Fields for President [UC] Read online

  My patience with these pitiable human beings is infinite. Marriage is a double, vast adventure, the depths of which few have plumbed. And because of my wide experience in plumbing (both indoor and out) I feel it my bounden duty to enlighten the many thousands of my weaker brothers and sisters—poor devils—who are groping in the dark.

  Right at the outset, friends (I always think of my readers as friends and would like to ask you all to a libation if I thought a quart would go around), I wish to state unbiasedly and without reservations that most marriage problems of today stem from the fact that we pamper our gentle sex too much. The nation needs to return to the colonial trend of life, when a wife was judged by the amount of wood she could split or buckets of coal she could carry up from the cellar. But probably that is asking too much of human nature. The old order changeth, o tempora, o mores! The young men of today prefer to consider their fair ones as frail flowers and parade their own manly strength before them. (Personally, I am of the old school.)

  This is a mistake! Never try to impress a woman! Because if you do she'll expect you to keep up to the standard for the rest of your life. And the pace, my friends, is devastating.

  I tried to impress a woman once. Abigail Twirlbaffing was her name and she lived next door to us. Played left field for the Guthrie Centre Hay & Grain Co. Dodgers, batting 835. Abigail bestowed upon me the befitting appellation of "Blondie," and I always addressed her as "My Plum." In those days I could blow a bugle harder than an Eagle Scout. I once blew a bugle so hard that after one blast of Reveille it looked like a trombone. Ultimately an opportunity afforded itself and I got a chance to play cornet in the town band. The cornetist had been run down by a pie wagon—the unfortunate poor dear! I practiced day and night and sometimes in the afternoon. One evening after the ball game, little Abigail came over to listen. She was all intent. I wanted to impress her. I held my breath for a few moments—then I ripped off "The Whistler and His Dog." I gave it my all. "You wonderful man!" she gasped and fainted. She had a look in her eyes like that of a wild horse. My heart bled for her. My intuition tells me how a woman suffers when she is in love with a great artist.

  "I could play that backwards," I calmly admitted and, to impress her, of course, I suited the action to the words, with the music upside down and the notes facing the audience, which had gathered from a near-by bowling alley. Then I played on one foot. Pandemonium broke loose. Well, friends, Abigail's eyes got wilder. I was led on. "And now," I boasted in stentorian tones, "I shall play it forwards and backwards at the same time." Then with my index and middle fingers I played "The Whistler and His Dog" forwards, and with my fourth and little finger, or pinkie, I played it backwards. Believe me, friends, it was a memorable performance. Every note, every nuance rang forth furioso con fortissimo —until suddenly the two parts met up in the middle with a terrific backfire that knocked two of my front teeth out!

  Abigail immediately threw me over. She said she could never marry a man who wore bridgework.

  That is why I say, never try to impress a woman.

  If there were only one other piece of advice I could give a young man it would be this: marry a woman who cannot read.

  "'You wonderful man!' she gasped and tainted"

  You Can't Cheat an Honest Man (© 1939, Paramount Pictures)

  "Of the women who can read in America, nine out of ten have not an iota of respect for a newspaper"

  Man on the Flying Trapeze (© 1935, Paramount Pictures)

  I have found in my extensive research on modern marriage that the morning newspaper is the cause of 13.4% (as of March 14, 1940) of all marital disasters. Of the women who can read in America, nine out of ten have not an iota of respect for a newspaper. After get they through with one in the morning it looks as though it had been used to pack crockery. Worse than that, the running order of the pages has been completely altered.

  I know of at least one case where this has led to tragic results. One of the most promising young men I ever knew, Clarence Fritt, married a young lady who, when she got her hands on a daily, became a veritable fiend. One morning the young lad met his boss in the elevator. "How did Roosevelt's last message to Congress get across?" asked the boss. "He had the whole House of Representatives behind him," answered the young man, "until the Yankees squeezed through two runs in the eleventh inning; then General Motors dropped half a point and it looks like partly cloudy with occasional showers tomorrow."

  Needless to relate, the poor boy got the old heave-o next payday.

  If there is another feminine failing that rivals newspaper vivisection for disastrous consequences, it is the habit of putting things away. Beware, brother, of the super-tidy wife. Some years ago a nephew of mine, whom I loved as dearly as one can love a nephew, married a lovely fledgling whose only fault was putting things away. The very first month she put away his gray sweater with the grease spot on the sleeve (which is synonymous with putting moths on relief). She soon became bolder and put away his old straw hat, his cracked mandolin, his prized collection of beer mats, and even the autographed barrel stave that was used on him at his fraternity initiation. Then the fever was upon her. She started putting away books, pictures, old magazines, tobacco tins and steins. Ultimately, one warm afternoon when my nephew was dozing on the sofa, she cracked up entirely and put him away!

  That was in the spring of the year Bryan quit the Cabinet and we haven't found hide nor hair of the poor devil since. Some say he is living in Jersey City, which only complicates things.

  Now, every fair-minded reader will concede that this was unreasonable on the part of my nephew's wife, even though he had never contributed a farthing to her support. (Money isn't everything.) Unreasonableness on the part of American wives is perhaps the greatest single cause of marital tragedy today. The wife who carps at her husband's cleaning his boots on the bedroom curtain is merely digging her own matrimonial grave. A man must look tidy, if for business reasons only.

  I know of a couple who had lived happily together sixteen years until the wife's unreasonableness finally shattered both their lives. One day, after a grueling eighteen holes on the golf links (missing nearly every putt after wonderful woods and irons) and an equally hard evening in the locker room, the husband came home and literally toppled into bed. And when he tried to soothe his aching feet on his wife's back, she actually rose and went into the guest room to sleep. Well! I leave it to you.

  'A man must look tidy, if for business reasons only.'

  "One day, after a grueling eighteen holes on the golf links . . . and an equally hard evening in the locker room ..."

  (Mid-1930's. University of Texas)

  Naturally, it was such a wound to his feelings that their relationship was wrecked. The wife later denied that she had been unreasonable on the grounds that the poor fellow had been too fatigued to remove his spiked shoes, but I have always regarded it as a flimsy excuse.

  So, my gentle feminine readers, next time your husband stamps out a cigarette on the living room rug, take stock of yourself before you pout at him. Possibly the fault lies at your own door.

  For instance, you may be among the 83% of American wives who have an unbridled passion for microscopic ash trays. There is nothing so bewildering to husbands as to have nothing large enough to cram an ash into. Recently I was a guest at the home of a demure young bride of scarce a month. I chanced to flick my ashes on the rug.

  "Listen, you red-nosed wart hog," she jollied me. "Where were you brought up, in a horse stall?" (There is a possibility she wasn't only twitting.)

  "There, there, my little song sparrow," I soothed her. "I'm merely giving you an object lesson, and if you are wise, you will heed it. You are addicted to minute ash trays. If you do not overcome the failing, it will some day break up your home. I once had an experience that proved nearly fatal. A niece of mine back in Oglethorpe, Georgia, was a bride of three months when she went to an afternoon bridge party and won a pair of infinitesimal ivory ash trays. She sent them to me—her lovin
g uncle. One evening, suffering from a severe headache,

  I swallowed them with a glass of water. I thought they were aspirin tablets."

  But aside from these minor incidents of marital difficulty, I must return to my original point—that the woman of today is too pampered. I have a letter before me at this very moment—wait a second—ah, here it is —from a housewife who says that her husband is away from home twenty-three hours out of the day, only bothering to come home to change his shirt. She feels that not only is she losing his devotion but that time hangs heavy on her hands.

  My only answer is that probably the fault lies with her. I almost insist on this—that if she would keep busier, her husband would become more devoted, and she would never again have to worry about holding his love. And this advice applies to any wife anywhere.

  There you have it. Read my book, "Fields' Formula for Fretting Females." It includes the following schedule, which I have drawn up at the request of countless home-economics bureaus:

  THE FIELDS FORMULA FOR FRETTING FEMALES

  7:00-8:00: Arise quietly, shake down furnace, stoke it, prepare breakfast—eggs exactly four minutes, two lumps in the Java!

  8:00-8:10: Awake husband gently, singing sotto voce. My preferences would be "Narcissus" or "Silent Night."

  9:00-10:00: Drive husband to station, do marketing for dinner, and be sure not to order anything husband might decide to have for lunch. 10:00-12:00: Mow lawn, wash clothes, iron husband's shirts, press his suits, paint screens, weed garden, swat flies. 12:00-2:00: Clean cellar, wash windows, tidy house, beat rugs. 2:00-2:15: Eat simple lunch. 2:15-5:30: Spade garden, darn socks, wash Rover, put up jelly, polish car, burn rubbish, wash woodwork, paint garage, clean side walls of tires. 5:30-7:00: Drive to station for husband, shake cocktails, cook dinner, serve dinner, wash dishes. 7:00-12:00: Keep busy—keep smiling—for, as every man knows, the husband is tired.

  I think, my friends, that that just about covers the subject of marriage.

  Chapter 3

  HOW TO BEAT THE FEDERAL INCOME TAX—AND WHAT TO SEE AND DO AT ALCATRAZ

  (Early 1900's)

  Fields' income tax practices were very amusing. He regularly made huge deductions for blatantly ridiculous items; one year he claimed $25,000 for milk 9 as an entertainment expense for newsmen. One especially padded year he received a rebate on a new and similarly preposterous subterfuge. Far from being pleased. Fields was furious at having missed employing this ruse in the past. His lawyer was barely able to dissuade the Great Man from trying to sue the government for past losses on this account by reminding him of the lengthy jail term possible should anyone choose to examine his records. The indignant Fields spent the next few weeks denouncing the unorthodox practices of "Uncle Whiskers."

  ". . . the government fixes it so that you have a choice of (1) starving to death by having an income so low that you do not have to pay a tax; or (2) having an income high enough to pay a tax — and then starving to death after you've paid it."

  "I number at least one such person among my acquaintances (I say "number" because that is what he is now — at Alcatraz, pronounced Al-cat-razz)"

  Trapeze (© 1935, Paramount Pictures)

  MARCH 15 is always a day of rare rejoicing and unbridled revelry throughout the nation. For that is the day when all the citizens of our fair land may practice their inalienable rights of sending a fat slice of their yearly increments to Washington; in return, our Congressmen will forward packages of radish seed or intimate candid-camera shots of themselves weeding their farms or kissing their grandchildren. Most Congressmen are very human, if nothing else. Among my myriads of gentle readers, there are doubtless a goodly number whose appreciation of March 15 is marred only by the intricacies of wrestling with an income-tax blank. Forsooth, there are some citizens who feel so cowed by this imposing document that they ignore it altogether. I number at least one such person among my acquaintances (I say "number" because that is what he is now—at Alcatraz, pronounced Al-cat-razz).

  And yet, filling out an income-tax blank is as easy as rolling off a logarithm; just to prove it, my friends, I will lead you step by step through the process. And do not for a moment fear that I shan't be meticulously correct in every statement. Correctness runs in the Fields family. Even today I can remember how often Daddy used to declare: "I'd rather be correct than be President." As a matter of fact, that is probably the reason he skipped the White House and ended up in the House of Correction.

  But to get down to business: In order to pay an income tax you must first have an income, and that income must be in excess of $1,000. In other words, the government fixes it so that you have a choice of (1) starving to death by having an income so low that you do not have to pay a tax; or (2) having an income high enough to pay a tax—and then starving to death after you've paid it.

  This is a plan that is not only fundamentally false, but also shamefully misleading. Take, for instance, the case of a friend of mine, Mr. O'Hare, who took out his citizenship papers many years ago and worked like a Trojan, day in and day out, as a tonsorial artist. After thirty-five years of standing behind a barber's chair, discussing the affairs of the day, touching up every subject from Ty Cobb's unethical antics on the field to the tax the Governor should put on gum drops—all the while trying to make himself heard above the customers' snores—he still could not make enough to lift himself into the income-tax class.

  But he was a man of ambition, so he finally developed a sure-fire business idea. He opened a new barber shop and engaged deaf-and-dumb barbers who couldn't even write. Thereby the customers were permitted to think whilst being tonsorialized, and to pick their own winners. The bootblack was deaf and dumb, too.

  The news of his unique new venture spread like wild-flowers. Mr. O'Hare opened tonsorial emporiums in every large city and hamlet from the rock-bound coast of Maine to the snow-capped mountains of California. As an added attraction he engaged deaf-and-dumb manicurists with dark hair.

  Money poured in so thick and fast that his estranged wife, on advice of her relatives and counsel, decided it was the better part of value to sue him immediately for alimony and community property. She sued on March 2, 1937.

  Alas! There was nothing to sue for. For, while a short time ago Mr. O'Hare was only a poor barber and consequently had no business paying an income tax, today he was paying an income tax and consequently had no business.

  However, I am not the type to dictate, and if any of my readers want to be as foolish as Mr. O'Hare, and go and make $1,000 and more, so be it. I will try to guide them even in their folly.

  So follow me closely while I delve into detail. In the first place, here are the principal things needed in filling out an income tax: one dozen tax blanks, six pencils, one slide rule, one Chinese abacus, three reams of inexpensive copy paper, an ice pack and various medicinal stimulants.

  The first thing to do is print your name plainly on the proper line. If it is a joint return, we are instructed to print the given names of both husband and wife. But since some of the names that husband and wife give each other are hardly suited to print, we must proceed cautiously.

  After you have filled in this information, the next matter you'll think of is what you can deduct and what you can't deduct, always keeping in mind the possibility that a tall man with a dark mustache and a blue serge suit and a gold star might come to the house with a piece of paper. Most of us know already that torn postage stamps are not deductible items; nor is the cost of telegrams to Senators asking that they reduce the income-tax rate; or the box of cigars you forgot to give the postman last Christmas.

  But there are other questions of deduction that the general public is not so well informed upon. For instance, most of us are under the impression that Bad Debts can be deducted. I can assure each and every one of my ardent readers that this is not the case at all. Last year I tried to deduct a dentist bill of $143.00, which was one of my very worst debts, but it was disallowed. This hurt me worse than the dentist. />
  At any rate, here is my best advice on the matter of deductions: just count off on your fingers all the items that you suspect might be deductible—and then forget them, because they aren't.

  Now that that issue is settled, the rest of the income-tax problem falls into two divisions: whether you can add and subtract straight to arrive at your tax total; and whether you can pay the total once you arrive at it.

  The first is a mere question of arithmetic, and will be dealt with further on in this pronunciamento. The second—how to scrape up the dough—is of extreme importance, and I should like to clear the matter up here and now.

  "— how to scrape up the dough — is of extreme importance, and I should like to clear the matter up here and now."

  My Little Chickadee (© 1940, Universal Pictures)

  With this in mind, let me say that I am a strong advocate of budgeting throughout the year so that in March the difficulty of paying one's income tax will be no difficulty at all. I recommend it to all my readers because I have seen budgeting work such wonders in the past. Of course an improperly arranged budget is apt to be more of a hindrance than a help. For instance, less than a month ago a young man came to me with tears in his eyes. He had run into the knottiest sort of a budgetary problem, and he begged me for expert advice. Here is how he had arranged his weekly budgeting schedule:

  1. Income tax $0.26

  2. Carfare 0.60

  3. Room rent 4.50

  4. Food 3.83

  5. Clothing 1.27

  6. Medicinal spirits 19.54

  $30.00