“An unidentified man”—well, then, this man was an American. “About thirty-five years old” with “an assumed name”—well, then, call him C. Green as he called himself ironically in the hotel register. C. Green, the unidentified American, “fell or jumped,” then, “yesterday at noon…in Brooklyn”—worth nine lines of print in to-day’s Times—one of seven thousand who died yesterday upon this continent—one of three hundred and fifty who died yesterday in this very city (see dense, close columns of obituaries, page 15: begin with “Aaronson”, so through the alphabet to “Zorn”). C. Green came here “a week ago”----
And came from where? From the deep South, or the Mississippi Valley, or the Middle West? From Minneapolis, Bridgeport, Boston, or a little town in Old Catawba? From Scranton, Toledo, St. Louis, or the desert whiteness of Los Angeles? From the pine barrens of the Atlantic coastal plain, or from the Pacific shore?
And so—was what, brave Admiral Drake? Had seen, felt, heard, smelled, tasted—_what_? Had known—_what_?
Had known all our brutal violence of weather: the burned swelter of July across the nation, the smell of the slow, rank river, the mud, the bottom lands, the weed growth, and the hot, coarse, humid fragrance of the corn. The kind that says: “Jesus, but it’s hot!”—pulls off his coat, and mops his face, and goes in shirt-sleeves in St. Louis, goes to August’s for a Swiss on rye with mustard, and a mug of beer. The kind that says: “Damn! It’s hot!” in South Carolina, slouches in shirt-sleeves and straw hat down South Main Street, drops into Evans Drug Store for a dope, says to the soda jerker: “Is it hot enough fer you to-day, Jim?” The kind that reads in the paper of the heat, the deaths, and the prostration, reads it with a certain satisfaction, hangs on grimly day by day and loses sleep at night, can’t sleep for heat, is tired in the morning, says: “Jesus! It can’t last for ever!” as heat lengthens into August, and the nation gasps for breath, and the green that was young in May now mottles, fades and bleaches, withers, goes heat-brown. Will boast of coolness in the mountains, Admiral Drake. “Always cool at night! May get a little warm around the middle of the day, but you’ll sleep with blankets every night.”
Then summer fades and passes, and October comes. Will smell smoke then, and feel an unsuspected sharpness, a thrill of nervous, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure. C. Green doesn’t know the reason, Admiral Drake, but lights slant and shorten in the afternoon, there is a misty pollen of old gold in light at noon, a murky redness in the lights of dusk, a frosty stillness, and the barking of the dogs; the maples flame upon the hills, the gums are burning, bronze the oak leaves and, the aspens yellow; then come the rains, the sodden dead-brown of the fallen leaves, the smoke-stark branches—and November comes.
Waiting for winter in the little towns, and winter comes. It is really the same in big towns and the cities, too, with the bleak enclosure of the winter multiplied. In the commerce of the day, engaged and furious, then darkness, and the bleak monotony of “Where shall we go? What shall we do?” The winter grips us, closes round each house—the stark, harsh light encysts us—and C. Green walks the streets. Sometimes hard lights burn on him, Admiral Drake, bleak faces stream beneath the lights, amusement signs are winking. On Broadway, the constant plaze of sterile lights; in little towns, no less, the clustered raisins of hard light on Main Street. On Broadway, swarming millions up to midnight; in little towns, hard lights and frozen silence—no one, nothing, after ten o’clock. But in the hearts of C. Greens everywhere, bleak boredom, undefined despair, and “Christ! Where shall I go now? When will winter end?”
So longs for spring, and wishes it were Saturday, brave Admiral Drake.
Saturday night arrives with the thing that we are waiting for. Oh, it will come tonight; the thing that we have been expecting all our lives will come tonight, on Saturday! ‘On Saturday night across America we are waiting for it, and ninety million Greens go moth-wise to the lights to find it. Surely it will come tonight! So Green goes out to find it, and he finds—hard lights again, saloons along Third Avenue, or the Greek’s place in a little town—and then hard whisky, gin, and drunkenness, and brawls and fights and vomit.
Sunday morning, aching head.