Imperial Valley press., 1936-09-20

RURPLE dusk lay on the window sill like
sitting of ash when Taylor Gait closed his
roll-top desk and sat thoughtfully looking down
into the street for a moment preparatory to
leaving his office. A faint mist hung between
the iron-dark buildings making the street. some
twenty stories below, seem as remote as the
depths of some great bottomless pit. In few
moments, somewhere down there in the ebb ana
flow of elbowing humanity and thrashing traf-
fc, he would descend into sitting subter-
ranean cavity ribboned with steel tracks
rumbiing monster would come catapulting at
him out of dark, dank hole surge OF pale,
tired people would carry him into one of the
many openings in the writhing flank OF the
monster, and hanging from grimy entrail,
wedeed between soiled breaths and bodies, he
would be swept through black tunnels as the
speeding demon digested distance underground,
while the city teemed above
Taylor Galt's mind, like motion picture
camera recorded each detail Of the procedure
in sequence. He had done the same thing six
days a week for II years. At 186th Street,
he would politely but firmly push through the
unyielding crowd to the door; find himself
walking along a tiled wall, through swing
stile and up steps to the street. At the exit
he would buy a paper then walk YEARLY half
a block to a house with a brownstone front,
distinguished from all the others on the street
only by number over the door. Screaming.
dirty children would be playing in the road and
on the walk along the way He would mount
more steps, holding onto the iron bar that
formed a guardrail over the side OF which gar
bage cans in a dirty basementway made their
presence known. He would let himself into his
apartment with his own key. In the kitchen, he
would find Margaret, his wife-a kind patient,
contented, unimaginative woman-preparing the
evening meal. There would be the same conver-
sation about inconsequential things. After din
ner, he would read his paper and go to bed In
the morning an alarm clock would rouse MIN
with its persistent, hammerine sharpness,
promptly at seven, and he would begin new
day like all the yesterdays and-the tomorrows
Monotony was strangling him. He was dying
slowly, tortured by dead dreams that came to
life and prowled
He shook his head like dog as if to throw
off a leash of thought. Rising he walked lit
tie unsteadily to wash basin behind screen
and ran warm water into the BOWL Mechan-
ically, he washed his hands, just as he had done
every night for IL years-in the same bowl.
He put on his hat and went out locking the
Office door after him. As he walked down the
hall toward the elevator, he remembered the
dreams he had once cherished and died little
more.
- UT this night was not quite like the rest. He
h didn't hurry into the subway as was his
custom. but wandered cross-town to the East
River and the docks Masts Of ocean liners
beckoned to him across the tops Of concrete
warehouses and the smell of salt air and oil
ouickened his pulses II he could only just walk
on board one of those ships and sail away-never
come back-never, but go vagabonding his way
to strange far places with splendid careless
ness living only for each day as it came with
no Yesterdays and no tomorrows That's what
he wanted That's what he had always wanted
As a boy he had dreamed this very dream. It
had always been with him. II was with him
now. But he had married and gone into bust