeding had chiseled about her nose, and mouth, and eyes.When your last meal is an eighteen-hour-old memory, and when thatmemory has only near-coffee and a roll to dwell on, there issomething in the sight of January peaches and great strawberriescarelessly spilling out of a tipped box, just like they do in thefruit picture on the dining-room wall, that is apt to carve sharplines in the corners of the face.The tragic line dwindled, going about its business. The manwith the dinner pail and the lime on his boots spat, drew the backof his hand across his mouth, and turned away with an ugly look.(Pork was up to $14.25, dressed.)The errand boy's blithe whistle died down to a mournful dirge.He was window-wishing. His choice wavered between the juicy pears,and the foreign-looking red things that looked like oranges, andweren't. One hand went into his coat pocket, extracting an applethat was to have formed the piece de resistance of his noondaylunch. Now he regarded it with a sort of pitying disgust, and bitinto it with the middle-of-the-morning contempt that it deserved.The mail carrier pushed back his cap and reflectivelyscratched his head. How much over his month's wage would thatgreen basket piled high with exotic fruit come to?Jennie stood and stared after they had left, and another linehad formed. If you could have followed her gaze with dotted lines,as they do in the cartoons, you would have seen that it was not thepeaches, or the prickly pears, or the strawberries, or themuskmelon or even the grapes, that held her eye. In the center ofthat wonderful window was an oddly woven basket. In the basketwere brown things that looked like sweet potatoes. One knew thatthey were not. A sign over the basket informed the puzzled gazerthat these were maymeys from Cuba.Maymeys from Cuba. The humor of it might have struck Jennieif she had not been so Scotch, and so hungry. As it was, a slow,sullen, heavy Scotch wrath rose in her breast. Maymeys from Cuba. The wantonness of it! Peaches? Yes. Grapes, even, and pearsand cherries in snow time. But maymeys from Cuba--why, one did noteven know if they were to be eaten with butter, or with vinegar, orin the hand, like an apple. Who wanted maymeys from Cuba? Theyhad gone all those hundreds of miles to get a fruit or vegetablething--a thing so luxurious, so out of all reason that one did notknow whether it was to be baked, or eaten raw. There they lay, intheir foreign-looking basket, taunting Jennie who needed a quarter.Have I told you how Jennie happened to be hungry and jobless?Well, then I sha'n't. It doesn't really matter, anyway. The factis enough. If you really demand to know you might inquire of Mr.Felix Klein. You will find him in a mahogany office on the sixthfloor. The door is marked manager. It was his idea to importScotch lassies from Dunfermline for his Scotch linen department.The idea was more fetching than feasible.There are people who will tell you that no girl possessing agrain of common sense and a little nerve need go hungry, no matterhow great the city. Don't you believe them. The city has heardthe cry of wolf so often that it refuses to listen when he issnarling at the door, particularly when the door is next door.Where did we leave Jennie? Still standing on the sidewalkbefore the fruit and fancy goods shop, gazing at the maymeys fromCuba. Finally her Scotch bump of curiosity could stand it nolonger. She dug her elbow into the arm of the person standing nextin line."What are those?" she asked.The next in line happened to be a man. He was a man withoutan overcoat, and with his chin sunk deep into his collar, and hishands thrust deep into his pockets. It looked as though he weretrying to crawl inside himself for warmth."Those? That sign says they're maymeys from Cuba.""I know," persisted Jennie, "but what are they?""Search me. Say, I ain't bothering about maymeys from Cuba.A couple of hot murphies from Ireland, served with a lump ofbutter, would look good enough to me.""Do you suppose any one buys them?" marveled Jennie."Surest thing you know. Some rich dame coming by here,wondering what she can have for dinner to tempt the jaded palatesof her dear ones, see? She sees them Cuban maymeys. `The verything!' she says. `I'll have 'em served just before the salad.'And she sails in and buys a pound or two. I wonder, now, do youeat 'em with a fruit knife, or with a spoon?"Jennie took one last look at the woven basket with its foreigncontents. Then she moved on, slowly. She had been moving on forhours--weeks.Most people have acquired the habit of eating three meals aday. In a city of some few millions the habit has made necessarythe establishing of many thousands of eating places. Jennie wouldhave told you that there were billions of these. To her the worldseemed composed of one huge, glittering restaurant, with myriads ofwindows through which one caught maddening glimpses of ketchupbottles, and nickel coffee heaters, and piles of doughnuts, andscurrying waiters in white, and people critically studying menucards. She walked in a maze of restaurants, cafes, eating-houses.Tables and diners loomed up at every turn, on every street, fromMichigan Avenue's rose-shaded Louis the Somethingth palaces, whereevery waiter owns his man, to the white tile mausoleums where everyman is his own waiter. Everywhere there were windows full of lemoncream pies, and pans of baked apples swimming in lakes of goldensyrup, and pots of baked beans with the pink and crispy slices ofpork just breaking through the crust. Every dairy lunch mocked onewith the sign of "wheat cakes with maple syrup and country sausage,20 cents."There are those who will say that for cases like Jennie'sthere are soup kitchens, Y. W. C. A.'s, relief associations,policemen, and things like that. And so there are. Unfortunately,the people who need them aren't up on them. Try it. Plantyourself, penniless, in the middle of State Street on a busy day,dive into the howling, scrambling, pushing maelstrom that hurlsitself against the mountainous and impregnable form of the crossingpoliceman, and see what you'll get out of it, provided you have thecourage.Desperation gave Jennie a false courage. On the strength ofit she made two false starts. The third time she reached the armof the crossing policeman, and clutched it. That imposing giantremoved the whistle from his mouth, and majestically inclined hishead without turning his gaze upon Jennie, one eye being fixed ona red automobile that was showing signs of sulking at its enforcedpause, the other being busy with a cursing drayman who was havingan argument with his off horse.Jennie mumbled her question.Said the crossing policeman:"Getcher car on Wabash, ride to 'umpty-second, transfer, getoff at Blank Street, and walk three blocks south."Then he put the whistle back in his mouth, blew two shrillblasts, and the horde of men, women, motors, drays, trucks, cars,and horses swept over him, through him, past him, leaving himmiraculously untouched.Jennie landed on the opposite curbing, breathing hard. Whatwas that street? Umpty-what? Well, it didn't matter, anyway. Shehadn't the nickel for car fare.What did you do next? You begged from people on the street.Jennie selected a middle-aged, prosperous, motherly looking woman.She framed her plea with stiff lips. Before she had finished hersentence she found herself addressing empty air. The middle-aged,prosperous, motherly looking woman had hurried on.Well, then you tried a man. You had to be careful there. Hemustn't be the wrong kind. There were so many wrong kinds. Justan ordinary looking family man would be best. Ordinary lookingfamily men are strangely in the minority. There are so many morebull-necked, tan-shoed ones. Finally Jennie's eye, grown sharpwith want, saw one. Not too well dressed, kind-faced, middle-aged.She fell into step beside him."Please, can you help me out with a shilling?"Jennie's nose was red, and her eyes watery. Said themiddle-aged family man with the kindly face:"Beat it. You've had about enough I guess."Jennie walked into a department store, picked out the oldestand most stationary looking floorwalker, and put it to him. Thefloorwalker bent his head, caught the word "food," swung about, andpointed over Jennie's head."Grocery department on the seventh floor. Take one of thoseelevators up."Any one but a floorwalker could have seen the misery inJennie's face. But to floorwalkers all women's faces are horrible.Jennie turned and walked blindly toward the elevators. Therewas no fight left in her. If the floorwalker had said, "Silknegligees on the fourth floor. Take one of those elevators up,"Jennie would have ridden up to the fourth floor, and stupidly gazedat pink silk and val lace negligees in glass cases.Tell me, have you ever visited the grocery department of agreat store on the wrong side of State Street? It's amouth-watering experience. A department store grocery is aglorified mixture of delicatessen shop, meat market, andvaudeville. Starting with the live lobsters and crabs you workyour hungry way right around past the cheeses, and the sausages,and the hams, and tongues, and head-cheese, past the blonde personin white who makes marvelous and uneatable things out of gelatine,through a thousand smells and scents--smells of things smoked, andpickled, and spiced, and baked and preserved, and roasted.Jennie stepped out of the elevator, licking her lips. Shesniffed the air, eagerly, as a hound sniffs the scent. She shuther eyes when she passed the sugar-cured hams. A woman was buyinga slice from one, and the butcher was extolling its merits. Jenniecaught the words "juicy" and "corn-fed."That particular store prides itself on its cheese department.It boasts that there one can get anything in cheese from the simplecottage variety to imposing mottled Stilton. There are cheesesfrom France, cheeses from Switzerland, cheeses from Holland. Brickand parmesan, Edam and limburger perfumed the atmosphere.Behind the counters were big, full-fed men in white aprons,and coats. They flourished keen bright knives. As Jennie gazed,one of them, in a moment of idleness, cut a tiny wedge from a richyellow Swiss cheese and stood nibbling it absently, his eyeswandering toward the blonde gelatine demonstrator. Jennie swayed,and caught the counter. She felt horribly faint and queer. Sheshut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them a woman--a fat,housewifely, comfortable looking woman--was standing before thecheese counter. She spoke to the cheese man. Once more his sharpknife descended and he was offering the possible customer a sample.She picked it off the knife's sharp tip, nibbled thoughtfully,shook her head, and passed on. A great, glorious world of hopeopened out before Jennie.Her cheeks grew hot, and her eyes felt dry and bright as sheapproached the cheese counter."A bit of that," she said, pointing. "It doesn't look just asI like it.""Very fine, madam," the man assured her, and turned the knifepoint toward her, with the infinitesimal wedge of cheese reposingon its blade. Jennie tried to keep her hand steady as shedelicately picked it off, nibbled as she had seen that other womando it, her head on one side, before it shook a slow negative. Theeffort necessary to keep from cramming the entire piece into hermouth at once left her weak and trembling. She passed on as theother woman had done, around the corner, and into a world ofsausages. Great rosy mounds of them filled counters and cases.Sausage! Sneer, you pate de foies grasers! But may you know theday when hunger will have you. And on that day may you run intolinked temptation in the form of Braunschweiger Metwurst. May youknow the longing that causes the eyes to glaze at the sight ofThuringer sausage, and the mouth to water at the scent of Cervelatwurst, and the fingers to tremble at the nearness of smoked liver.Jennie stumbled on, through the smells and the sights. Thatnibble of cheese had been like a drop of human blood to aman-eating tiger. It made her bold, cunning, even while itmaddened. She stopped at this counter and demanded a slice ofsummer sausage. It was paper-thin, but delicious beyond belief.At the next counter there was corned beef, streaked fat and lean.Jennie longed to bury her teeth in the succulent meat and get onegreat, soul-satisfying mouthful. She had to be content with herjudicious nibbling. To pass the golden-brown, breaded pig's feetwas torture. To look at the codfish balls was agony. And soJennie went on, sampling, tasting, the scraps of food acting onlyas an aggravation. Up one aisle, and down the next she went. Andthen, just around the corner, she brought up before the grocerydepartment's pride and boast, the Scotch bakery. It is the store'sstar vaudeville feature. All day long the gaping crowd standsbefore it, watching David the Scone Man, as with sleeves rolledhigh above his big arms, he kneads, and slaps, and molds, andthumps and shapes the dough into toothsome Scotch confections.There was a crowd around the white counters now, and the flatbaking surface of the gas stove was just hot enough, and David theScone Man (he called them Scuns) was whipping about here and there,turning the baking oat cakes, filling the shelf above the stovewhen they were done to a turn, rolling out fresh ones, waiting oncustomers. His nut-cracker face almost allowed itself a pleasedexpression--but not quite. David, the Scone Man, was Scotch (I wasgoing to add, d'ye ken, but I will not).Jennie wondered if she really saw those things. Mutton pies!Scones! Scotch short bread! Oat cakes! She edged closer,wriggling her way through the little crowd until she stood at thecounter's edge. David, the Scone Man, his back to the crowd, wasturning the last batch of oat cakes. Jennie felt strangelylight-headed, and unsteady, and airy. She stared straight ahead,a half-smile on her lips, while a hand that she knew was her own,and that yet seemed no part of her, stole out, very, very slowly,and cunningly, and extracted a hot scone from the pile that lay inthe tray on the counter. That hand began to steal back, morequickly now. But not quickly enough. Another hand grasped herwrist. A woman's high, shrill voice (why will women do thesethings to each other?) said, excitedly:"Say, Scone Man! Scone Man! This girl is stealingsomething!"A buzz of exclamations from the crowd--a closing in uponher--a whirl of faces, and counter, and trays, and gas stove.Jennie dropped with a crash, the warm scone still grasped in herfingers.Just before the ambulance came it was the blonde lady of theimpossible gelatines who caught the murmur that came from Jennie'swhite lips. The blonde lady bent her head closer. Closer still.When she raised her face to those other faces crowded near, hereyes were round with surprise."'S far's I can make out, she says her name's Mamie, and she'sfrom Cuba. Well, wouldn't that eat you! I always thought they wasdark complected."
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