Weekends are for leisure reading. As in fiction.
Once upon a time such leisure reading was a staple of American life and culture, best embodied by the Saturday Evening Post, which dates back to 1821 when its earliest editions were printed in Benjamin Franklin’s printshop.
From the 1920s through the 1960s, “America’s Magazine,” as it was known, reached two million homes every weekend. The Post was revered for short stories and literary serials (along with its cover illustrations of classic Americana by Norman Rockwell).
In that spirit, here is my own Saturday evening post: A novelette titled Into Art.
Chapter One today. Chapter Two next Saturday. And so on.
“Imagination is more important than knowledge.” -- Albert Einstein
The first time it happened I was in Chicago attending an annual booksellers convention even though I hate conventions almost as much as convention itself. All I could see was a bunch of people trying to sell stuff to other people.
So I snuck outside into a long walk around Grant Park and noticed the Art Institute. Passionate for new stimulation, I spontaneously bought a ticket and aimed myself to the American department—a world of Homers and Sargents and Whistlers.
Roaming from room to room, I unexpectedly happened upon an iconic painting with a wall all to itself: Nighthawks by Edward Hopper.
I studied the rectangular five-foot long painting—of a late-night diner—for what seemed several minutes but then, after checking my wristwatch, discovered in amazement that over an hour had passed. Yet I could still not pull away from the vibrant glow of Nighthawks, so possessive was its magnetic hold on my soul.
And then suddenly I felt lightheaded… an odd giddiness as this masterpiece drew me in… until… until… I was physically there… inside the painting… and standing outside the diner, looking straight through a stark window at a trio of late-night patrons and a man serving them.
I looked right and left. This was no longer Chicago, early summer. No, this had to be Greenwich Village, New York City—and I was freezing my butt off.
For warmth alone, I entered the diner, though it was almost as cold inside, the window a radiator for chill accompanied by icy stares from the male and female sitting side-by-side across the counter. A second male sitting on his own did not even look up. And the server regarded me with the kind of expression that suggested another customer was the last thing he wanted at this hour.
Feeling somewhat self-conscious with three pairs of eyeballs upon me, I sat upon a stool four down from the solitary male and, noticing a basket of newspapers on the floor, I plopped a New York Times on the counter.
Its date gave me a jolt. January 21st, 1941.
But then I realized: I’d stepped into some kind of virtual-reality interactive museum exhibition—perhaps an ultra-sophisticated hologram.
“Cute,” I said.
“Cute?” said the server.
“I’ve never experienced this before.”
“Experienced what, mister?”
“It’s very clever,” I said.
The man sitting by himself turned to his right and fixed his eyes upon me in a mournful gaze that sent shivers up my spine. I had to turn away, after which he resumed his solace.
“Mister, can I get you something?” asked the server.
“Yes,” I said. “Get me back to the Art Institute.”
He deadpanned me. “Huh?”
“This is interesting, but it’s freaking me out a little.” I looked around. “Where’s the exit?”
Slightly relieved, he pointed to the door I’d just walked in from.
“Ah, I get it,” I said. “I’ve got to stand at the same spot as before?”
He wiped his brow with his forearm. “Whatever you say, mister.”
I exited, shivered from the cold and returned to the spot on the pavement where I’d arrived. Nothing happened. I moved a few inches one way. Nothing. Then a few inches the other. Nothing. Forward, backward. Nothing, nothing. Except four curious faces watching me through the plate glass window from inside the diner. Only the woman cracked a smile, as if I was putting on some kind of freak show for their benefit.
I continued to stand in place and closed my eyes, counted to ten. But when I opened them I was still freezing cold within the painting. So I stormed back inside. “Okay, what’s the trick?” I felt irritated now.
“Trick?” said the server, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I give up,” I said. “Tell me how to get back.”
“Get back?” said the server.
“Yes.” I stood my ground. “Back to the museum.”
The server shrugged, motioned his head forward. “Uptown, I guess.”
“Chicago?”
The solitary man nearby, hitherto silent and brooding, glared at me. “What about Chicago?” he snapped out the side of his mouth.
“That’s where I’m from,” I said. “No, I…”
The redhead in the volcanic red dress erupted: “Peoples sure dress funny in Chicago!”
I looked down: blue jeans, sneakers and an unconstructed linen jacket—which was why I was so damned cold.
“Don’t they believe in hats in Chicago?” cracked her companion, shaking his head.
“Maybe it blew away,” said the redhead. She giggled. “Get it? Chicago’s the windy city.” She giggled again at her own joke.
I re-stooled myself. “You know,” I said to the server, “I think I’ll have coffee.”
He turned and silently filled a white mug with steaming black caffeine juice, plunked it in front of me. “That’ll be five cents.” He looked at me expectantly, wanting payment up front.
Five cents. Cute.
I dug into my pocket and produced a quarter, slapped it on the counter. “Here’s twenty-five cents. Keep the change.”
The server’s eyes widened, part surprise, part gratitude. A second later those same eyes narrowed. “Hey, what is this?” He picked up my coin, inspected it. “This ain’t two-bits, buster. Cheap metal.” He looked closer. “Hey, the date on this—2005?” He glared at me. “That’s it.” He grabbed my coffee and slammed it down near the urn behind him.
“Lemme see that,” said the man with the redhead.
The server flipped him my coin and the man inspected it, shook his head, a wan smile. Then he dug into his own pocket and studied me. “I’ll buy it for ten cents.”
“Done,” I said.
The man smacked a Mercury dime on the corner. “Give the man his coffee.”
“Can I see it?” said the redhead. “Ooooh.” She gaped at me. “What’s your story, morning glory?”
“Huh?”
“Is that where you’re from—2005?”
“Actually, 2023.”
The solitary man looked up, first at me, and then at the couple. “He got it at a magic shop.”
“Nah, look at his togs, abercrombie,” said the woman. “I knew if we stayed late enough we’d see something interesting.”
This must be some new fangled version of Candid Camera or Punk’d, I thought. Set up by a TV show. But what a great set—exactly like the painting. Any moment they’ll jump out and we’ll all stand around laughing. Including these four wonderful actors in period dress, talking in the lingo of the early 1940s.
I sipped my black coffee quietly. It was hot like the devil, black like the night. And it warmed my insides. “So what’s news?” I asked to one or all
“Very sad,” said the redhead.
“The war?” I said, playing along. World War II dominated the national mood in 1942
“Yeah, that, too. I was thinking of Carole.”
“Carole?”
“Carole Lombard.”
“The actress?”
“Who else? Died in a plane crash last week. Only 33. Clark must be broken-hearted.”
“Clark?”
“Clark Gable. Her husband.”
These actors are good.
“I ain’t never getting’ on a plane,” she added.
The solitary man glanced at her with a wicked grin.
“You sound like you’re on first name terms with them," I said.
“I was, honey. In another life.”
“Really?”
Her companion shot her a fierce look.
“Whattaya want?” she said to him. “It’s just us here.” She returned her gaze on me. “I knew them all.” She snickered sardonically. “Better than anyone.”
“How so?” I asked. Cheeky, yes, but I was beginning to enjoy myself, playing along with this theatrical gag.
She looked at me long and hard, a lopsided smile on her made-up face, “No one knows people better than a madame.”
“Excuse me?” I truly didn’t get it.
“I ran a brothel. Hollywood’s biggest.”
Her companion shifted with discomfit.
The solitary figure twitched.
“You knew Clark Gable?” I asked.
“Did I know Clark…” she grinned. “I knew them all. Boys and girls.”
“Enough!” Her companion brought his right fist onto the counter with a thump, causing the server to startle.
She turned on him. “Don’t tell me what I can say and what I can’t say. America’s a free country, ain’t it? I’m safe here.”
He glared at her. “Nowhere’s safe.”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and returned her attention to me. “Whattaya wanna know, future boy?”
“Why are you here now instead of Hollywood?” I asked.
“Had to leave fast,” she said.
Her companion closed his eyes, shaking his head.
“The coppers were onto me,” she added.
“Shaddap!” said her companion.
“Shaddap, yourself!”
He raised his hand as if he were going to slap her, then thought better of it.
“Don’t blow your wig on me,” she snarled.
What a great exhibition this was!
“Are the police after you?” I asked.
“Not only. Flatfoots too.”
“Flatfoots?”
“The dicks. I’m on the lam from everyone.”
“How come?”
She laughed and began to hack like a smoker. “I know too much, honey. Clark, Charlie, Errol, even Bogey." She winked. "Knew ‘em all, better than most.”
“How did you become a madame?” I asked.
“Got lucky, I guess. Hollywood in the 20s, you couldn’t beat it. And the 30s, even better. Then this whacky war. And they blame Hollywood.”
“Who?”
“That horse’s ass of a United States senator, says Hollywood is responsible for getting America into the war. War Fever, he calls it. We are lovers in Hollywood, not fighters. Trust me, I know. But it brings heat on Hollywood. Everyone digging for something. Before ya know it, they’re onto me. Somebody talked. And Mayer freaks.”
“The Mayor?”
“That’s funny!” she whooped herself into another hack. “Yep, the mayor was one of our johns. But, nah, I’m talking about The Old Gray Mayer—LB.”
“Who?
“Jeez-Louise! Louis B. Mayer! You haven’t heard of MGM? He had a brothel all his own for his studio actors, to keep their shenanigans outta the rags. Even Louella and Hedda don’t know about it. I ran it for him.” She winked. “My hookers—real sweet patooties. LB’s afraid I’m gonna bleed him.”
“You’re talking too much,” hissed her companion. “You’re gonna get plugged, you keep this up.”
“Leave me alone, grease-ball.”
“Can’t.” He shook his head. “I gotta protect you.”
"You packin’ heat—so what’s the problem?”
He glanced at the solitary guy who hadn’t moved a muscle, aside from an occasional facial twitch.
“Just a joe,” she said. “You got the heebie-jeebies—don’t blow your wig. I’m sick of this crap. Why should I be the one whose gotta run and hide?”
“We’ve been through this,” hissed her companion. “It’s not safe.”
“Not safe? For who? They’re the ones who should be hidin’, not me! I was just providing a service. LB continues to do as he does and I’m out here freezing my ass off! It ain’t fair. I’m paying for everyone else’s brodie.”
And I’m sitting here, thinking, why aren’t they charging admission for this?
“Let’s talk about it back at the hotel,” he told her.
“I’m sick of being stuck in that hotel room!” she shrilled. “Maybe I’ll just go back to Hollywood. That’s what I’ll do, get on a bus and show up at the studio, teach LB a lesson! Whattaya think about that, buster?
Her companion shriveled in his stool, shaking his head.
“Louella or Hedda will protect me. Or maybe I’ll just go to the coppers. Tell the truth about Louis B, and Clark and Charlie, and Jimmy too. Maybe I’ll…”
Out the corner of my eye, I caught the solitary figure abruptly move his right arm as he dipped his hand into the lower front pocket of his jacket. From it he plucked a snub-nosed revolver and his hand trembled slightly as he raised the weapon and pointed it at the redhead.
“Oh good Lord!” she shrieked. “He’s got a rod!”
Her companion reached to his waist, presumably for his own firearm. The solitary figure altered his aim from the redhead to her bodyguard.
Blam-blam-blam!
The victim fell backwards flapping his arms and crashed through the window, glass and blood everywhere.
The redhead cowered on the floor alongside the counter, screeching for God to help her.
The triggerman rounded the corner and aimed at her from close range.
Blam!
The server scampered out the back, but I sat mesmerized by this dramatic turn of events and watched as the shooter stooped to check the woman’s pulse before firing another shot—blam!
This exhibition is definitely not for kids, I thought to myself.
The killer calmly and straightened himself before catching my eye and I, assuming the show was over, clapped my hands three times. “Bravo!” I said.
He raised his revolver and pointed it straight at me.
Somewhat amused, I gestured at myself with both arms. “You’re going to shoot the audience?”
I saw the barrel flash before I heard a blam!
And then all went dark.