Torchy as a Pa | Page 2

dinner first at that cute little Cafe Bretone you've been
telling me about," says Vee, "and go up to see the Blakes afterwards."
Yes, that was the program we followed. And without the aid of a guide
we located this Umpty Umpt street. The number is about half way
down the block that runs from upper Broadway to Riverside Drive. It's
one of the narrow streets, you know, and the scenery is just as cheerful
as a section of the Hudson River tube on a foggy night. Nothing but
seven-story apartment buildings on either side; human hives, where the
only thing that can be raised is the rent, which the landlord attends to
every quarter.
Having lived out in the near-country for a couple of years, I'd most
forgotten what ugly, gloomy barracks these big apartment buildings
were. Say, if they built state prisons like that, with no more sun or air in
the cells, there'd be an awful howl. But the Rosenheimers and the Max
Blums and the Gilottis can run up jerry built blocks with 8x10
bedrooms openin' on narrow airshafts, and livin' rooms where you need
a couple of lights burnin' on sunny days, and nobody says a word
except to beg the agent to let 'em pay $150 a month or so for four
rooms and bath. I can feel Vee give a shudder as we dives into the

tunnel.
"But really," says she, "I suppose it must be very nice, only half a block
from the Drive, and with such an imposing entrance."
"Sure!" says I. "Just as cosy as being tucked away in a safety deposit
vault every night. That's what makes some of these New Yorkers so
patronizin' and haughty when they happen to stray out to way stations
and crossroads joints where the poor Rubes live exposed continual to
sunshine and fresh air and don't seem to know any better."
"Just think!" says Vee. "Lucy Lee's home down in Virginia was one of
those delightful old Colonial houses set on a hill, with more than a
hundred acres of farm land around it. And Captain Blake must have
been used to an outdoor life. He's a civil engineer, I believe. But then,
with the honeymoon barely over, I suppose they don't mind."
"We might ask 'em," I suggests.
"Don't you dare, Torchy!" says she.
By that time, though, we're ready to interview the fuzzy-haired West
Indian brunette in charge of the 'phone desk in one corner of the marble
wainscoted lobby. And when he gets through givin' the hot comeback
to some tenant who has dared to protest that he's had the wrong number,
he takes his time findin' out for us whether or not the Blakes are in.
Finally he grunts something through the gum and waves us toward the
elevator. "Fourth," says he. And a slouchy young female in a dirty
khaki uniform takes us up, jerky, to turn us loose in a hallway with a
dozen doors openin' off.
There's such a dim light we could hardly read the cards in the door
plates, and we was pawin' around, dazed, when a husky bleached
blonde comes sailin' out of an apartment.
"Will you please tell me which is the Blakes' bell?" asks Vee.
"Blakes?" says the blonde. "Don't know 'em."

"Perhaps we're on the wrong floor," I suggests.
But about then a door opens and out peers Lucy Lee herself. "Why,
there you are!" says she. "We were just picking up a little. You know
how things get in an apartment. So good of you to hunt us up. Come
right in."
So we squeezes in between a fancy hall seat and the kitchen door,
edges down a three-foot hallway, and discovers Captain Blake just
strugglin' into his coat, at the same time kickin' some evenin' papers,
dexterous, under a davenport.
"Why, how comfy you are here, aren't you?" says Vee, gazin' around.
"Ye-e-es, aren't we?" says Lucy Lee, a bit draggy.
If you've ever made one of these flathouse first calls you can fill in the
rest for yourself. We are shown how, by leanin' out one of the front
windows, you can almost see the North River; what a cute little dinin'
room there is, with a built-in china closet and all; and how convenient
the bathroom is wedged between the two sleeping rooms.
"But really," says Lucy Lee, "the kitchen is the nicest. Do you know,
the sun actually comes in for nearly an hour every afternoon. And isn't
everything so handy?"
Yes, it was. You could stand in the middle and reach the gas stove with
one hand and the sink with the other, and if you didn't want to use the
washtub you could rest a loaf of bread on it. Then there was the
dumbwaiter