Work Text:
"Say, don't you remember.."
The radio sang quietly behind me on the small coffee table as I stared into the wall in front. My limbs felt as if they were all sinking into the couch as I slumped backwards.
Even upon my rayon stockings, my dress was terribly itchy, as if the fabric was piercing into my thigh.
Well, I'd never imagined a dress made from a sack could be very comfortable, anyway...
At least it is practical.
But we never had to think about practicality! Before all this! Never!
Not until the stock market came raining and crashing down on America's heads.
"It is all too good to be true," they'd say.
My husband scoffed at such nonsense.
"This is modern-day America!' he'd say, "There's nothing too good to be true."
I should be glad he had at least some sense in him to stay in work.
It was just a little extra money that he was making on the side...
Until he began coming home with new tokens of our love –
New pairs of shoes, rings and darling gemstone necklaces… Those pretty silk dresses...
Evenings out, cocktails, dancing until our feet ached and we were dizzy with moonshine.
I miss that.
It’s not fair!
A bottle will cost us an arm and a leg now.
My husband doesn’t want it…
I wonder what I could do for a bit of booze?
He’s got to work digging cesspools for thirty bucks a month.
Wonder if I could dig my own cesspool.
I could bring in good money, couldn’t I?
I’m a pretty lady, aren’t I?
One night wouldn’t hurt, would it?
Ah, look at what the state of this country has done to my thinking…
I ought to be thankful I’m even married. The Lord knows what cold street I’d be dragging my feet across at night if I didn’t have my husband.
I do love him and I’m grateful he can provide for us, even in such harsh times as these.
I can sacrifice a little fun for that matter, I guess.
But I don’t want to!
I don't want to, what have I done?!
I was never a rich businessman, or a politician or some fancy factory guy with money spilling out of his nostrils!
I never put a dime in the stock market.
Why must I suffer such consequences?
Why must the entirety of the world suffer because some people have too much in their pockets than they know what to do with?!
Sometimes, when I look at my husband I get a little –
Agh!
He invested like hell. Like a fool.
But he got blessings back every time.
He was supposed to be competent.
How can a goddamn financer not recognise that he was playing with fire?!
Maybe I should be happy we don't have it worse...
No! Why must I be happy about everything?
He's an idiot!
To think it was presents and blessings and drink and heel and dress and pure joy and then the whole of Wall Street cracked under our dancing feet…
And my husband was part of it?!
It makes me sick!
I'm sick – sick of all of this!
And Mr. President's sitting on bars of gold in that lovely little White House of his while he's got his men and women digging up old dirt and serving his very people.
I've got all my bets on him, though, to fix this country.
I think the whole world has...
My husband will be home soon.
Two light knocks came at the door.
Yes.
I grumble, pulling myself up off of the couch and make my way to the door. My hand hesitates, curled around the handle for a moment.
Maybe I could just...
Leave him there. Let him think for a bit. About how he's got the whole country tied up in this mess.
I turn the handle, and step aside for him to come in.
"Hello, darling," he enters with that humble smile he's come in with for years.
I remain silent.
“You’re quiet, huh?” he chuckles.
I refuse to reply again, and instead my eyes drift towards his overalls. They are, in fact, too big for him.
Just like his pride is too big for that head of his…
Noticing a small stain on the side of one pant, I swiftly move towards him and bent down, letting my body be held up by my hand as my other works quickly in brushing it off. It is dirt.
Dirty, disgusting dirt from digging up sewage water and soil all day.
His hand meets mine as he pointlessly copies my action. His nails go softly over the stain which was now removed, and he then offers his hand to help me up. I pull myself up instead, gravitating back towards the couch, and I fall backwards, letting the fabric consume me once again, as it has for most of today.
“What’s wrong?” my husband asks upon my retreat. I scoff in response, just subtly enough for him to take it light-heartedly.
He brings his leg out playfully, placing a hand on his hip,
“You don't like ‘em?” he grins,
“Don't talk like that.”
I don't notice his reaction as I turn my head away.
He jokes, “I think they're quite stylish,”
I don't find it very funny.
I don't find this amusing at all.
How can he be so content with all of this?
Why am I upset? More upset than he is?
I haven't seen him leave for work in one of those charming suits of his in years.
Years!
Years, I've seen him stuck in – in jeans for goodness' sake!
He looks like a damned farmer, he does.
He would be an outright fool of one, I bet.
He's meant for money; I'm meant for money!
He's not meant to be shovelling the earth up and throwing it behind him.
We're supposed to move forward, together.
That’s what this country was supposed to do!
We were moving forward…
Oh, how our glorious America had been standing so tall, over everybody else…
Nobody could beat our country…
No body.
Because we’ve all fallen to the same damn level.
“Don’t you miss –” I hesitate, “life?”
“Life?” he walks over to me and pauses. I shuffle to the side to make space for us both to sit, and he exhales before carefully placing himself next to me. “This is life.” A smile again washes over his face, “I’m quite content.”
How?
I sigh, a hint of aggravation in my breath. I feel the back of his hand slide on the fabric of my skirt as he joins his fingers with mine. I let him, pressing my fingers softly on his skin. Hands once so smooth and gentle, working away at typewriters for hours, now felt rough and coarse.
“I know this is hard, darling.”
“It’s more than just ‘hard’!”
He rubs his thumb slowly over mine, “I know that as well. But when you ask me of life, I must say…” with a pause, he thoughtfully gathers his words, “I have found I actually do enjoy this work.”
My finger twitches.
He continues, “It’s different from the office. I don’t have to sit down all day, sweating in the many layers of my suits. My back would ache – you know that… Even if I come home with hurting now, it’s a good sort of hurting. It’s rewarding, dear. Breaking my back for this country is what I will always find the strength to do, even if it kills me.”
This will kill me.
“There's no solving this country…”
“Why don't you trust Mr. Roosevelt?” my husband probes, “He's given me work after all.”
“Of course I trust him…” I muse, “I just –”
“You just?” he smirks.
My hand falls out of his as I fall back further into the couch and grimace. My husband quickly takes it into his own again, patient, as he waits for me to speak once more –
“I just wish this wasn't life.”
“It isn't ideal for anybody, sweetheart.”
“But it’s not fair.”
“It isn’t.”
I burst out, abruptly standing up, “You’re impossible!”
My husband’s arms fall into his lap. He taps his foot in thought for a few seconds.
I can’t stand how slow the man is!
“This is your fault, you know that?!” I cross my arms, raising my voice.
Nervously, he stands up with me, “What? Dear –”
“You invested too, you stupid fool!” I cry.
He runs a quick hand over his face and licks his lips, sighing, “It was just a bit of money.” He then muttered in shame, “Everybody was doing it.”
Must it take for the entirety of the world’s economy to collapse beneath our feet for a man to admit hushfully under his breath that he takes responsibility?
Even better, that he puts a gun to his head for it.
Fools.
Fools.
Idiots.
They're all damned idiots!
I burst out, “You couldn’t have seen two feet in front of yourself what could have happened?”
My husband goes weary, “Please, darling.” He retreats to the couch in defeat, “It was more than a decade ago.”
“And will we be stuck like this for a decade longer?”
His voice hardens, “Would you prefer for Mr. Hoover to help the nation, instead?”
“I’d prefer if this wasn’t our reality at all.” my voice breaks into a whisper.
My husband falls silent, returning back to his fatigue.
“How about the pictures?” he beckons cautiously, “This weekend, hm? They’re playing The Winning Ticket I hear.”
He attempts to smile at me, though it’s slight, and frankly not really much of one at all. My arms fall to my sides, and I fiddle with the tips of my fingers, feeling the chipped red nail polish upon my nails.
“It’ll be a nice little getaway from this.” he pushes, “Even if just for an hour or so.”
Getaway.
Get… Away.
I want to get away from all of this.
“Okay.”
Our people make so little now and we’re rushed to splurge on cinema tickets. Where we get to see those returning handsome faces, dressed in long, flowing, gorgeous pieces… They drink wine and down caviar alongside it as if it's nothing, all while practically glowing on screen. And then they get to walk down gleaming aisles of reporters and cameramen all living and breathing and shouting their names as they pick up their shining awards…
I want that.
I want to be a Shirley Temple, maybe.
I want to be a Katherine Hepburn.
I don’t want to be the wife of some lousy husband on a work relief programme!