I Wish I Knew More about Mommy and Daddy

A great story…enjoy!

I Wish I Knew More about Mommy and Daddy.

via I Wish I Knew More about Mommy and Daddy.

New York, 1909

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The first decade of the 1900’s was an era of possibility, of great opportunity linked to America’s emerging economy. Ordinary people did amazing things, went far in life, and acquired some enemies in the process. Here is the beginning of a melodrama from a melodramatic period:

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I don’t think what happened to the Councilman was an accident. He took the train down to Grand Central Station, a hansom cab to the hotel, was met by the manager, and escorted to his usual room.

When the Councilman was alone, he checked his pocket-watch and decided he had time to take a short nap before the evening’s activities. He took off his grey spring 5-piece suit, hung it over the chair for the maid to sponge down and iron if need be, hung up his good shirt with pearl buttons, its bow-tie hanging over to it, and arranged himself as comfortably as possible on the large bed. Ahhh. Before he knew it, he had drifted off.

A low creaking woke him up—he could see the nob of the room’s door turning. Had he forgotten to bolt the door? Someone gave the door a gentle push; it swung open a couple of inches. But the Councilman couldn’t make out the person on the other side of the door. “Who’s there?” he asked.

In response, the barrel of a gun emerged in the gap and jerked. The Councilman felt a blow to the left side of his chest, then excruciating pain. The smell of cordite reached him, and he tried to get out of bed. He realized he couldn’t move.

Blindly, he groped for the buzzer on the cord beside his bed, found it, and pushed it, falling back onto the pillows from the exertion. Distantly, he heard feet running down the hall, people entering the room…

The hotel manager was standing over the Councilman, talking into a phone: “We need the doctor. Now.” The manager was a thin man in his early 30s, not given to patience. While he waited, he stripped off the bloody shirt and began cleaning the wound. There had never been a death on his watch, and he was damned if he was going to have one now.

The doctor appeared after a few minutes and, seeing the blood on the sheets and the manager’s worried expression, began to work at once. This doctor had practiced in the city for years, and was more than familiar with gunshots and extracting bullets. He knew at once that the wound was serious—but at the moment, his chief concern was to stop the bleeding. And he also knew that the victim was important, important enough so that no word of the shooting must pass his lips. …

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photo: baby dragoon Colt, 1848; author: Hmaag; WikiCmns