|
|
Since, as a result of your editor's sojourn in America, he and I were able to insult each other personally, there have been very few letters from which he can cull my New York one. Therefore, since it is a topic of primary interest to readers of this m agazine and also since I can't think of anything else to write about, I shall describe Walter's entrance into these United States. He, of course, may also cover this topic, since he too was present, but I feel I can be more objective.
Out of sheer perversity, Walter chose a ship that would land at Hoboken instead of New York. To those of my English readers who are blessedly ignorant of the exact nature of Hoboken, I shall inform them briefly that it is a small town in New Jersey, ad jacent to New York, but rarely mentioned by New Yorkers in polite conversation. Although I had been to Hoboken, Holland, I had never been to Hoboken, New Jersey, but for the sake of Slant I dared this perilous journey and managed to find the corre ct pier. Hundreds of people milled about. Had Walter already gone, I wondered, or was he still in the Customs' clutches? Naturally I would not dream of speaking to a stranger, so I could not get any information as to whether a tall Irishman with an other- worldly expression had been seen wandering off in the wrong direction. So I waited patiently several hours, finally achieving a coveted position on the very palings of the Customs barrier.
Attaching myself to the lapels of the guardian of the barrier, I whimpered that I had been waiting hours to see my poor old mother from Ireland, and felt I couldn't hold out much longer. Touched by my tale of woe, he admitted me. I sped to the W's.
No Walter.
He had gone. Somewhere in the night he was wandering alone, bewildered, desperate. I had failed him.
I found him in a Customs line. He looked blank. "Well, the voyage is over," he said tentatively.
"Walter!" I cried. "It's me, Ermengarde!"
"Oh, yes," he said, recognition slowly dawning. "So it is. Why don't you go wait by my luggage? It's under W. Joe Gibson and Will Sykora are guarding it."
I trotted back to W. There was nobody there but a young gentleman who might have been as little as eight or as much as ten. This did not preclude him from being a fan but he looked-as so many fans do-as if he might bite.
I looked about for some place to sit down. Walter's suitcase did not seem adequate for the support of a well-fed American female. On the other side of the shed, two evil-looking egotists were sitting wrapped in the Oriental comfort of a commodious plan k suspended on bollards. I wished they would go and drown themselves, so I could bag the plank.
I stood on one leg by Walter's luggage, trying to read a pocket edition of an sf novel which proved to be one I'd read before. After I nearly lost a shoe in the water, I returned to Walter's line. He had moved up a foot.
"Nice of you to come meet me," he replied. "Why don't you join the fans waiting by my luggage?"
Time passed. I shuttled back and forth between the baggage and the line. Finally he was released. We went back to his luggage. As we did, the two ruffianly-looking scoundrels arose from the plank.
"She was trying to steal your luggage, Walt, but we protected it," one said.
They were the fans. And, had I but known, I could have sat on the plank too.
Data entry and page scans provided by Judy Bemis
Updated September 26, 2003. If you have a comment about these web pages please send a note to the Fanac Webmaster. Thank you.