Postwar Days #8: August 16, 1945 Pt. 4

The news from America, Canada, and the world's richest man

It was an unseasonably cold day in New York. After the past day of flushed, sweaty delirium, it felt as if just a slight breeze of reality had cut back in. People still took to the streets to celebrate, but there was no orgiastic massing, no broken windows or public kisses. It was instead a day for classic American leisure. The Belmont, that glorious shrine to animal strength and human wealth, saw a record day in both attendance and betting. After four years of frugality, throwing money away never felt so good.

On pier 88, a Nazi U-Boat, once the terror that lurked under the surface of the nation's waters, was transformed into a museum. In exchange for scraps of waste paper, children could step inside the cramped confines of the rusting contraption. Even to their low-lying eyes, that dark cavern seemed so small. How had it been possible that they had once been scared of such things?

In Manhattan, a man plunged to his death from atop the Empire State Building. His name was unknown; no identification could be found on his body. Passers-by stopped to look, never losing the cheery mood of the holiday. They talked amongst each other, imagining why someone would do such a thing now. Perhaps, in the exuberance of peace, he had thought he could fly. Perhaps he had wanted to do it for a long time, and with the end of the war had finally been relieved of his obligation to live. A few, privately, thought that he might have the right idea. After all, wouldn't life after this simply be a downhill slide?

And at Ebbets Field, the Dodgers welcomed 36, 000 spectators to watch their game with the Cubs. After the previous day's drunken exuberance of scoring, things were more sedate, with Brooklyn ultimately triumphing 2-1. Dodgers pitcher Tom Seats did it all himself, shutting down the Chicago bats, crossing home plate to score the first run, and batting the second in. The spectators, inebriated on peace and beer, cheered as their team ended a four-game losing streak.

The Brooklyn manager, Leo Durocher, again made himself part of the spectacle. Cut in the cloth of a boxing or wrestling promoter, "The Lip" was rumoured to receive a contractual bonus if attendance reached a certain level. It certainly crossed that threshold on this unexpected holiday, and Leo celebrated by getting into a loud argument with the umpire at the bottom of the second inning. Durocher was thrown out, but rested backstage in the comfort of the knowledge that he was the highest-paid manager in baseball history. And why not? He was as much a part of the show as the lunkheaded draft-rejects they put out on the field.

Soon, the show would have better actors. Elsewhere in the city, league officials were meeting to discuss how they would integrate players returning from overseas. It was agreed that the current crop should give way to those who had served. After all, what would be a better patriotic spectacle than a veteran taking the mound for the Yankees?

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That beast Moloch had many faces, many incarnations, many servants. The worst of them were those that had dug themselves out of hell, the oil beasts, sending their smoke up into the atmosphere where they would linger and linger. Amongst these was Getty Oil. It had consumed a man, George F. Getty, taking everything from him, even its name. It was now slowly doing the same thing to his son, John Paul. A popish name, for the leader of a crude religion.

J. Paul Getty had once been a young man guided by lusts and whims. Five wives, five living children, and countless mistresses, he had been guided by his throbbing cock. But now all of that seemed like so much distraction. He had discovered the most erotic sight of all: a jet plane in full flight, spitting out Getty oil.