Evening star., 1942-01-21

hehry Me1more. z a, j u III p
ing horses over rail fences, and look
ing bored a. night club tables? Or
had the new order of things
(Americas, not Hitler's) driven them
into Information and kept them from
their annual rendezvous with the
sun?
I started making inquiries.
talked with hotel men, restaurant
keepers, bartenders, night club
proprietors, owners Of fashionable
shops, and traffic cops. Is every one
down as usual, I asked, or has the
thought of the new income taxes
put the brakes on their spending?
had just about worn myself out
sashaying around for information
when knowing friend put me wise.
That's not the way to flnd out
how things are going here this
winter" he said. You'll never get
a true slant from the people you're
talking to. Where you want to go
to is to the Department Of Public
Works, Sanitary Division"
made him say that again. That
didn't sound right. But he meant it.
He said the only true test OF how
many people are here on the gold
coast and how they are living. was
to be found at the incinerator plant.
Before I could stop him, and beg
him not to shatter every illusion I
had, he said that garbage, just plain
old garbage from the house, was the
one, genuine yard stick by which
the Palm Beaches gauge their
season.
Everything is fine around here"
he said with a note of pride in his
voice. Garbage is up 2 per cent"
He spoke just as proudly OF this
as if he had been telling me that
post Office receipts had risen, that
building permits had scared, or that
oil had been discovered on the
shores of Lake Worth.
Every day city publicity officials
get a report from the incinerator
plant as to the number Of tons OF
table scraps and the like which have
been incinerated. They have learned
that this is the most accurate
barometer Of how many people are
in town. 1t is much better than
any report on hotel rooms engaged.
gas meters piped in, telephones in
stalled or trains unloaded.
As a result Of this finding. the
head man at the incinerator plant
has become key figure in all resort
towns.
might as we'll admit that this
knowledge did something to me
something dreadful. Like so many
Americans, I had always placed our
social leaders and multi-millionaires
on a sort of pedestal. They were
surrounded by an aura Of glamour.
Willowy debutantes, SO fragile, so
sheltered that to handle the change
from a dollar would break them
down. Imperious dowagers; naughty
young dows working up to be i'm
perious dowagers. Tall, cool, OLD
gentlemen, with canes and veins
that stood out like main highways
on a road map. Eligible bachelors,
with collapsible dancing slippers
from which to drink their cham
payne. And grande DANES. whose
necks were stiff with dignity, arth-
ritis and diamond chokers. Now
for me, all of that is gone.
A debutante is just another wilted
batch of green salad. A dowaser is
Just another half-nibbled lamb
chop. A dignified multi-millionaire
Is Just the remnants Of T-bone
steak. An eligible bachelor Is just
the head and tail of broiled POM
pano, or a stalk or two Of asparagus
with Hollandaise.
All the romance and glamour Is
gone.
AS for myself, I hope nothing OF
an accidental nature happens to me
while I am here. I am staying at
the Royal Worth Hotel and the civic
authorities have no record Of me.
because I have cocker spaniel pup
with me and she is eating all the
table scraps. I am a man without
a town; a man without identity.
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