Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

"Show me how to live!" she pleaded in her loneliness, never dreaming when she mailed her daring letter that one who led others to happiness could he lonely too THAT NIGHT I wrote the letter I was lonely — perfectly lonely and wretched was what I told myself — and I tried hard to put it all down on that piece of paper. I read it over and over when I'd finished and it seemed to say what I meant, especially those last two paragraphs. "So you see, Mr. Monday," — that was what I wrote — "all I want to know is how to keep the cat from getting my tongue whenever I go out with a boy, and how to stop myself from saying the wrong thing whenever I do say something. "I've been listening to you every Monday night for a long time and mostly I think your advice is awfully good. If you can just help me, too, I'll be grateful forever. "Yours very truly, Grace Jones." Of course, I realized the "Yours very truly" was a little formal, after I'd poured out my heart in the letter, but I felt it was better that way. The mere fact that I'd had the courage to write it was a personal triumph, and I sealed it up and hurried out to post it before I changed my mind. It was strange, how exciting .it was to mail that letter — as if I were starting something new, cutting the strings of the past. There was another reason, too — no one in the world except myself knew I'd written it, not even Mary Montague, my room-mate. That was curious, because it had been Mary's idea in the first place. We've been room-mates, Mary and I, for a long time, and we work in the same office. And yet we're as different as shadows and sunlight. Mary is — the only word is lovely. But she's more than that, she's smart and sophisticated and always knows the right things to say. And she has golden hair that flops over her shoulders and large blue eyes and the way she wears clothes — Maybe you can understand how it is. I'm just the opposite from Mary. My hair is a dusty shade of brown and my eyes are hazel some times and other times they're green and no one especially minds what color they are anyway. Please don't think I'm pitying myself. It's just that I know the sort of person I am. The whole thing had started the night before. Mary and her fiance, Preston Knight — he's an executive in one of the two local radio stations — were going out to some party. Mary looked stunning in her long black sleeveless dress and Preston stood there admiring her and then he turned to me and flashed one of those handsome smiles. "What are you going to do tonight, Grace?" he asked. I was sitting over on the sofa, pretending to be interested in the evening paper. I glanced at him and said, "Oh, tonight I listen to Mr. Monday. I never miss him, you know." Preston looked the tiniest bit puzzled. "You don't mean that fellow who gives advice to the lovelorn? That—" But Mary lifted her hand and stopped him. "Now, Pres," she said, her tone reproving, and I saw the look that went between them. A little later, on their way out, Mary was talking in a low voice. "Pres, you shouldn't have said anything against — " The door closed and I couldn't hear any more. But I knew what she was saying. Mr: Monday was one of my favorites and Pres shouldn't talk against him even if Pres thought he was terrible, because the program was one of the few bits of excitement in my week Mary was like that. She hadn't said anything but I knew she was worried about me' and the fact that boys simply didn't seem attracted to me and I practically never had dates. I knew she'd been thinking about it because I know her pretty well. We'd been together four years and were very close, even though in recent months we hadn't seen too much of each other, because Mary was out almost every night with Preston, and during the day she's 7ttu ♦• For a moment he didn't speak and then he said falteringly, "Miss — Miss — are you Miss Grace Jones?" f •» ■ secretary to one of the vice-presidents and I'm a typist out in the main office. When Mary got home that night she came into my room and sat on the bottom of the bed and began to tell me how I ought to get out more and stop cooping myself up in four walls and wasting away. I guessed they had talked about me that evening. I said sure, I'd love to get out more and how did I go about it? She said she thought it might be because I didn't know how to get along with men too well and I said I thought she was right. ".You know what I'd do if I were you, Grace?" She spoke slowly. "I'd write that fellow you listen to on the radio — Mr. Monday. Tell him your problem. You put a lot of faith in his advice, and he may be just the one to tell you what to do." It was true I liked to listen to him, liked his way of going to the heart of the problem. He had a dynamic way of talking, and his advice always had a lift to it. Still, writing to a stranger, putting my heart down on paper — I shook my head. "I can't do it, Mary. It might be smart. But it's out of the question." Mary didn't say any more about it. She told me about the party that night and the people they'd met and then she said goodnight and went off to bed. I thought over the idea, after she'd gone. Lay there in the dark and debated with myself. I felt a little ashamed to think I might have to write somebody to ask how to live, but I knew it was foolish to look at it that way. Mr. Monday might be able to give me the advice I