DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Wavelength, v. 1, issue 4, January-March 1942

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Wavelength, v. 1, issue 4, January-March 1942

Page 2

   I laughed again at such a story and tramped downtown the few short blocks that I walk going to the Corset Works. While I was working I forgot all about Miss Leticia Fish and her shadow of a man.
   But that night, as I was walking very tired and hungry towards the little bungalow that I call home, I began to think about her story. And the more I thought, the madder I became. So, before long, suspecting Anne of seeing some low-down gigolo while I slaved eight a day, I became more observant, more thoughtful whenever I looked at Anne's fresh, milk-white beauty. Was I a fool, after all, to imagine such things of my dear Anne? Or . . . could it be possible, , , even a little so. . .
   The next evening, as I worked, I remembered, as I had done so many times since giving an ear to Leticia Fish's incredible story, again. Perhaps the old harridan was right, after all! Emotions, strong and erotic, overcame the sensible perception of my right mind. So, in order to settle the thing once and for all, I obtained a leave of absence from old Eagle-Besk, my foreman, on the pretense of feeling a bit "under the weather."
   Nearing home, I walked quietly through the alley that skirted the rear of my home. Stumbling over two or three tin cans and bits of orange peels and what-not, I swore heartily under my breath. What was I doing in such a spot? It was only because of my cursed, and, probably, unfounded suspicion that I was here at all. Drat all doubt.
   As I entered the back yard, I noticed that the kitchen lights were still on. Anne must have taken her time with the dishes, I thought.
   Passing through the little garden that both Anne and I had made together, I was beginning to feel my usual cheery self again. So far, I saw no shadow of a man. So far, all was unfounded. I began to contemplate the rows upon rows of pretty little radishes and cabbage heads that lined the garden. They were nice and would grow up to be very f. . . But, what was that?
   I had heard the rumbling sounds of a male voice. It seemed oddly familiar, too. Then I heard Anne's soft voice in reply. Let me tell you, it made the skin along my backbone draw taut and a chill to over down upon me, like a wet blanket.
   My feet began to pump up and down, like pistons, of their own accord. I burst open the kitchen door and saw Anne, bending over the table and pouring coffee into a cup set before the stranger!
   His back was turned; then, and so I did not recognize him at once.
   Anne bent down and kissed him on the ear. Man, did I fly mad! She always kissed me like that!
   They both jerked up, guiltily, as I entered the room. Anne appeared white and scared. The man looked defiant.
   He was a well-dressed man, maybe fifteen years older than I. The tricky, clipped little mustache on his upper lip reminded me, sickeningly, of the one with Franchot Tone sported in so many movies.
   I, for one, did not long remain motionless. Not I. I took his measure, and swung.
   He flopped across the table, smashing Anne's breakfast set into fragments.
   Anne gave a little cry and ran to him. She cuddled his head into her arms and cried, "Stephen, Stephen! You beast! You don't know what you're doing. Can't you see? You're hurting yourself?"
   Some nerve, that last remark of hers! I cooled down, best as I could and said, "Have you been on the weed? I am striking the yellow-bellied louse that is breaking up my home. And you are taking up his side, instead of my side. Hurting myself! Faugh!" The look of contempt that I gave her would have wilted a tiger.

Saving...

I laughed again at such a story and tramped downtown the few short blocks that I walk going to the Corset Works. While I was working I forgot all about Miss Leticia Fish and her shadow of a man. But that night, as I was walking very tired and hungry towards the little bungalow that I call home, I began to think about her story. And the more I thought, the madder I became. So, before long, suspecting Anne of seeing some low-down gigolo while I slaved eight a day, I became more observant, more thoughtful whenever I looked at Anne's fresh, milk-white beauty. Was I a fool, after all, to imagine such things of my dear Anne? Or . . . could it be possible, , , even a little so. . . The next evening, as I worked, I remembered, as I had done so many times since giving an ear to Leticia Fish's incredible story, again. Perhaps the old harridan was right, after all! Emotions, strong and erotic, overcame the sensible perception of my right mind. So, in order to settle the thing once and for all, I obtained a leave of absence from old Eagle-Besk, my foreman, on the pretense of feeling a bit "under the weather." Nearing home, I walked quietly through the alley that skirted the rear of my home. Stumbling over two or three tin cans and bits of orange peels and what-not, I swore heartily under my breath. What was I doing in such a spot? It was only because of my cursed, and, probably, unfounded suspicion that I was here at all. Drat all doubt. As I entered the back yard, I noticed that the kitchen lights were still on. Anne must have taken her time with the dishes, I thought. Passing through the little garden that both Anne and I had made together, I was beginning to feel my usual cheery self again. So far, I saw no shadow of a man. So far, all was unfounded. I began to contemplate the rows upon rows of pretty little radishes and cabbage heads that lined the garden. They were nice and would grow up to be very f. . . But, what was that? I had heard the rumbling sounds of a male voice. It seemed oddly familiar, too. Then I heard Anne's soft voice in reply. Let me tell you, it made the skin along my backbone draw taut and a chill to over down upon me, like a wet blanket. My feet began to pump up and down, like pistons, of their own accord. I burst open the kitchen door and saw Anne, bending over the table and pouring coffee into a cup set before the stranger! His back was turned; then, and so I did not recognize him at once. Anne bent down and kissed him on the ear. Man, did I fly mad! She always kissed me like that! They both jerked up, guiltily, as I entered the room. Anne appeared white and scared. The man looked defiant. He was a well-dressed man, maybe fifteen years older than I. The tricky, clipped little mustache on his upper lip reminded me, sickeningly, of the one with Franchot Tone sported in so many movies. I, for one, did not long remain motionless. Not I. I took his measure, and swung. He flopped across the table, smashing Anne's breakfast set into fragments. Anne gave a little cry and ran to him. She cuddled his head into her arms and cried, "Stephen, Stephen! You beast! You don't know what you're doing. Can't you see? You're hurting yourself?" Some nerve, that last remark of hers! I cooled down, best as I could and said, "Have you been on the weed? I am striking the yellow-bellied louse that is breaking up my home. And you are taking up his side, instead of my side. Hurting myself! Faugh!" The look of contempt that I gave her would have wilted a tiger.