The morning of February 18, 1947, three months to the day after my marriage, found me stumbling through the Want-Ads in the Times. I had been reading them daily for some time in order to give the impression to a certain person that I still believed that someone might really hire me.
The dripolator—a second pot—was dripping at my elbow. Across from me at the bridge-table at which we were break-fasting in the sitting-room, and would in time dine, my dear wife had her assured grip on the front page of the first section of our paper. While she analyzed and synthesized and filed the news in her mind, her pretty eyes sparkled like green shampoo shaken well. Also present (we were indebted to the housing-shortage) was my young brother Boris who, unable to get into any institution remotely connected with higher learning, has found a job, lives with us, sharing our life and the modest rent. Wrapped in his wrinkled p-js and bathrobe, he was glooming over his coffee, stolidly filling in the twenty minutes he will be late to his job in the stacks of the Public Library. (That drudge is regular even about being late.) The Elevated, concealed by the dear wife’s ruffled gray and white draperies, shook itself down Third Avenue; the bridge-table wiggled; the French Premier fell.