Day of the Bomb (14 page)

Fred liked Glen Eckles. A delegater by nature, Glen
gave all his agents the same introductory pep talk: “The fields are
ripe for harvest, son. There has never been a greater pent-up
demand out there. The depression is over. The war is over. Good
times are really going to roll more than they did during the 1920s.
Sure, things are touch and go right now. But by the time we hit the
1950s, look out! The factories aren’t building tanks, planes, and
ships any more. Now it’s cars, appliances, radios, furniture, you
name it. And our soldiers, sailors, and marines aren’t carrying
guns. They’re civilians now holding hammers, wrenches, saws, or
pens as they get us back to peacetime prosperity. Yes, sir. You
signed on here at Heartland at the best possible time. Get out
there and sell those policies. The first one is the hardest to
sell. After that it’s all downhill.”

Having to report in to Glen only once a month had
sealed the deal. Every other company Fred had interviewed with
demanded more meetings. It was having a job with few meetings that
had drawn Fred to the insurance game. After suffering as many as
three a day during his Navy duty, he had come to hate them. Being
on the road also attracted him. Sally had reluctantly agreed to
that part of the deal “as long as you’re home more days than you’re
gone.”

Driving to Omaha took seventeen hours from Madisin.
To save the cost of a hotel room, Fred left home at 8 p.m. so he
could arrive at Mr. Eckles’ office by 2 p.m. the following day. His
secretary’s startled expression told Fred that he should have at
least shaved.

“Come in, Fred. How was the trip?”

“A long one, sir.”

“Sit down. And please dispense with that sir
business. We’re all on the same team around here.”

“Yes, sir. I mean…”

“So, what’s your game plan?”

“I wanted to hit my northern prospects before winter
sets in. So I’m heading out to Indianapolis tomorrow. Then it’s on
to Columbus, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee,
Minneapolis/St. Paul, Des Moines, and Kansas City.”

His boss traced the itinerary on the map in front of
him with a red pen. “Great. We don’t have many policyholders in
those cities. It’s virgin territory you’re looking at. Where are
you going after that?”

“I’ll hit all the smaller towns and cities closer to
Madisin through the winter. In late March I want to swing through
Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Dallas/Ft. Worth, Houston, New Orleans,
Mobile, Montgomery, Birmingham, Memphis, and Little Rock.”

“I’ll draw that spring trip in when you report back
here before you take off on it. Here. Take this along.”

Fred took the large empty envelope labeled
expenses.

“You put every receipt for gas, food, lodging, phone
calls, and so forth in there. You’ll need expenses to claim against
your income or else you’ll be in the poorhouse after you pay your
taxes next year.”

Fred shifted his weight until the chair creaked. “Is
there any way I can get an advance?”

“No. Sorry, but when we tried that too many of our
salesmen gave up before they ever paid it back. It’s sink or swim,
boy.”

“But…”

“There’s no ands, ifs, or buts, in the insurance
game. If you’re alive and kicking, you need one of our policies. If
you’re dead you better have enough of a policy to at least pay to
bury you. Now who have you got lined up to meet in all those
cities?”

“I contacted VFW posts about speaking at them.”

“Good. If anyone knows about life and death, it’s VFW
members. One last thing. The road is tough. I did it in a big band
during the 1930s.”

“What did you play?”

“Trumpet. On the road you learn to improvise. We
slept on the bus most nights. About every third night our
bandleader put us up in a motel. He told us to take a bath when we
checked in and another one when we checked out so we smelled good
for that night’s concert and the one the next day.”

“Was the money any good?”

“Nah. Only the big boys such as the bands run by
Goodman, the Dorseys, and Miller made good money. They made a lot
of dough off of their records, too. We were a one-hit wonder.”

“One-hit wonder?”

“You know, we had only one record that did well.
Funny thing was some big time songwriter didn’t put it together. We
did. One night we were playing this dance hall in Colorado on our
way back from playing the clubs out in California. In between
numbers our drummer started beating out a crazy 7/8 beat. Then the
bass player started in thumping on the up beats instead of the
downbeats. I figured what the hell? So I start to play some riff I
had picked up in some jazz club in Los Angeles. The other horns
latched on to it and away we went. You should’ve seen our
bandleader. He had told us to take a break and was out front
smoking a cigarette. He came flying back in waving his arms for us
to stop playing. He had this set list. Every night we played the
same songs in the same order. Talk about boring. The only time the
list changed was if he brought in a new hit from one of the really
popular bands. So he’s madder that a wet hen at us until he notices
that the place is jumping. All night it had been dead but as soon
as we cut loose everyone in the place was on their feet and
dancing. So he starts acting like he’s the one that wrote the song.
I about fell out of my chair when he hopped on this old piano
sitting off stage and started pounding away on it. We backed off
and let him solo. It was the only time I ever saw him smile while
performing. Then he stayed up all night writing out all the parts
for all the instruments. He drove the bus straight through to
Chicago so we could record it. It was the only record that got much
airplay for us and we cut at least two dozen of them. But by four
months later it wasn’t getting played much anymore on the radio or
jukeboxes. So we went back to being strictly bush league. That’s
what a one hit wonder is. Don’t be a one hit wonder, Fred. Learn to
improvise.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Six hundred miles of mostly
cornfields and hog farms, Fred’s first stretch of road from Omaha
to Indianapolis allowed him to conjure up ways to improvise on a
trip that had depended on at least a $200 advance.
Without any advance, I’ll be out of money by the
time I hit Cleveland.
That reality set in
when he stopped for gas five miles west of Des Moines. There he
overheard a couple of gas jockeys as they filled gas
tanks.

“Yeah, I’m going to hit the road next summer.”

“What in? Your old heap of bolts probably won’t make
it past the county line.”

“I’m going to hitchhike. I talked to some guy who
passed through here last week. He said he made it all the way from
New York to here on just $20. He just buys some gas for some of
those who pick him up.”

Fred picked up the next hitchhiker he saw, an old
farmer whose “truck broke down so I have to get to town to buy a
new clutch to fix it with.” Just a “thank you” from him. But the
third one given a ride proved to be a goldmine. He was headed to
Boston and gave Fred $3, which filled the gas tank as thanks for
Fred taking him as far as Indianapolis. There Fred spoke on the
importance of life insurance to thirty-two veterans. Four bought
term life insurance policies, which were in the mail to the Omaha
office the day they were signed.

Improvisation became Fred’s new game. Instead of
motels Fred stayed at YMCAs or the homes of friendly VFW members in
return for listening to their war stories. By the time he hit
Chicago he had sold twenty-two policies. An honest man, he steered
customers to term insurance. With its lower premiums and higher
payout in case of death of the insured, he knew it would better
provide for the beneficiaries. If someone was more interested in
investments he sold them a whole life policy or annuity with the
promise that “if you live long enough it will pay you
dividends.”

Some of those he gave rides to proved interesting;
others a little strange, such as the one he picked up on the road
that linked Chicago to Milwaukee. The man who appeared to be about
fifty carried a rifle in a leather case and a history that bent his
head toward the ground.

“I didn’t know it was deer season here,” Fred
said.

“Who said it was?”

“Uh, that is for shooting deer?” He pointed at the
weapon.

“Some times.” He unzipped the case and pulled out the
30.06, complete with scope. “Fine shooting iron. Give me $45 and
it’s all yours.”

“Uh, no thanks. Looks like rain or snow.” Fred
pointed at the clouds that covered the sky.

“It best be rain. Snow leaves too many tracks. I
don’t like people following behind me.”

“Uh, how far you going?”

“As far as you are.” His smile revealed two missing
teeth.

“Well, I’m stopping off in Milwaukee. I have to speak
to a group at a VFW chapter.”

“What about?”

“Life insurance.”

“Figures. All of you salesmen wear cheap after-shave
lotion. The deer would smell you a mile away.”

When they reached the city, the rider asked to be
dropped off at the first pawnshop that he spotted. “They better
give me a decent price. Here. I won’t be needing these.” He tossed
a box of bullets onto Fred’s lap. “Sorry but I don’t have a dime on
me to give you. My crop got wiped out by hail. That’s why I’m
selling my rifle. But at least you can trade them for a couple
gallons of gas at a gas station out in the country. City folks
won’t want them. Sorry if I sound down. That’s what happens when
you lose your crop.”

***

Business slowed for Jason as the weather went from
autumn rains to winter snows. From now until spring most of his
work would be fixing burst plumbing, repairing storm damage to
storefronts or houses, and shoveling snow. To announce his seasonal
service, he added Snow Removal onto the pieces of plywood attached
to the bed and sides of 1933 Ford pickup. His dual signs now
read:

Dalrumple Construction

And

Snow Removal

MObley5-8912

“It always get this slow for you every winter?” Jason
asked his father during the extended family’s biggest annual
feast.

“Son, it’s been nothing but slow since 1930.”

“What’s the deal that I have to pay Social Security
tax twice for myself and then I have to pay it as the employer for
anybody I hire?”

“Maybe now you can understand why I used you and your
brothers as my hired help so much.”

“Hired help? Leroy slapped his knee. “You never paid
us one thin dime, Dad.”

“I gave you room and board and…”

“The clothes on our backs.” Leroy turned to Jason.
“You need to move on up to Detroit little brother. I can get you on
at one of the auto plants. The union boss loves me. Then you won’t
be worrying about running your own business, only about cashing
your paycheck.”

Thelma scowled at her brother-in-law. “We don’t need
the kind of help you like to hand out, Mr. Bigshot. You can keep
Detroit and all it’s big city ways.”

Leroy held up his hands. “Still the wildcat you
always were huh, Thelma? Guess they were right when they said a
leopard can’t change its spots. Go ahead and be a scab, Thelma.
Work at that rundown factory making furniture. Maybe you can even
build yours and Jason’s coffins. You’ll both be dying early deaths,
I guarantee it.”

“I’m not a scab.” She shook a knife at him.

“Oh? Did old man Monroe finally let the union come in
to his place?”

“We don’t need them. He pays us a fair wage.”

“Yeah, sure.” Leroy impaled his quarter-inch thick
slice of ham with his fork and waved the meat above the Christmas
dinner table. “You’re nothing but a piece of meat to him.” He held
the meat above his face and let the grease drip into his mouth.

“That’s enough from all of you.” Though sixty-three,
the clan’s mother still exerted control over her family, even if
only when they gathered for holidays. “Land sakes alive. To listen
to the way you all carry on you would think some of us are blood
enemies instead of family. You know good and well all I ask from
all of you every Christmas is to show up for dinner. That’s all.”
She shook her finger at her three sons. “What are you always
fighting for? Your brother must be rolling over in his grave having
to listen to you fuss on and on.”

One by one the brothers turned to the fireplace. Its
smoking pine and cedar logs filled the home with a sweet fragrance
as their sap boiled and melted. On the mantelpiece stood a lone
photograph of John standing next to the B-17 that had served as his
coffin. Ed, the youngest brother, pushed his chair back from the
table and shuffled to his mother. He knelt and hugged her.

“Pay them no nevermind, Ma. They always did fight up
a storm.”

The wisdom of the simplest member of the Dalrumple
clan calmed the tension and kept Jason and Leroy from trying to get
the last word.

“Your mother is right, boys.” Their father cleared
his throat. “Just because we have axes to grind doesn’t mean we
have to bury them in one another.”

The next day Thelma returned to Monroe Furniture.
Five months pregnant, she now worked twenty hours a week. Her
morning sickness and the fumes of the varnishes and stains applied
to desks, chairs, dressers, and tables had driven her from the
station she had handled for five years. She now sanded furniture
until it was as smooth as she imagined her baby’s bottom would
be.

Her fellow employees had dropped from a wartime high
of 137 to a force of fifty-nine. Some had joined husbands returning
from the war and headed off to supposedly greener pastures than
those of Madisin. Others had moved to where larger factories were
transitioning to a consumer-based demand. Mr. Monroe’s factory,
started by his grandfather, had weathered the Great Depression.
Weary with increasing complaints from his workers that a union was
needed, he assembled his workforce on the factory floor after the
whistle sounded that the day’s lone shift had begun.