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Maymeys From Cuba
by
Where did we leave Jennie? Still standing on the sidewalk before the fruit and fancy goods shop, gazing at the maymeys from Cuba. Finally her Scotch bump of curiosity could stand it no longer. She dug her elbow into the arm of the person stan
ding next in line.
“What are those?” she asked.
The next in line happened to be a man. He was a man without an overcoat, and with his chin sunk deep into his collar, and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. It looked as though he were trying to crawl inside himself for warmth.
“Those? That sign says they’re maymeys from Cuba.”
“I know,” persisted Jennie, “but what are they?”
“Search me. Say, I ain’t bothering about maymeys from Cuba. A couple of hot murphies from Ireland, served with a lump of butter, would look good enough to me.”
“Do you suppose any one buys them?” marveled Jennie.
“Surest thing you know. Some rich dame coming by here, wondering what she can have for dinner to tempt the jaded palates of her dear ones, see? She sees them Cuban maymeys. `The very thing!’ she says. `I’ll have ’em served just before the salad.’ And she sails in and buys a pound or two. I wonder, now, do you eat ’em with a fruit knife, or with a spoon?”
Jennie took one last look at the woven basket with its foreign contents. Then she moved on, slowly. She had been moving on for hours–weeks.
Most people have acquired the habit of eating three meals a day. In a city of some few millions the habit has made necessary the establishing of many thousands of eating places. Jennie would have told you that there were billions of these. To her the world seemed composed of one huge, glittering restaurant, with myriads of windows through which one caught maddening glimpses of ketchup bottles, and nickel coffee heaters, and piles of doughnuts, and scurrying waiters in white, and people critically studying menu cards. She walked in a maze of restaurants, cafes, eating-houses. Tables and diners loomed up at every turn, on every street, from Michigan Avenue’s rose-shaded Louis the Somethingth palaces, where every waiter owns his man, to the white tile mausoleums where every man is his own waiter. Everywhere there were windows full of lemon cream pies, and pans of baked apples swimming in lakes of golden syrup, and pots of baked beans with the pink and crispy slices of pork just breaking through the crust. Every dairy lunch mocked one with the sign of “wheat cakes with maple syrup and country sausage, 20 cents.”
There are those who will say that for cases like Jennie’s there are soup kitchens, Y. W. C. A.’s, relief associations, policemen, and things like that. And so there are. Unfortunately, the people who need them aren’t up on them. Try it. Plant yourself, penniless, in the middle of State Street on a busy day, dive into the howling, scrambling, pushing maelstrom that hurls itself against the mountainous and impregnable form of the crossing policeman, and see what you’ll get out of it, provided you have the courage.
Desperation gave Jennie a false courage. On the strength of it she made two false starts. The third time she reached the arm of the crossing policeman, and clutched it. That imposing giant removed the whistle from his mouth, and majestically inclined his head without turning his gaze upon Jennie, one eye being fixed on a red automobile that was showing signs of sulking at its enforced pause, the other being busy with a cursing drayman who was having an argument with his off horse.
Jennie mumbled her question.
Said the crossing policeman:
“Getcher car on Wabash, ride to ‘umpty-second, transfer, get off at Blank Street, and walk three blocks south.”
Then he put the whistle back in his mouth, blew two shrill blasts, and the horde of men, women, motors, drays, trucks, cars, and horses swept over him, through him, past him, leaving him miraculously untouched.
Jennie landed on the opposite curbing, breathing hard. What was that street? Umpty-what? Well, it didn’t matter, anyway. She hadn’t the nickel for car fare.