Life — September 14, 1928 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Help Wanted—Male “Gentleman author going abroad desires prize- ter as traveling companion, Welterweight ferred. State age, height, and weight in apply- ing. Box 734) Lire.” Tuar is the way my advertisement will look in the paper. I must admit that I got the original idea from Thornton Wilder and Gene Tunney when I read about their European trip. Although I make no pretensions to put- ting myself in the same category as Mr. Wilder, I, too, am a writer (I am so! This thing you're reading now is writing, isn't it?); and for a long time now I have felt the need of suitable companionship abroad. A good, fast, scrappy welterweight would be just the ticket. A heavyweight would probably be clumsy and get in the way of the luggage (besides taking up too much room in compartments, etc.), and a featherweight is too near my own size. I myself am what is called a “paper- weight,” and as I tip the scales at 128 (by holding on tight and pressing down hard with my feet), I want a boxer who is so much bigger than I am that he would be ashamed to take a poke at my chin if he happened to get irritated or bored with the arrangement. A welterweight would be practically indispensable at the French Customs, where speed and dexterity are essential to get you through in jig time. My friend would locate the luggage, elbow people out of the way, and make threatening gestures at the Customs officer if the latter attempted to open any of the bags. Once in Paris, my welterweight bodyguard would be handy at knocking down post- “Now blush, sis, This is a color camera and I want to get my money's worth.” Base Rutn at Bat! card-vendors and protecting me from loose women on the streets. In case some foreigner insulted me (either by hissing “Uncle Shylock” or shouting, “You have all our gold!""), my welterweight would step up and floor him. Then, at night, the boxer and I would sit at a little café table on the boulevard and talk about life. “I think Lire is lousy,” I would remark. “They haven't taken anything of mine for three months.” “What's the trouble, Norm?” my friend would sympathetically inquire. “Oh, 1 don’t know,” I would reply despondently. “Maybe I’m not close enough to realities.” “Let me see some of your stuff, Norm.” “Oh, no, Mickey; it’s no good.” “Come on—don’t be so modest!” “Oh, well, all right,” and pulling out a sheaf of manu- script, I would lay it on the table; and over a couple of cognacs we would go through the stuff together. Of course, my welterweight companion might feel the need for exercise occasion- ally, and I suppose I would have to put on the gloves with him for a light work- out. Still, I could wear my glasses and he wouldn't dare hit me. There is a heavy fine for doing that—or maybe it is only a tax (the French are tax-ridden). At any rate, we wouldn’t have much money, and my friend couldn't afford to sock me more than twice at the most. I have been keeping my eye on Mickey Walker for some time now (whether he has noticed my pecking or not), but there should be plenty of answers to my ad. Whoever the lucky fellow turns out to be, I am looking forward to a swell year in Europe; and for the first time, I comicbooks.com