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GLUEMANIA
(Alabama)
Tom's note:
Here we have what appears to be either an attempt by a clerical employee
to be a writer for the Writers' Project, or else a parody of such by an
actual writer. In either case, it gives us a sideways look at an
office of the Federal Writer's Project. The Project has given us
many invaluable insights into personal and community history, but here is
a look that shows that at least on some level, the job was a job, and the
office was an office. Many of the jabs could be updated and
re-written regarding a typical office today.
The uniformed think there is nothing
but writing done around a Writers' Project.
I object.
For nigh on to three years I have been everything from gem clip
picker-upper to forty-inch envelope licker. I've licked so many envelopes
that I can't eat dessert without first decapitating it to look for an
enclosure.
Not being a writer, I have the official and misleading position of supply
clerk.
This occupation includes supplying an attentive and sympathetic ear to all
the trials and tribulations that befall the workers; which, in turn, gives
an insight to their idiosyncrases.
The most consistent finder of catastrophes is the draftsman. He draws maps
and raises pigeons, flowers, and Hell.
On pretty days, he gets discouraged and wants to go back. Where I don't
know. Just back.
On rainy days, he complains of the chemical effect of dampness upon
drawing paper and tracing cloth. I have no knowledge of either, but he
calls me over to the board to show me the 1/128 fraction of an inch
difference in the circle on his map and the number which before the rain
was inside the circle. His other pet peeves include the thickness of his
tracing paper; an ink stopper that won't stay in the bottle; hair on his
penpoints; water on the bone which causes pains in his propping elbow; and
pigeons that refuse to lay more than once a day.
While checking a tour, the tours editor
saw an Indian mound. He retraced his steps, went to the library and read
of the conditions that led to the eviction of the Indians, compared those
conditions with the present one, and now contends that the Indians should
be charged with fraud.
The tours editor also raises chickens and is distinguished by his fight
against coccidiosis (chicken appendicitis). Chickens develop this ailment
by pecking in the dirt. The tours editor prevents it by cooping his
chickens atop his house. A roof without too much slope is reccommended.
On the feminine side of our editorial staff is one who edits copy but not
her conversation. For instance:
She mentioned that she is writing a book; had completed fourteen chapters.
To show the proper interest, I asked how many words per chapter. She
answered by reading to me the fourteen chapters and synopsizing the next
six.
The typists include a blond, a red-head, and a finicker.
The blond is very enthusiastic and explosive. Everytime I am comfortably
seated, she yells for gem clips, carbon, or onion skin. I deliver the
supplies and she wants to know my opinion of her date of the night before
and I finally escape after guessing how much beer he can drink before he
passes out. She can drink 1 1/2 gallons.
The red-head bosses the boss, she bosses me; she bosses. I like red-heads,
but she's obstinate.
The finicker is one of these prophylactic kittens who wouldn't lick an
envelope if her life depended upon it. After I watch the writers until I
learn how to write, I'm going to write an essay on world affairs and show
how the affairs would be better if everyone attended to his own envelope
licking.
The man who wrote "Three Fools" for American Stuff sits nearby with a
mosquito extinguisher pipe in his mouth; a jumble of copy for the "Alabama
Almanac" on one side of him; and two or three essays on the other side. In
his desk are four contests that he hopes to win and in his head are five
or six stories that he expects to sell. But he can't be caught writing.
He's either reading or hunting notes, but regardless of what can be seen
with the naked eye, copy keeps turning up with his name across the top.
All of which should add up to this moral: "A horse doesn't have to be a 'Seabiscuit'
to earn his bread and salt."
The Assistant Director is a drinking man. He walks in drinking, drinks all
day, and walks out drinking. He drinks so many pops that the janitor has
installed a soft drink stand in the office and is doing a thriving
business on the nickels of the bosso secundo.
Between my desk at the front of the office and the State Director's desk
at the back in front of the windows is an assortment of typewriter tables,
chairs, wastebaskets, what-nots, and feet; all disarranged in perfect
order.
5,385.6 times a day the State Director calls for me to look for various
and sundry articles, but mostly her glasses, a copy of Negro Life;
Industry, Commerce, and Labor; her hat, coat, and overshoes.
Because I enjoy doing things the hard way, I close my eyes and swivel-hip
through the obstructions like an All-American until I slam up against her
desk with only the slightest of abrasions. Before I learned, I broke
bones.
The impact opens my eyes. I glance bewilderedly over the mountain of copy
on her desk; then blindly I point to where her glasses MUST BE under
Industry, Commerce and Labor which is under Negro Life which is under a
fossil paper weight weighing seven pounds, a flower pot filled with some
of the draftsman's flowers, and two dozen blue pencils that need
sharpening.
While clearing these from the desk, the upheaval discloses the hat, coat,
and overshoes; a 1936 calendar; a pass to "The Birth of a Nation"; and a
copy of the first bulletin on the "American Guide."
The excavation over and the lost articles recovered, I turn proudly and
thread my way back to my seat, where I content myself with licking surplus
envelopes until I am called again to the aid of some distressed worker.
Text from: Library of
Congress, Manuscript Division, WPA Federal Writers' Project Collection
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