It Seems to Me . . . was the byline of Heywood Broun’s
column in The World

Season’s Greetings!  

Read a holiday excerpt from Chasing the Devil:

As it was the Saturday of a holiday weekend the stores were mobbed with out-of-towners fromthe suburbs getting a jump on their holiday shopping. The store windows were decorated with fairyland and winter-countryside scenes with mechanically driven figures of ice skaters circling a frozen pond, dogs romping about, horse-drawn sleighs winding along snow-covered lanes, children sledding down hills before forests of snow-blanketed evergreens. There was a wonderful Santa’s Workshop, a window bright with elves at workbenches, hammering and wrenching together the body parts of toy soldiers, jack-in-the-boxes, and life-sized dolls. A family decorating a sparkling lit tree with scores of brightly wrapped presents at its base; the father on a tall ladder, shining star in hand at the tree’s top, mother adding tinsel, daughter placing an ornament on a lower branch, son peeking at a gift box through a tear in the paper (reading American BB gun), small dog pulling the seat of the son’s pants between his teeth, tail wagging. A happy change from the usual fare of slinky manikins draped in fashionable attire.

Runny noses and sticky fingers pressed against plate glass with wide-eyed wonder as the holiday music played and the sleigh bells jingled along carrying the beat. Shoppers, laden with stacks of boxes, maneuvered through revolving doors, in and out of taxis, onto and off of streetcars, dodging the perils of traffic and the sea of humanity. Furs flying open, hats pushed back, gloves dropped, scarves pocketed, knee socks slipping to ankles. Then, time to take a break at Schrafft’s.

Inside the stores, too, were the wonderlands: thousands of icicles draped down from the ceilings,tinsel-like snowflakes bobbing above the expansive floors; silver and white and gold and sparkle everywhere. The countertops offered an array of glittering goods, jewelry, perfumes, holiday accessories, feathered and bejeweled chapeaus, delectable candies—marzipan stacked into images of Christmas trees—candy canes galore! The stores were glowingly lit, inside and out, lending an atmosphere of warmth and cheer.

Between the two stores, I purchased a bright silk-screened shawl for Neysa, a sky-blue Chinese tunic embroidered with a flying crane for Tallulah, a luxurious cashmere scarf for Mr. Benchley, a Russian Cossack hat of Persian Lamb for Aleck, gloves for FPA, ties for Sherry, Marc, and Bunny Wilson, a deluxe box of Belgium chocolates to be sent off immediately with my note of thanks for Thanksgiving dinner to Edna, and, while she was busy in the hosiery department, a stunning little jet-beaded evening bag for Jane. For Ross, a tortoise-shell-and-silver pocket comb, four pairs of men’s stockings in primary colors embroidered with reindeers for the Marx Brothers, several exquisite, finely embroidered silk handkerchiefs for women friends to keep on hand (excuse the pun) for any lady I may have forgotten, and six boxes of Cuban cigars for any gent I may have overlooked. All in all, I’d done most of my Christmas shopping in one very productive afternoon.

Jane caught up with me as I was just settling the bill at Lord & Taylor’s. She was a sight. Actually, I couldn’t really see her at all, just the tam of her jaunty little red hat and the bow on her pumps, but I recognized the voice that addressed me from behind a stack of precariously balanced boxes. I removed the top two silver-foil-wrapped packages and looked into two very large brown eyes, the color of fine cognac.

“You’ve done no shopping?” she said in amazement.

I thought that if I relieved her of the remainder of the load, she might sink to the floor, for her look of sheer exhaustion.

“Au contraire. I’ve had everything sent to the apartment, or I’d have needed a cart to see them

home.”

“That I should be so wise,” she said, as I helped her carry her load out onto the street. It was after fiveo’clock, and the chances of getting a cab were growing slimmer by the minute, and as Woodrow Wilson was at home, the odds were really against us.

We decided to walk the seven blocks uptown to my apartment at the Gonk, and to rest with a drink or two before going on to dinner.

I don’t know what made this season bearable, except for the fact that Aleck and Mr. Benchley were unusually attentive. Even Edna did not grate on my nerves when she’d appear at luncheon several times a week, now that her Showboat was finished.  I sought distractions, if only to quell the underlying sense of menace haunting me since Father Michael’s murder.

Jane and I lunched and Tallulah, who also was alone, was always game for an afternoon cocktail or a steak at our favorite speakeasy, Tony Soma’s.  I suppose they remembered the events of last season when Eddie and I parted ways and a failed affair with a newspaper reporter sent me on the skids to land in the hospital by way of my foolish attempt at ending my life. I’d forgotten that an affair is just that, a single event with a start and end time. Silly me.  I didn’t think anybody’d really care if I popped off. I thought they just wanted me around to provide the entertainment, as I’m always good for a fast and clever retort to brighten any conversation. My wit has made me famous; my wit has brought me into the sphere of the geniuses of my generation, but I don’t know that I belong in such a world. I have to work so hard to be witty. Yet, it’s all I know.  My acid tongue has cost me friends, too, because sometimes I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut. I almost believe it when I say I don’t care what people think. I don’t know that I’m so very droll, so very sophisticated. It’s hard to be amusing, to keep up the pretense of being anything very special.

Most of the Round Tablers are alone in this city. It’s a tough place to make a success. Most have no family close by. And the understanding we all possess is that you’re only as good as your last show, or book, or joke. Too soon you can become yesterday’s news, and we all want to forget yesterday in hopes of a better tomorrow. So we live for the moment: fast and furious.

But I do have friends, I learned, and this season they made sure I was not lonely. And as Christmas approached I joined into the spirit of the holidays.

Mr. Benchley arrived at my rooms on Christmas Eve morning carrying a large box covered in red foil and brandishing a huge green satin bow. Woodrow Wilson barked furiously at the foreign object blocking Mr. Benchley’s face, and stopped only when he had placed it down on the edge of my desk.  He bade me turn away and cover my eyes.

“The ones in back of my head?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs. Parker,” he said as he pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid. I admit that I began whining a bit, from impatient excitement, and Woodrow responded to my angst with several whimpers of his own, as we heard Mr. Benchley scuffling around.

“You and the President ought to start a singing act. Vaudeville is dying, and you two can quickly put it out of its misery.”

I’d no time for a comeback for the sound of strange and intermittent screeches that alternated with bars of music and voices. As I turned, Mr. Benchley stood back with a look of satisfaction as the Coon- Sanders Nighthawks Orchestra piped out “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby.”

A radio!

“It’s grand!” was all I could say, admiring the cathedral-shaped box. I gave Fred a hug and Woodrow pulled at his cuff.

Mr. Benchley leaned over to pat my pup and then reached into his pocket from where he withdrew a steak bone wrapped in white paper. “You don’t think I’d arrive without your treat?” Woodrow made a fast exit to the bedroom with his treasure.

As it was Christmas Eve, Mr. Benchley would take the train home in an hour to spend the holidays with Gertrude and the children. He was concerned about me and Aleck alone in the city, inviting us to his home for the holiday. But Aleck and I decided  to remain in town.  Aleck has a standing invitation for Christmas Eve dinner with Edna. I’ll spend the eve with Jane and Ross, and on Christmas Day I’ll join Aleck for what always proves to be a sumptuous dinner at George and Bea Kaufman’s. It was decided that we would begin our inquiries once again into the deaths of the priests immediately following Christmas Day.

It had been a smallish group at luncheon these past weeks. George S., Irving, and Harpo and his Brothers were busy with their show, The Cocoanuts;  George Gershwin had an opening on the thirtieth for Song of the Flame, and Ira was busy with lyric writing, too, for next season’s show.  Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne were out of town for tryouts, and Ross had a deadline for his failing magazine, The New Yorker . I suspect the tourists were disappointed when popping their heads into the Rose Room hoping to see a Marx Brother or two, or a glamorous Lunt or two. What they got was Aleck, Mr. Benchley, and me along with a scattering of newspapermen they might recognize by their bylines, if not their pictures.

Christmas spent with Aleck, Jane, and Ross warmed the frigid days. Snow fell on Christmas Eve, and by morning several inches lay over the cityscape like a fresh start on canvas.

To all my friends, I hope your lives are happy, healthy and prosperous in the coming New Year!

Agata