The screen writer (Apr-Oct 1948)

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by F* Hugh Herbert * + which somebody had given to Mrs. Brill and which she still kept because it had Doctor Peabody's address scribbled across the flyleaf and she was always forgetting to transfer it to her little black address book. Sometimes Mr. Brill even forced himself to plough through Business and Housing in the hope of finding pay-dirt, but since he was not too well-informed in these subjects it is possible that errors may have escaped him nevertheless. AS a result of these protracted Friday night sessions, with their resultant loss of sleep, Mr. Brill invariably felt like hell on Saturdays. This irritated Mrs. Brill no end. She did not mind so much if Mr. Brill felt like hell on week-days, when he was at the office and could take it out on his staff, but since he was a man of substance and always spent Saturdays at home, she had a legitimate quarrel with the chronology of the case, and she decided to do something about it. Short, sweet and simple was Mrs. Brill's solution. She would hide Mr. Brill's Time when it came on Friday, and claim that it must have been delayed in the mails. She would secrete it carefully, and not let him have it till Sunday evening. By these means, she argued, both Saturdays and Sundays would be comparatively peaceful, and if Mr. Brill felt like hell on Mondays that would be all right with her. Mrs. Brill was well aware of the fact that no mail was delivered on Sundays, and deemed it not unlikely that Mr. Brill, likewise privy to this knowledge, might be skeptical when she claimed (as she intended to claim) on Sunday evening that Time had just been delivered and wasn't that strange J She was just a little apprehensive, wondering what he would say, but she need not have been, for the contingency never arose. Mr. Brill, informed on Friday during dessert (stewed pears) that his Time had not arrived, gulped his coffee hastily and announced that he was going out to the drug store. "What on earth for?" said Mrs. Brill. "To buy a copy of Time," said Mr. Brill. Mrs. Brill said that was ridiculous. He subscribed to Time, it would surely be there tomorrow or the day after (she still clung to the hope of deferring Mr. Brill's T//«e-night to Sunday) and it was manifestly insane and a wicked waste of money to go out and spend twenty cents for a silly old magazine to which he was already entitled by virtue of a subscription. Mr. Brill said that for twenty years he had set Friday night aside for a study of Time, and that twenty cents more or less was insufficient consideration to induce him to postpone it. Mrs. Brill, who had hidden Time under the middle cushion of the davenport, felt like a fool but there .was nothing she could do about it. Mr. Brill was already on his way out. He returned within ten minutes with a copy of Time for himself and a box of Kleenex for Mrs. Brill, who coveted this still somewhat scarce commodity. Under the circumstances she said nothing. Mr. Brill retired to the library and did not get to bed till 3 :25 a.m. At this hour he awakened Mrs. Brill (not deliberately but they shared a room) and promptly read to her a scathing letter to Time pointing out where they had once more erred. Mrs. Brill said yes that sounded fine. She wanted to choke him. IN the morning Mr. Brill felt like hell and so did Mrs. Brill. They wrangled bitterly all through breakfast and Doris, the parlormaid, reported in the kitchen that the old poop (Mr. Brill) was getting to be absolutely impossible. The upstairsmaid suggested that it was probablydue to hardening of the arteries and the cook said the sooner they hardened permanently the better she would like it. During the forenoon Mr. Brill said that he had a splitting headache and thought he would take a little nap. Mrs. Brill, who also had a splitting headache, thought that was a good idea. Mr. Brill elected to take his nap on the davenport in the living room, and in the course of rearranging the pillows discovered his hidden copy of Time. Mr. Brill at once demanded, and got, an explanation. Tearfully, Mrs. Brill told him all the facts, insisting that she had been motivated by the fear that a silly old magazine was actually coming between them. She recalled, sentimentally, all the pleasant Saturdays and Sundays they had spent before Mr. Brill had elected to dedicate Friday nights to that silly old magazine, and she declared emotionally that the sanctity of their marriage should be given priority over a silly old magazine. These feminine and slightly redundant arguments evoked a responsive chord in Mr. Brill. Much to Mrs. Brill's surprise (and delight) he (Continued on Page 2S) The Screen' Writer, September, 1948