Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

PEPSODEN¥ POlMfDER makes -teeth TWICE AS BRIGHT *'CHECK' «*0OUBLE-CHECK" says Bernice, radio network accountant says Bernadette, Chicago business girl " We used to dare teachers and friends to tell us apart. But that was before we made a tooth powder test. Lucky me ! We flipped a coin and I won Pepsodent. Bernadette chose another leading brand." " Who'd have thought it would be so noticeable! Everyone remarked about it. My teeth . became twice as bright as Sister's. Even Dad marveled that Pepsodent made such a difference...so Pepsodent's the choice of the whole family now! " "Seeing was believing! Nothing but Pepsodent for us!// K For the safety of your smile ... use Pepsodent twice a day . see your dentist twice a year. ;ired of hearing about it. You did a stupid childish thing to show off, and y^ou're paying the price for your childishness. So, incidentally, am I." Stan's mouth fell slightly open. Carol had never been so clear and concise before — she'd never been so much of a person before. "What's the big idea?" he asked. Carol said, "This. I won't have you picking on Ken. Ken's paying for the food we eat and the roof over our head, and even the soles on our shoes. I won't have you picking on him." Stan rasped nastily, "Food and shelter and shoes — is that all he's paying for?" Carol said, and her tone was opalescent with frost — "I wish I could leave you, Stan. I wish I could leave you. . . . But no matter what you say I know you need me." Stan's mouth closed again and he sat for a long moment in complete silence while the typewriter upstairs clicked out a devil's dance. When he finally spoke the nastiness had gone from his voice. "Carol," he said, "I do need you, and you mustn't hate me too much for going on this way. Here I am, shut in by four walls — doing nothing, seeing nothing, being nothing. Once upon a time I'd enter a tavern and everybody'd turn to look at me and I'd be surrounded by a crowd in two shakes. I was Stanley Breen, then — the biggest announcer in radio — and now I'm an invalid cooped up in a house in the suburbs, and I haven't anybody but you." Carol said, not melting even in the slightest degree — "You're no longer an invalid. . . . Why don't you go to town every once in a while and see 56 your friends?" "But they won't look at me — they won't crowd around," Stan told her. "I'm just a broken old has-been, without a future or a voice." Carol melted then almost, but not quite. "Stan," she said, "I've been meaning for ages to suggest something. Why don't you get a job? You're strong as a horse — even though your voice has gone. And we can't sponge off Ken forever. . . And then, too, it would give you something to think about. You'd stop sitting around and brooding." "V/hat could I do?" asked Stan. "You know radio," Carol told him. "There are agency jobs that you might handle." "Oh, you want me to be an office boy," said Stan, nasty again. "You begrudge me the space I take up in my own house. Is that it?" "No," said Carol, "that's not it." Ken had announced an imminent vacation but he didn't go on one. Night after night he banged on the typewriter and whatever came out of that typewriter was locked in a deep dresser drawer. And then finally the surplus typing stopped and he took to going to town more often, and earlier, and sometimes he phoned and told Carol he wouldn't be home for dinner. Sitting opposite her at the dinner table, Stan told Carol significantly that Ken must have a new girl, but Carol only gave him an extra helping of steak and held her peace. AND then one afternoon, along about -^ cocktail time, Ken dropped in at Maude Sanborn's office — she kept a small office in town — and told her that he wanted to use up a couple of hours of her valuable time. "Are you propositioning me?" asked Maude, and laughed her fat comfortable laugh. "You're a sight for sore eyes. Ken. I haven't seen you for a month of Sundays. Speaking of Sundays, do you remember those horrible weekends when Stan was in the money?" "Do I?" said Ken. "Those weekends were the Spanish Inquisition plus, as far as I'm concerned. Look, Maude, do you mind if I read something to you?" Maude asked anxiously, "Is it a radio script?" Ken shook his head and told her — "No. It's a play. A mystery play." Maude asked, "Where did you get it? Who wrote it? Why do you want me to listen as you read it?" and Ken replied, "I got it out of my head — I wrote it. And that's why I want you to listen." Maude didn't express any surprise — every script writer in the world has dilly-dallied with the idea of writing a play — why should Ken Williams be an exception to the general rule? She just leaned back in her desk chair and folded her hands and said, "Shoot — but if it gets too bad I'll stop you." And so Ken curiously devoid of self-consciousness, opened his brief case and took out a thick wad of paper and flicked over a page and started off from scratch. After the first five pages Maude had stopped leaning back and her hands weren't folded — they were clenched. When Ken came to the climax of his first act and paused for breath, she said — "Go on, you genius — what are you waiting for?" By the end of the second act Continued on page 59 RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR