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Well, to me, who had been brought up in a quiet middle
class New York home, the goings on in this office were...
They called me Jesus Christ, Jr., because I was in a state of
absolute amazement from morning till night.
I told you about Tom Smith, the dignified man with a
black ribbon on his pince nez glasses. One day we came and
found a girdle and a brassiere on his desk. Something had
happened the night before that nobody cared to go into.
Another time I was working late--it was a private house,
you see. I used to drive down in my second-hand car. I'd drive
down and park it in front of the brownstone's door at 48th Street.
It was against the law to park more than a certain length of
time. It wasn't nearly as bad as today; traffic wasn't as bad.
In those days they had to serve a summons on you personally.
They couldn't attach it to the steering wheel. So one day I
looked out--I'd had the car there all day--and a policeman on
a horse was waiting for me. So I hid in the building. I just
didn't come out, till he got tired and rode away. So I was
alone there at about half past six. I was still waiting for
him to go away. I thought I'd sit him out if it took all night.
Tommy Smith didn't know I was in the building. He thought he
was there alone in his office in the back of the building.
Then some girl called up and had the wrong number. And Tom
Smith, a dignified editor who had been editor of the Century
magazine, which was something like the Atlantic or Harper's,
spent a half hour trying to get this girl, whom he didn't know,
to come to see him at the office! She kidded around with him,
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