The war had made a lot of difference in my life.
Comic books were cut down to half their size, from 64 to 32 pages, and
prices had gone up to where you had to pay $17 for a pair of shoes, so
high that people said Wilson should do something about it.
Tom Mix had gone off the air and he and his Cowboy Commandos beat the
Japs in comic books. Only, hadn't he sold Liberty Bonds with Helen
Morgan?
And at school I had bought
Defense--War--Savings--Security--Liberty--Freedom--I had bought stamps
at school. I never did get enough to trade in for a bond, but Mama had
taken my book and traded parts of it in for coffee. She could never get
enough coffee....
"Nobody would look at my magazines," the old man chuckled, "if I put it
out front. My boy got me that. He runs a radio and Victrola store. A
good boy. His name's in the fishbowl."
I pressed some money on him and walked myself out of the store.
Shutting the door, I saw that the copy of _Doctor Zhivago_ had been
replaced by _Gone With the Wind_.
* * * * *
The street was full of wooden-paneled station wagons, blunt little
roadsters with canvas tops, swept-back, tailless sedans. Only one dark,
tailed, over-thyroided car moved through the traffic. It had a light on
the roof.
I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric
postal truck and ran for that light, leaving a trail of gaudy air
battles checkering the street behind me.
I grabbed the handle on the door, opened it and threw myself into the
back seat.
"Madison Avenue," I said from my diaphragm, without any breath behind
it.
Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed
me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?"
"This isn't a taxicab?" I asked blankly.
"Park Police."