The People's
Choice
RUTH KRONMAN
THERE was no heat in the radiators, and I lay
uncomfortably under a blanket reading a magazine
article about how this country will never have a
revolution because of the "wholesome respect for
democratic procedure that is the strongest tradition
of the American people. From the New England
town meeting to the present day ....
" I let the
magazine drop.
"Damn it, it's cold here. I bet it's warmer out-
side."
Martin said, "Let's go out for a walk."
So we went down our five flights. This is the
pleasantest time of the year, if any, to live .in down-
town New York. People are out walking; not as in
the summer, because they can't find anything to do
with their uncomfortable selves; and not as in win-
ter, because in spite of wanting to stay home they
have to go somewhere, and walk very determinedly.
They're out walking on nights like this because it
is a pleasure to walk along, to look at the other
people, to look at the shop windows, to stop a while
at street meetings. We walked around. The commu-
nists on their usual corner were sending words about
the war and the high cost of living and the respon-
sibility of government into that place in a person,
it seems to be the head, where one mulls over these
things or suddenly understands them as if he had
known them all his life. And as always they were
sending a great many of these ideas right over the
heads of the people who were looking into window~
at things they couldn't buy.
We passed a hat store with a sign,
Board of Reg-
istration.
"Oh, that's right", Martin said. "Let's go over
and register."
We went in and asked a cop where to register.
"Ask her", he said. So we asked a nice stout lady,
and she told us.
Back up the street in a hurry now; we were walk-
ing with a purpose. We found the place where we
were to inscribe ourselves as two of those who sig-
nify the people's choice. It was in a barber shop
under the shadow of the E1.
We walked in. It was funny. The stout blonde
lady and the young fellow and the others with their
seven-dollar-a-night jobs were sitting around a table
in the rear of the shining white-and-mirror, steamy-
smelling place. A big cop sitting in a barber chair
looking bored; and the box for enrolments was
20
sitting in another barber chair. I stood back of
3!
little gray-looking man wondering, What on earth
brings him here, what dQes he expect to get out of
it, isn't this
funny?
I had to repress an impulse to.
giggle. So I winked at Martin, and that made it
easier to stand in line in the barber shop, wonder-
ing and wondering.
"Look who's here", Martin whispered.
"Who? Oh, the kid from our house." He was
taking registrations. Funny that a kid who hangs,
around the doorstep flirting with the girls should
be inscribing us on a book. I began to respect at least
the externalia of democracy. Where but in America?
Me next. Four or five people waiting with their
pens, to write down all about me in four or five-
books. I stood there and told them how old I was
and where I lived last year and where I was born
and all that, and they wrote it all down. I was al-
most nervous. It's very democratic, our system-
even
J.
P. Morgan has to do that when he registers,
or does he? Did he ever register in a barber shopt
I wonder? But then, he doesn't have to vote-why
should he? It was most exciting. I could almost
reach out and touch the democracy all around.
We felt exhilarated as we left. A little thin man
with a cigar shook hands with Martin.
He said, through his cigar, "Mr .... "
"Franken," Martin said. The man scribbled it in
a book.
"Pleased to know you, Mr. Franken. My name's
Stutz. I live at
2 II,
also."
"That so?"
"Well-" He reached out to shake hands again.
Martin shook his hand seriously.
"Well", he said, thinking it over, "good night.
See you again, eh?"
"Good night", Martin said.
The man nodded to me. I nodded very properly.
We left.
"That's what you read about. Ward heeler. He'll
be around to see us."
I wanted to"
TV,
"Why didn't he speak to me?
You know, wnen he CGmesaround and asks me how
I'm going to vote I'll tell him you haven't made up
your mind yet."
We walked around some more. It was exhilarat-
ing, like going to a movie t~:at doesn't make sense
but is easy to take. You shut your mind and forget
all about the opium of the people and art is real, art
is earnest, and you make believe movies haven't any
relation to life or any effect on people, and you
can be really amused. It's something like taking a
few drinks. So we walked around, sort of intoxi·
cated with democracy and the freshness of the air
even under the El, and the bright white moon over
the top of the sickly yellow clock on the Consolidat·
ed Gas Company.
Finally we walked back to the house, and Ire·
APRIL,
1936
