Babbitt | Page 4

a dim warm tide, the paper-carrier went by
whistling, and the rolled-up Advocate thumped the front door. Babbitt
roused, his stomach constricted with alarm. As he relaxed, he was
pierced by the familiar and irritating rattle of some one cranking a Ford:

snap-ah-ah, snap-ah-ah, snap-ah-ah. Himself a pious motorist, Babbitt
cranked with the unseen driver, with him waited through taut hours for
the roar of the starting engine, with him agonized as the roar ceased and
again began the infernal patient snap-ah-ah--a round, flat sound, a
shivering cold-morning sound, a sound infuriating and inescapable. Not
till the rising voice of the motor told him that the Ford was moving was
he released from the panting tension. He glanced once at his favorite
tree, elm twigs against the gold patina of sky, and fumbled for sleep as
for a drug. He who had been a boy very credulous of life was no longer
greatly interested in the possible and improbable adventures of each
new day.
He escaped from reality till the alarm-clock rang, at seven-twenty.
III
It was the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced
alarm-clocks, with all modern attachments, including cathedral chime,
intermittent alarm, and a phosphorescent dial. Babbitt was proud of
being awakened by such a rich device. Socially it was almost as
creditable as buying expensive cord tires.
He sulkily admitted now that there was no more escape, but he lay and
detested the grind of the real-estate business, and disliked his family,
and disliked himself for disliking them. The evening before, he had
played poker at Vergil Gunch's till midnight, and after such holidays he
was irritable before breakfast. It may have been the tremendous
home-brewed beer of the prohibition-era and the cigars to which that
beer enticed him; it may have been resentment of return from this fine,
bold man-world to a restricted region of wives and stenographers, and
of suggestions not to smoke so much.
From the bedroom beside the sleeping-porch, his wife's detestably
cheerful "Time to get up, Georgie boy," and the itchy sound, the brisk
and scratchy sound, of combing hairs out of a stiff brush.
He grunted; he dragged his thick legs, in faded baby-blue pajamas,
from under the khaki blanket; he sat on the edge of the cot, running his

fingers through his wild hair, while his plump feet mechanically felt for
his slippers. He looked regretfully at the blanket--forever a suggestion
to him of freedom and heroism. He had bought it for a camping trip
which had never come off. It symbolized gorgeous loafing, gorgeous
cursing, virile flannel shirts.
He creaked to his feet, groaning at the waves of pain which passed
behind his eyeballs. Though he waited for their scorching recurrence,
he looked blurrily out at the yard. It delighted him, as always; it was the
neat yard of a successful business man of Zenith, that is, it was
perfection, and made him also perfect. He regarded the corrugated iron
garage. For the three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth time in a year he reflected,
"No class to that tin shack. Have to build me a frame garage. But by
golly it's the only thing on the place that isn't up-to-date!" While he
stared he thought of a community garage for his acreage development,
Glen Oriole. He stopped puffing and jiggling. His arms were akimbo.
His petulant, sleep-swollen face was set in harder lines. He suddenly
seemed capable, an official, a man to contrive, to direct, to get things
done.
On the vigor of his idea he was carried down the hard, dean,
unused-looking hall into the bathroom.
Though the house was not large it had, like all houses on Floral Heights,
an altogether royal bathroom of porcelain and glazed tile and metal
sleek as silver. The towel-rack was a rod of clear glass set in nickel.
The tub was long enough for a Prussian Guard, and above the set bowl
was a sensational exhibit of tooth-brush holder, shaving-brush holder,
soap-dish, sponge-dish, and medicine-cabinet, so glittering and so
ingenious that they resembled an electrical instrument-board. But the
Babbitt whose god was Modern Appliances was not pleased. The air of
the bathroom was thick with the smell of a heathen toothpaste. "Verona
been at it again! 'Stead of sticking to Lilidol, like I've re-peat-ed-ly
asked her, she's gone and gotten some confounded stinkum stuff that
makes you sick!"
The bath-mat was wrinkled and the floor was wet. (His daughter
Verona eccentrically took baths in the morning, now and then.) He

slipped on the mat, and slid against the tub. He said "Damn!" Furiously
he snatched up his tube of shaving-cream, furiously he lathered, with a
belligerent slapping of the unctuous brush, furiously he raked his
plump cheeks with a safety-razor. It pulled. The blade was dull. He said,
"Damn--oh--oh--damn it!"
He hunted through the medicine-cabinet for a