Edward Harthe’s shiny wingtips tapped on the cooling pavement, setting off an echo against the surrounding brick walls. Behind him, the towering image of a bank disappeared into the darkening alley, and fell into memory as he stepped out onto the open street once again. The sun had fallen beyond the horizon, leaving behind it a sky filled by indigo velvet fitted with stars whispering of the infinite. And yet, as the shadows drifted into their evening haunts, Harthe found that his eyes were fixed on the ground below him and his shoulders bore great burdens against his breathing.
Coming to a building lined with windows and newspaper stands, he stepped to his right and pushed open a swinging door, issuing a ring from an attached bell. A woman in a blue-striped dress looked up from the cup of coffee she was pouring, and smiled a good evening. The diner was packed with men in dark suits and darker brows. Some sat alone, staring into their coffee and wishing for something stronger; others held conversation that filled the room with an ominous tone. All held the same look of dread in their eye.
So the phenomenon was wide spread.
Taking a seat at the bar, Harthe waved a finger and called for a cup of joe and a hamburger. The waitress nodded cheerfully, but it was clear his order would take longer than was desirable. Turning to his right, the slumping image of the man beside him caught his attention. Dressed in a quality suit with horn rimmed glasses resting on the counter, he lay with his forehead resting on the rim of his coffee cup, newspaper tucked loosely under his arm. Raising an eyebrow, Harthe gently removed the paper and unfolded it.
The headline said something about stocks becoming unstable after what the Daily Mail was calling “the greatest crash in Wall Street’s history”. But now the words jumbled in his mind. They had no idea what was going to befall them on Monday; hell, they didn’t even know that they were making it worse every minute that passed by. But this was inevitable; this was exactly what Paul Warburg had been screaming about while the people turned up their televisions and shut out his voice. This was the impending crash that men had averted their eyes from, and it would cause what Warburg has been calling a “great depression”. The great depression: something worse than they could ever have imagined. There was no way that investing so much borrowed money wasn’t going to upturn them in the end… but it was too late for that now. Wall Street had crashed on Thursday, but Monday was going to be the day that shook the world. All weekend he had been filing sellers-forms, trying to get the bank ready for the mass amounts of stock sales that were going to be released in the morning. The trouble was, no one wanted to buy, and a majority of the sellers didn’t own more than ten percent of the stocks. Livelihoods would be lost, and debts would have to be paid by cracked hands and aching backs.
The waitress set down a mug, and began to pour coffee into its white dish. Harthe looked up at her, wondering what she would lose, marveling at the fact that he could hear the knock of fate, but she did not know he was coming. Fate, it seemed, was the crash and the crash was coming. The crash of the economy. The crash of everything they had reveled in as a society. She topped off the cup, dropped a napkin and a spoon on the counter beside him and flew back to work with a grin. He sighed, and lifted the cup to his lips. The man beside him still slept, so Harthe returned to his newspaper.
The sub-headings startled him. Jimmy Walker, the mayor of New York City, had issued a statement asking the theaters to only play happy pictures, while his followers theorized that if people would simply avert their eyes from the crash, no harm would come from it. Harthe’s stomach turned and he regretted the hamburger he had ordered. Damn people and their insistence on ignorance, he thought to himself. He took a large sip of his coffee. He wanted out of the diner, wanted to get away from the cloud of public foresight. Yes, yes! He thought, and suddenly glanced around, concerned he had shouted the words. He himself wanted to ignore what was happening, what had happened, in hopes that it would go away. But it wouldn’t, and he knew it wouldn’t.
There was no heroic figure, no hopeful verse, no grand speech that could save them now. He finished his coffee, slid the paper back under his neighbor’s arm, and put down a ten-dollar bill. It was a generous amount. Heroes couldn’t save the economy, but some part of him wondered if acts of kindness could save the country.
Walking out the door, he made his way into the night and down the street, feet marching solemnly to the drum of the future, mind pining for the past. Little could he have known the troubles his future held – the loss of his job, the hunger of his family, the calm words of Roosevelt on the radio trying to raise the spirits of a withering people – but he had to move on. Move on to what would be called the New Deal, a system introducing socialism into the economy as a way to put the brakes on the depression. Move on to the bread lines and job hunting that he would be forced to bend under. Move on to World War II, the most horrible thing that could ever save a nation. Everything within him screamed to keep moving, whatever it took, whatever it meant. Come what may, there was something within him that aspired to hope, aspired to strength, aspired to the very grit of survival. He would not give up, not his family, not his dignity, not his hope.
God Bless America, he thought. May God Bless Us All.
Coming to a building lined with windows and newspaper stands, he stepped to his right and pushed open a swinging door, issuing a ring from an attached bell. A woman in a blue-striped dress looked up from the cup of coffee she was pouring, and smiled a good evening. The diner was packed with men in dark suits and darker brows. Some sat alone, staring into their coffee and wishing for something stronger; others held conversation that filled the room with an ominous tone. All held the same look of dread in their eye.
So the phenomenon was wide spread.
Taking a seat at the bar, Harthe waved a finger and called for a cup of joe and a hamburger. The waitress nodded cheerfully, but it was clear his order would take longer than was desirable. Turning to his right, the slumping image of the man beside him caught his attention. Dressed in a quality suit with horn rimmed glasses resting on the counter, he lay with his forehead resting on the rim of his coffee cup, newspaper tucked loosely under his arm. Raising an eyebrow, Harthe gently removed the paper and unfolded it.
The headline said something about stocks becoming unstable after what the Daily Mail was calling “the greatest crash in Wall Street’s history”. But now the words jumbled in his mind. They had no idea what was going to befall them on Monday; hell, they didn’t even know that they were making it worse every minute that passed by. But this was inevitable; this was exactly what Paul Warburg had been screaming about while the people turned up their televisions and shut out his voice. This was the impending crash that men had averted their eyes from, and it would cause what Warburg has been calling a “great depression”. The great depression: something worse than they could ever have imagined. There was no way that investing so much borrowed money wasn’t going to upturn them in the end… but it was too late for that now. Wall Street had crashed on Thursday, but Monday was going to be the day that shook the world. All weekend he had been filing sellers-forms, trying to get the bank ready for the mass amounts of stock sales that were going to be released in the morning. The trouble was, no one wanted to buy, and a majority of the sellers didn’t own more than ten percent of the stocks. Livelihoods would be lost, and debts would have to be paid by cracked hands and aching backs.
The waitress set down a mug, and began to pour coffee into its white dish. Harthe looked up at her, wondering what she would lose, marveling at the fact that he could hear the knock of fate, but she did not know he was coming. Fate, it seemed, was the crash and the crash was coming. The crash of the economy. The crash of everything they had reveled in as a society. She topped off the cup, dropped a napkin and a spoon on the counter beside him and flew back to work with a grin. He sighed, and lifted the cup to his lips. The man beside him still slept, so Harthe returned to his newspaper.
The sub-headings startled him. Jimmy Walker, the mayor of New York City, had issued a statement asking the theaters to only play happy pictures, while his followers theorized that if people would simply avert their eyes from the crash, no harm would come from it. Harthe’s stomach turned and he regretted the hamburger he had ordered. Damn people and their insistence on ignorance, he thought to himself. He took a large sip of his coffee. He wanted out of the diner, wanted to get away from the cloud of public foresight. Yes, yes! He thought, and suddenly glanced around, concerned he had shouted the words. He himself wanted to ignore what was happening, what had happened, in hopes that it would go away. But it wouldn’t, and he knew it wouldn’t.
There was no heroic figure, no hopeful verse, no grand speech that could save them now. He finished his coffee, slid the paper back under his neighbor’s arm, and put down a ten-dollar bill. It was a generous amount. Heroes couldn’t save the economy, but some part of him wondered if acts of kindness could save the country.
Walking out the door, he made his way into the night and down the street, feet marching solemnly to the drum of the future, mind pining for the past. Little could he have known the troubles his future held – the loss of his job, the hunger of his family, the calm words of Roosevelt on the radio trying to raise the spirits of a withering people – but he had to move on. Move on to what would be called the New Deal, a system introducing socialism into the economy as a way to put the brakes on the depression. Move on to the bread lines and job hunting that he would be forced to bend under. Move on to World War II, the most horrible thing that could ever save a nation. Everything within him screamed to keep moving, whatever it took, whatever it meant. Come what may, there was something within him that aspired to hope, aspired to strength, aspired to the very grit of survival. He would not give up, not his family, not his dignity, not his hope.
God Bless America, he thought. May God Bless Us All.