Spitball Army

The lovely woman who cuts my hair told me a story yesterday, as we were engaged in a refreshingly conversational discussion about politics.  Seems a young person of her acquaintance made the following statement (paraphrased):

Socialism?  There’s nothing wrong with that.  It’s actually a pretty good idea.

She was in shock upon hearing this.  I recalled thinking the same thing when I was studying political theory in school, but realized very swiftly that socialism is a highly idealistic notion that is easily corrupted.  We talked about that for a little while, and eventually got onto the topic of history and writing, and writing about history, and historically-based fiction writing, and The Wobblies, and that episode of Mad Men called “The Hobo Code.”  I recommended her the John Dos Passos U.S.A. trilogy, and Jack London’s Martin Eden.  Then, last night, I picked the first book of the trilogy, The 42nd Parallel, up from the shelf, and flipped through it randomly.  It is a wonderful, and creative, book.

Here’s an excerpt, from one of the “Mac” chapters:

He got himself back on the road and limped along until he came to a ranch house.  A dog barked at him and worried his ankles but he was too down and out to care.  Finally a stout woman came to the door and gave him some cold biscuits and applesauce and told him he could sleep in the barn if he gave her all his matches.  He limped to the barn and snuggled into a pile of dry sweetgrass and went to sleep.

In the morning the rancher, a tall ruddy man named Thomas, with a resonant voice, went over to the barn and offered him work for a few days at the price of his board and lodging.  They were kind to him and had a pretty daughter named Mona that he kinder fell in love with.  She was a plump rosy-cheeked girl, strong as a boy and afraid of nothing.  She punched him and wrestled with him; and, particularly after he’d gotten fattened up a little and rested, he could hardly sleep nights for thinking of her.  He lay in his bed of sweetgrass telling over the touch of her bare arm that rubbed along his when she handed him back the nozzle of the sprayer for the fruittrees, or was helping him pile up the pruned twigs to burn, and the roundness of her breasts and her breath sweet as a cow’s on his neck when they romped and played tricks on each other evenings after supper.  But the Thomases had other ideas for their daughter and told Mac that they didn’t need him any more.  They sent him off kindly with a lot of good advice, some old clothes and a cold lunch done up in a newspaper, but no money.  Mona ran after him as he walked down the dustyrutted wagonroad and kissed him right in front of her parents.  “I’m stuck on you,” she said.  “You make a lot of money and come back and marry me.”  “By gum, I’ll do that,” said Mac, and he walked off with tears in his eyes and feeling very good.  He was particularly glad he hadn’t got the clap off that girl in Seattle.