ALIEN, _n._ An American sovereign in his probationary state.
--Ambrose Bierce
It's pretty complicated to explain why a person who lives in New York
State, as I do, has to go through New Jersey to get home from his
office in New York City. It has to do with (1) the way New York's
border slopes northwest from the city and (2) a straight line being
the shortest distance between two points. People who half-grasp these
phenomena remain convinced that my village, High Tor, N.Y., is a short
drive from any old place in New Jersey.
John Hyatt, demon respecter of facts though he ordinarily is, was
one of those so deluded when he called me on the telephone on Sunday
morning and asked me if I'd mind taking a run over to Middle Valley,
N.J.
"I'm aware it's your day off, Sam," John said, "but this is practically
on your doorstep and I know you'd feel hurt if we didn't ask you to
cover it personally."
This, of course, was the well-known malarky, but I told him, "I'm the
original busman, John, but maybe you'd better fill me in. Just what is
going on in Middle Valley, of all places?"
"It's these damn aliens, Sam. Incidentally, I want to thank you for
phoning in that eyewitnesser yesterday on the jaywalker. I hear you
missed the first act of the play on account of it, but it was a damn
fine story and we appreciate it."
It had been a jaydriver, not a jaywalker, but I didn't correct him.
"Think nothing of it, John. It'll all show up on my overtime slip."
He laughed. Not without pain, it seemed to me. World Wide is in a
perennial economy drive and the word _overtime_ is not one you use
lightly in the business office. "We never boggle where a good story
is concerned," John said. "You know that. And this Middle Valley
thing--well, you're aware, I'm sure, that they've got this local blue
law banning Sunday employment...."
Middle Valley, N.J., is a good hour's drive from High Tor, N.Y. It's
less than twenty minutes via the Lincoln Tunnel from New York City,
but I knew John would think I was being uncooperative if I mentioned
it. I didn't argue with him. I told Mae I was on overtime, got in the
Volkswagen and went.
* * * * *
New Jersey passed a law some years ago aimed at forcing Sunday closing
on a group of merchants who sold used cars and major appliances in a
string of roadside stores along well-traveled Route 17, which runs
between New York City and the Catskill Mountain resorts. The idea
was to protect the community merchant from this competition so he
could have a day off. But the legislation was too broad and bogged
down in courts. Its opponents charged, among other things, that it
was discriminatory. What about the Jewish merchant, they asked, who
religiously closed his place of business on Saturday, his Sabbath? Was
he to be penalized by having to close on two days a week, while the
Christian merchant closed only on one?
While the state law was being appealed, its opponents obtained an
injunction and Sunday business continued. Some communities who had
liked the state law during the brief time it was being enforced then
passed local ordinances. Middle Valley was one such community with its
own Sunday closing law.
Middle Valley is a residential, fairly well-to-do, predominantly
Christian village of about 3,000 people. It has few stores, most of its
residents doing their shopping in nearby towns. It does, however, have
a drug store, a delicatessen, a gas station, a newsstand and a local
milkman. The village fathers decreed that the strict law meant all
these must close on Sunday.
No one objected except the druggist, the delicatessen owner (who had
closed on Saturday for years), the newsdealer and the milkman. The
citizens of Middle Valley found it not too inconvenient to order extra
milk on Saturday to tide them over the week end, and they rather
enjoyed driving a couple of miles to pick up the Sunday papers. It was
a mark of distinction to live in the village that permitted no paid
Sunday employment.
"Middle Valley's shut up tighter'n a drum today," the well-to-do,
car-owning, Christian citizen could remark with pride as he paid for
his paper across the village line.
The few who didn't own cars had to walk as far as two miles to catch
the buses whose drivers were not allowed to stop in Middle Valley. No
one asked them if they enjoyed their walks, especially on rainy Sundays.
Some of this I knew and some John Hyatt filled me in on. I learned a
lot more after I got there, first having checked my gas to be sure I
wouldn't be marooned there till Monday.
I parked near the center of town, in front of the delicatessen. Down
the block were the newsdealer's, the drug store and a couple of real
estate-and-insurance offices. All were closed.
I introduced myself to the man standing in front of the delicatessen.
He told me his name:
"Simon Dorfman. This is my store. I closed it Friday at sundown.
Religious reasons. I can't open today. Monkey business reasons. I'm
thinking of opening today regardless. I'm considering it this minute.
But I'm also considering ninety days in jail and $200 fine."
"Who would arrest you if you opened?" I asked him.
"Who? The cops. Who else?"
"Middle Valley police?"
"Joe Lyman and Fred Moffat. I've known them since they were boys. But
they'd arrest me. They said so. It's not their fault."
"Then who would arrest them?" I asked Dorfman.
"What do you mean arrest them?"
"Aren't they paid employees? If you can't work on Sunday, how can they?"