§ 33
One of Duggan's poems had to do with a poor devil named Slim, who was
a "snow-eater," that is to say, a cocaine victim. This Slim wandered
about the streets of New York in the winter-time without any shelter,
and would get into an office building late in the afternoon, and hide in
one of the lavatories to spend the night. If he lay
down, he would be seen and thrown out, so his only chance
was to sit up; but when he fell asleep, he would fall off
the seat — therefore he carried a rope in his pocket, and
would tie himself in a sitting position.
Now what was the use of a story like that? Peter didn't want to
hear about such people! He wanted to express his disgust; but he knew,
of course, that he must hide it. He laughed as he exclaimed, "Christ
Almighty, Duggan, can't you give us something with a smile? You don't
think it's the job of Socialists to find a cure for the dope habit, do
you? That's sure one thing that ain't caused by the profit system."
Duggan smiled his bitterest smile. "If there's any
misery in the world today that ain't kept alive by the profit
system, I'd like to see it! D'you think dope sells itself?
If there wasn't a profit in it, would it be sold to any one
but doctors? Where'd you get your Socialism, anyhow?"
So Peter beat a hasty retreat. "Oh, sure, I know all
that. But here you're shut up in jail because you want to
change things. Ain't you got a right to give yourself a
rest while you're in?"
The poet looked at him, as solemn as an owl. He shook
his head. "No," he said. "Just because we're fixed up
nice and comfortable in jail, have we got the right to forget
the misery of those outside?"
The others laughed; but Duggan did not mean to be
funny at all. He rose slowly to his feet and with his
arms outstretched, in the manner of one offering himself
as a sacrifice, he proclaimed:
"While there is a lower class, I am in it.
"While there is a criminal element, I am of it.
"While there is a soul in jail, I am not free."
Then he sat down and buried his face in his hands.
The group of rough fellows sat in solemn silence. Presently
Gus, the Swedish sailor, feeling perhaps that the rebuke
to Peter had been too severe, spoke timidly: "Comrade
Gudge, he ban in jail twice already."
So the poet looked up again. He held out his hand to
Peter. "Sure, I know that!" he said, clasping Peter in
the grip of comradeship. And then he added: "I'll tell you
a story with a smile!"
Once upon a time, it appeared, Duggan had been working in a
moving picture studio, where they needed tramps and outcasts and all
sorts of people for crowds. They had been making a "Preparedness"
picture, and wanted to show the agitators and trouble-makers, mobbing
the palace of a banker. They got two hundred bums and hoboes, and took
them in trucks to the palace of a real banker, and on the front lawn the
director made a speech to the crowd, explaining his ideas. "Now," said
he, "remember, the guy that owns this house is the guy that's got all
the wealth that you fellows have produced. You are down and out, and you
know that he's robbed you, so you hate him. You gather on his lawn and
you're going to mob his home; if you can get hold of him, you're going
to tear him to bits for what he's done to you." So the director went on,
until finally Duggan interrupted: "Say, boss, you don't have to teach
us. This is a real palace, and we're real bums!"
Apparently the others saw the "smile" in this story, for
they chuckled for some time over it. But it only added to
Peter's hatred of these Reds; it made him realize more
than ever that they were a bunch of "sore heads," they
were green and yellow with jealousy. Everybody that had succeeded in the
world they hated — just because they had succeeded! Well,
they would never succeed; they could go on forever
with their grouching, but the mass of the workers in America had a
normal attitude toward the big man, who could do things. They did not
want to wreck his palace; they admired him for having it, and they
followed his leadership gladly.
It seemed as if Henderson, the lumber-jack, had read Peter's
thought. "My God!" he said. "What a job it is to make the workers
class-conscious!" He sat on the edge of his cot, with his broad
shoulders bowed and his heavy brows knit in thought over the problem of
how to increase the world's discontent. He told of one camp where he had
worked — so hard and dangerous was the toil that seven men had given up
their lives in the course of one winter. The man who owned this tract,
and was exploiting it, had gotten the land by the rankest kind of public
frauds; there were filthy bunk-houses, vermin, rotten food, poor wages
and incessant abuse. And yet, in the spring-time, here came the young
son of this owner, on a honeymoon trip with his bride. "And Jesus," said
Henderson, "if you could have seen those stiffs turn out and cheer to
split their throats! They really meant it, you know; they just loved
that pair of idle, good-for-nothing kids!"
Gus, the sailor, spoke up, his broad, good-natured face
wearing a grin which showed where three of his front teeth
had been knocked out with a belaying pin. It was exactly
the same with the seamen, he declared. They never saw
the ship-owners, they didn't know even the names of the
people who were getting the profit of their toil, but they
had a crazy loyalty to their ship, Some old tanker would be sent out to
sea on purpose to be sunk, so that the owners might get the insurance.
But the poor A. Bs. would love that old tub so that they would go down
to the bottom with her — or perhaps they would save her, to the owners
great disgust!
Thus, for hours on end, Peter had to sit listening to this ding
donging about the wrongs of the poor and the crimes of the rich. Here he
had been sentenced for fifteen days and nights to listen to Socialist
wrangles! Every one of these fellows had a different idea of how he
wanted the world to be run, and every one had a different idea of how to
bring about the change. Life was an endless struggle between the haves
and the have-nots, and the question of how the have-nots were to turn
out the haves was called "tactics." When you talked about "tactics" you
used long technical terms which made your conversation unintelligible to
a plain, ordinary mortal. It seemed to Peter that every time he fell
asleep it was to the music of proletariat and surplus value and unearned
increment, possibilism and impossibilism, political action, direct
action, mass action, and the perpetual circle of Syndicalist-Anarchist,
Anarchist-Communist, Communist-Socialist and Socialist-Syndicalist.
