Fields for President [UC] Read online

  It was one of the nicest police stations I've ever been in, too... but there! I must not digress into sweet memories. The matter at hand is this: Right off the bat I wish to dispel some of the vile rumors built up around me by my political adversaries. In the first place, I never stated that Buzzie Dall was a sarsparilla-drinking, cribbage-playing, evil old man. Nor did I ever declare that America's frontier was in France—though I know of a little hostel on the Boulevard Raspail that would make a delightful place for a frontier. And thirdly, never at any time have I promised the voters of America two chickens in every garage. The men who have spread these preposterous calumnies are merely my terrified political opponents.

  The purpose of this modest little volume is to make clear to my future constituents what my moral and political background has been, and exactly how I stand on the issues of the day. So just pull up a fireside and lend an ear to your old Uncle Will, the white hope of the Bull Moose Party in 1940.

  In the first place, many of you have asked why I am running for President when I already have a promising future as a veterinary (I've been studying nights). To this question I merely reply: "There's a reason for everything."

  The reason Columbus discovered America was that he wished to find India. Abraham Lincoln liberated the slaves because he wanted to make all men free and equal. My cousin Haverstraw married a tattooed lady for art's sake alone.

  "The purpose of this modest little volume is to make

  clear to my future constituents what my moral and political background has been"

  My Little Chickadee (© 1940, Universal Pictures)

  However, the reason I am running for President is somewhat more complicated. It dates back to that fateful day when my first spark of interest in politics was fanned to a glowing ember. I was exactly nine years old, and I can remember clearly how Boss Tweed's brother, Harris Tweed, took me on his knee and said:

  "Will, whatever you do in the years to come, always remember one thing: Never give a sucker an even break."

  At the time, my youthful mind did not grasp the whole significance of this great precept. In fact, not until I was in my late twenties did the truth of it burst forth upon me in all its glory.

  At that time I made a tour of the Southwestern states selling an amazing preparation called Raro Hair Restorer. I had obtained the formula from a beautiful Indian princess—Weeping Sinew, I believe was her name. One hot July day I sold a bottle to a baldheaded gentleman in Cowcatcher, New Mexico.

  "Will this really work?" he asked.

  "Squire," I returned in my inimitable manner, "this colossal medication will grow hair in a bathtub!"

  The next day he returned and wanted his money back.

  "What's the trouble?" I demanded. "Doesn't it do everything I said it would?"

  "Oh, yes, it works all right," he said, "but I've decided I don't like hair in my bathtub—it tickles hell out of me.

  From that day on "Never give a sucker an even break" has been my watchword, and my ideal has been to rise to the one great position in the nation where I may exercise it to the fullest.

  Two Flaming Youths (© 1927, Paramount Pictures)

  "At that time I made a tour of the Southwestern states selling an amazing preparation called Raro Hair Restorer."

  Ideals have always been a strong consideration with me, anyway. Just this past January I risked catching my death of pneumonia for an ideal. I was dining with a few political colleagues at the Mayflower in Washington. If memory serves me correctly, among the guests were Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, Cordell Hull, Harry Hopkins, Miss Frances Perkins, Chief Justice Hughes and Gypsy Rose Lee.

  During the baked-flounder course, Secretary Hull leaned over to me and purred in a guileless tone: "Fields, would you care for the Worcestershire sauce?"

  It was no more than a clumsy attempt to trick me into revealing my stand on naval appropriations.

  "Sirrah!" I snapped, "my seconds will call in the morning!"

  Whereupon I stalked from the dining room in high dudgeon, and it was not until I was out on the icy street that I realized I had no shoes on (I had slipped them off under the table before putting my feet in Miss Perkins's lap).

  As a result I spent two weeks at the Ellin Speyer Memorial Hospital, but I did not rue my action. It proves what a man of my caliber will do for his principles.

  I am truly a candidate with both feet on the ground."

  Never Give a Sucker an Even Break (© 1941, Universal Pictures)

  I am truly a candidate with both feet on the ground. I take no fol-de-rol from any man, much less any fiddle-faddle. And when, on next November fifth, I am elected chief executive of this fair land, amidst thunderous cheering and shouting and throwing of babies out the window, I shall, my fellow citizens, offer no such empty panaceas as a New Deal, or an Old Deal, or even a Re-Deal. No, my friends, the reliable old False Shuffle was good enough for my father and it's good enough for me. Furthermore, I shall not mince words in my first message to Congress. Though full many a solon's cheek may flush with embarrassment, I shall point out these trenchant and oft-evaded issues:

  1. Political baby-kissing must come to an end—unless the size and age of the babies be materially increased.

  2. Sentiment or no sentiment, Dolly Madison's wash must be removed from the East Room.

  3. What actually did become of that folding umbrella I left in the Congressional Library three summers ago?

  When, on the fourteenth of February last, I outlined my plan of action in a speech at Des Moines (the night some scoundrel Tory sneaked a snapping turtle into my water pitcher) political circles were set agog. "Who is this person who proposes to revolutionize our government?" they demanded. "Merely a presumptuous dark horse!" Some even went so far as to call me a certain part of a dark horse.

  To refute these charges, right here I should like to review briefly the major incidents of my amazing career, for the benefit of any benighted reader who, like my Des Moines opponents, is not acquainted with the Fields Saga.

  I was born in a humble log cabin a scant stone's throw from Grant's Tomb, the second son of a lowly cordwainer. (Father was one of the lowliest men I ever knew, measuring less than twelve feet on a pair of seven-foot stilts. He could stand on his head under the kitchen sink, but seldom did so, arguing that there was not much point to it in the first place.)

  "When father was not busy waining cords, he worked as a substitute horse-car driver"

  (circa 1899. University of Texas)

  When Father was not busy waining cords, he worked as a substitute horse-car driver. One of my most vivid recollections is driving with him on the day of the blizzard of '88. He had his horses frozen stiff right in front of Mr. Terrence O'Flanagan's saloon on Eighth Street. The conductor, a very dear friend of Dad's, succumbed to the sub-zero weather on the rear platform, his hands frozen tight to the change box. If it had not been for Father's miraculous presence of mind, there might have been dire tragedy that day. However, he immediately jumped from the car, ran up to O'Flanagan's saloon and opened the swinging doors wide. The fumes that poured out revived the horses in a trice. Snorting with excitement, they pulled the car right off the tracks and galloped into the barroom. The conductor thawed out, finished ringing up his fare and stepped over to the bar. Everyone had a Rock 'n Rye on Dad— except the two valiant steeds, who, obviously, were already supplied with horse's necks.

  Of course, I have other early recollections—but perhaps my dear readers would obtain a more colorful idea of my youth by a few peeps into my "memory basket." As other men have kept diaries all their lives, I have always kept a memory basket, in which, from earliest childhood, I have packed away all the touching little souvenirs of my everyday life. Each August 18th—in commemoration of the day I smoked my first marihuana cigarette—I run through this precious memory basket item by item, bedewing each with a nostalgic tear. Let me share a few of my keepsakes with you, my friends—in chronological order, of course.

  First there is
that dear baby tooth, with a small tag attached reading: "The first bicuspid that Little Willie lost. Extracted from Daddy's wrist on April 5, 1887." What a shining pearl it is, too—not a trace of a filling in it!

  "— in commemoration of the day I smoked my first marihuana cigarette —"

  (© 1939, Universal Pictures)

  Next I find a fond note from my first-grade teacher to my mother, reporting my prodigious scholastic progress:

  Dear Mrs. Fields:

  Unless you can dissuade your son William from blowing his nose on the pen-wipers, I shall have to request you to keep him at home.

  Sympathetically Esther N. Pertwee

  The next important memento affords a revealing glimpse into my adolescent character, which seems to have been of a serious, almost brooding, nature. It is a page ripped from the autograph book of the girl who sat next to me in Algebra-1. I remember her name was Rena, though I cannot recall for the nonce the square on her hypotenuse. This is what it says:

  Name: W. C. Fields Address: 1312 Grub Terrace Favorite Flower: Coriopsis

  Favorite Book: "113 Bird Calls—and How to Simulate Them"

  What Color Do You Wear Most?—Size 14 1/2

  Favorite Hobby: Crocheting Antimacassars

  If you were alone on a desert island with me, what would you do?— I would rub two sticks together to induce flame.

  Here the fragment ends. But I am glad to say that the next keepsake is proof that my hobbyistic leanings, at least, soon become more virile. That keepsake—one of my most precious treasures—is an exquisite pair of loaded dice, bearing the date of my graduation from high school.

  Incidentally, it is of interest to note that I have remained true to the hobby of crap-shooting ever since, and on this I rely for a great many votes. For nothing will elect a President quicker than a hobby (unless it is the ability to wear an Indian hat becomingly). Just for instance, take the following Prexies:

  Grover Cleveland . . . Fishing

  Calvin Coolidge . . . Mechanical horseback riding

  Franklin D. Roosevelt . . . Stamp collecting, in collaboration with James A. Farley

  Ulysses S. Grant... Well, of all the Presidents' hobbies, I think General Grant's came nearer to my ideas and ideals—excepting that I was never a great cigar smoker.

  But let us drop the matter for the present and continue with the story of my early life. Upon being graduated from high school I was at a loss to know what profession to turn to. I knew little of law, and medicine had always been distasteful to me. I might have made a fine pianist except that a revolving stool always made me dizzy. So, perforce, there was only one profession left—juggling.

  I proved a born genius in my chosen work, and between the years 1905 and 1908 I performed before most of the crowned heads of Europe. Then came a tragic interlude of enforced retirement—during the spring of 1909 when my hand was caught in a pickle jar.

  "Well, of all the Presidents' hobbies, I think General Grant's came nearer to my ideas and ideals —"

  The Bank Dick (© 1940, Universal Pictures)

  "So, perforce, there was only one profession left — juggling."

  (Early 1900's)

  Of course, from 1910 on, my meteoric march to the pinnacle of success has been immortalized in the songs and literature of our day, so it would seem needless to repeat the tale here.

  Suffice it to say, because of the length and breadth of my experience, I have been showered with countless honorary degrees from our foremost universities. Many are the scholars who have sat at my feet. I particularly remember Nicholas Murray Butler and William Lyon Phelps, sitting cross-legged before the great open fireplace and staring up at me in awe. "Tell us more," they would beg. Fine fellows, Nick and Bill.

  Naturally, in the last twenty or thirty years I have become the supreme authority on a good many matters that directly affect the everyday life of all people. Indeed, they are the very matters in which the chief executive of a great nation should of necessity be well-versed. Allow me to enumerate:

  1. Marriage: Since approximately half the population of the United States is made up of the fairer sex, any President worthy of the name should be familiar with the intricacies of the matrimonial problem—unless he wants to change his residence from the White House to the chateau de la chien (doghouse).

  2. Income Tax: The major responsibility of a President is to squeeze the last possible cent out of the taxpayer; thus he should be at least familiar with the intricacies of the ransom notes that the Internal Revenue Department sends out each spring.

  3. Resolutions: If the chief executive is not an expert in the art of making resolutions, how can he hope to break his campaign promises gracefully?

  4. Etiquette: At a state dinner, should the Nazi ambassador be served Chateaubriand a la Marseillaise? Failure to understand this delicate question might well plunge our nation into war.

  5. Physical Fitness: There is no room in the White House for a man who is afflicted with barber's itch, spots before the eyes, hangnails or housemaid's knee. A President must know how to keep himself fit—else who would throw out the first ball at the Washington Senators' opening game?

  "A President must know how to keep himself fit — "

  (Late 1930's)

  6. The Care of Babies: Shall didies be folded square or triangular? This is the burning question of the day, and the better the candidate understands the little darlings, the more competently he can decide the issue.

  "The Care of Babies: . . . the better the candidate understands the little darlings, the more competently he can decide the issue"

  Ziegfeld Follies of 1921

  7. Business Success: If he knows nothing else, a President should at least understand the secret of success in the business world. For, after all, what is the Presidency but a glorified business—or, at least, a fine racket?

  Because of my broad understanding of these seven vital subjects, I commend myself to the great American public as the one and only logical choice for President in 1940. And in the succeeding chapters of this modest volume, I shall attempt to clarify my stand on every phase of each of the seven issues in question—as well as drop a few invaluable hints that will benefit each and every one of my readers.

  And now, before we proceed further, let us all repair to the bar—the votes are on me.

  Chapter 2

  My Views on Marriage

  "The leaders of our nation realize that in W. C. Fields they have a candidate who understands the fairer sex as well as the fiercer"

  Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch (© 1934, Paramount Pictures)

  Although married for a short time (then separated, though never legally divorced), Fields never had a very high regard for that institution. He felt marriage was a crutch for the weak and an infringement on man's independence.

  Never one to let personal gripes slide by unnoticed, he took every opportunity to interject his personal denouncements on the subject into his comedy. His attitudes were summed up in a quote from Mississippi (Paramount, 1935), in which he nasaled: "A woman's like an elephant —I like to look at 'em, but I wouldn't want to own one!"

  "One young lady — blond, about twenty-four years old, weighing in the neighborhood of 8 stone 6, picnic type..."

  My Little Chickadee (© 1940, Universal Pictures)

  TWENTY-ODD years ago, when I was the leading attraction of Hubert's Flea Circus, I used to saw a woman in half twice every evening, and thereby got a finer cross section of American femininity than most Fifth Avenue psychiatrists.

  This knowledge will stand me in good stead when I take over at Washington. For it is one thing to have to explain to a man why a billion-dollar measure has been vetoed; but it is much more difficult to explain to a woman why the cap of the toothpaste tube has not been put back on.

  The leaders of our nation realize that in W. C. Fields they have a candidate who understands the fairer sex as well as the fiercer. In fact, just a year ago last Michaelmas, Dorothy Dix said to me: "William [tha
t is what the "W" stands for], if every man in the nation understood marriage as you do, America would be a different country today." I can't recall for the nonce what country she said America would be, but in any event, it was a compliment I shall treasure through the years.

  Every day in the week harassed young men and women seek my sage counsel concerning their marital problems. "Should I reveal my past?" they ask. One young lady—blond, about twenty-four years old, weighing in the neighborhood of 8 stone 6, picnic type (I prefer to withhold her name)—fell upon my shoulder (the left one) and sobbed like a swaddling babe. "Shall I tell him? Shall I tell him? Shall I tell him?" (referring to her husband, of course) she cried over and over again. A stimulant was necessary. In fact, I ordered two and had one myself. "Do you know a Mexican lawyer?" she intoned coyly prior to my assisting her through the side entrance into a taxi.

  Before I could answer, the taxi was off like a bat out of the habitat of Old Ned. "Never mind a lawyer. Tell your husband nothing about it. He may never find it out. Never smarten up a chump!" I shouted repeatedly, running down Broadway after the taxi.