THE HUGE FACTORY (FORMERLY MAKING WATCHES, NOW OPERATING day and night on a new product, one that caused the manufacturers to announce “If you cannot get that new watch this year, just remember that some soldier’s life might be saved by the delicate precision instruments …”) was blacked out for the night with blinds drawn against all of the great plate glass windows, but a few steps beyond and down the block, the Bar & Grill was bright and noisy. Workers who left the factory at midnight stopped in at the bar for a beer before going on home; people were drinking coffee before going in to work, and the homely girl who went from table to table playing requests on the accordion was working overtime on “Der Fuehrer’s Face” and “I’ve Got Sixpence.” Around the circular bar some soldiers and sailors—alone for the most part, sometimes with girls—mingled with the crowding factory workers. “I’m nonessential,” one of the two bartenders told a customer. “Next week I’ll be working up there at the factory with you guys.”
Toward one o’clock the door opened and a small, oldish, slightly drunk man entered and went directly to the bar. “Rhine wine,” he said to the bartender. “What, Jack?” the bartender asked over his shoulder. “Rhine wine,” the little man said. The bartender shrugged and went to the row of bottles lined along the center of the bar. He selected one, and poured a glass for the customer. “Fifteen cents, Jack,” the bartender said. The little man fumbled three nickels across the bar and picked up his glass. Carrying the glass, he left the bar and began to walk up and down between the tables. Occasionally he smiled hopefully at people sitting at the tables, but no one spoke to him or, in fact, even looked at him. Finally, the little man, still carrying his glass, went over to one of the booths and stood beside it, supporting himself against the edge of the table. Then: “Mind if I sit down here a minute?” he asked.
There were two girls sitting in the booth, drinking beer. One was a fashionably dressed blonde, with orange lipstick and carefully painted eyebrows; the other was a serious-looking girl in a brown tweed coat. They had been talking earnestly, but when the man spoke to them they turned and looked at him, at the glass in his hand, and then back to his face.
“Sure,” said the blonde. “You can sit down. No more tables?”
“It isn’t that,” the little man said carefully. “It’s just that I’d like to talk to you.” He spoke in the painfully clear manner of the inebriated.
“Go ahead, talk,” the blonde said. She turned back to her companion. “So I think I’d better get along and see if I can get it back,” she said. “After all, I don’t go so good in a factory, it gets me down; I should be back in the dancehall. And he always was a good guy to work for, that jerk.”
“You hadn’t ought to get out of a war factory, though,” the other girl said. She glanced at the little man, who was sitting quietly, holding his glass and listening, and then went on: “You ought to stay at work that’s … you know … for defense.”
“That’s true,” the little man agreed. “You ought to work at something that will help your country.” Both girls looked at him silently. The little man hurried on: “I hope you girls don’t mind this—my coming up here and just sitting right down without even asking you very well.”
“We don’t mind,” the blonde said.
“I guess you just wanted to talk to someone, or something,” the other girl said.
“That’s right,” the little man said. “Look, my name is Burton, Robbie Burton, but you can call me Robbie. What’s yours?”
“Well,” the blonde said, “I’m Lois, and she’s Elaine.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the little man said. “Look, this is how it is. I wanted to talk to someone and I saw you”—he gestured at the blonde—“and I just thought, There’s a girl that looks kind of like my daughter. I got a daughter as old as you are, looks something like you,” he said. “And so I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I sat down, not to start something or anything, but just because I wanted to talk, like you said.” As if very tired, the little man leaned back and sipped at his wine.
“Well.” Lois looked at her friend. “He says I look like his daughter.”
“I’ll bet,” Elaine said.
“Look,” the little man said, leaning forward again, “don’t you do like my daughter. You look like a nice girl, don’t you do like my daughter.”
“What did your daughter do?” Elaine asked.
“Never mind what my daughter did,” the little man said. “I’m just telling you, that’s all.”
“All right,” Lois said, winking at her friend. “I won’t. Okay?”
“Okay.” The little man looked at his empty glass. “Say,” he demanded, “how about I buy you girls a drink? Let me buy you two a drink, how about it?”
“We can buy our own,” Elaine said quickly.
“No,” the little man insisted, “let me buy you a drink. Because this girl here reminds me of my daughter and I’d certainly buy my daughter a drink. Please let me buy you a drink?” he appealed to the blonde.
“Okay, Pop,” she said. He got up and went over to the bar.
“Listen, Lois,” the dark girl said, “you hadn’t ought to let him buy you a drink. You hadn’t ought to have let him sit down here in the first place.”
“Poor old guy,” Lois said. “He looked so lonesome. Let him talk for a while. Doesn’t hurt to be nice to a poor old guy like that. Thinks I look like his daughter, anyway.”
“Don’t you go doing what his daughter did,” Elaine said, giggling.
Lois giggled too. “Why not?” she asked. “But shut up, here he comes.”
The little man came back, laughing when he saw that they were laughing. “Now we’re having a good time,” he said, putting the glasses down on the table.
“Hello, Pop,” Lois said.
“I guess I could buy my own daughter a drink,” he said.
“You sure could, Pop,” Lois said.
“Tell us about your daughter,” Elaine said. “What did she do, anyway?”
The little man lifted his face to her and glared. Then he relaxed. “Nothing,” he said. “I shouldn’t say; I don’t know. Nothing.”
“Cheer up, Pop,” Lois said. “Drink up.” She lifted her glass and touched his with it. “Long life,” she said.
The little man picked up his glass and sipped at it. “You sure do look like my daughter,” he said to Lois. “Don’t you ever do anything bad.” He looked at Elaine for a minute and then back to Lois. “Look,” he said. “When I first came here a while ago I couldn’t help but hear when you said you thought you’d leave your job and go back to working in a dancehall. Don’t you do it.”
“Hey, look,” Lois said, pained.
“Don’t you go working around no men,” the little man insisted. “You stay right where you belong, not in any dancehall.”
“I guess she doesn’t need to ask you where she’s going to work,” Elaine said.
“I don’t want you working for that guy you called a jerk,” the little man said.
“He doesn’t want me working for O’Halloran, that jerk,” Lois explained elaborately.
“Don’t you go fooling around men,” the little man said. He pounded his hand on the table so that his glass trembled. “I don’t want to hear of you going around any men. You’re a nice girl, now, and you’re a good girl and you treat your father nice, and you bring home your money, and don’t you go throwing your life away on any men.”
“Well, I’d certainly tell him to mind his own business!” said Elaine.
“Your old father’s never done you an evil thing and never given you any bad advice, and when he tells you you better keep right on coming home every week with that money from the factory and not go taking anything from any men and not go throwing your money away on cheap clothes and friends, he’s giving you good advice. Your old father deserves for you to treat him right, and he hasn’t got anybody but you and no one to help him along in his old age, so you better listen to his good advice.” The little man put his hand on Lois’s arm and repeated, “You better listen to his good advice.”
“Well, for heaven’s sakes!” said Elaine.
“Hey,” Lois said, “suppose you run along out of here, Pop.”
“You listen to me,” the little man said desperately.
“I’ll call someone to throw you out, mister,” she said.
“I’ll call someone,” Elaine said. She stood up and started to look around eagerly.
The little man watched her for a minute and then sighed. Pushing his glass aside, he put both hands on the table and lifted himself up. Elaine sat back against the seat, watching him warily. The little man stood at the opening of the booth looking at the girls sadly.
“You’ll be sorry some day,” he said. “You’ll be sorry you didn’t treat your poor old father better.”
Neither girl moved. The little man turned to Lois.
“And I want you home and in your own bed tonight, you hear?” he cried emphatically. Then he turned and made his way past the crowded bar and out the door. His empty glass still trembled slightly after he had gone, moving a little in the spilled wine on the table.