Dalyrimple Goes Wrong

by F Scott Fitzgerald

Bryan Dalyrimple was a war hero. He was given a lot of medals and, when he came back to the United States, everyone saw him as a celebrity. This was a lot of fun.

But when everything went back to normal, he realized that for a month he had been the guest of the mayor, that he had only fourteen dollars in the world and that people were already starting to forget him. It was time to leave and find a job.

Dalyrimple was twenty-three and he had never worked. His father had given him two years at the State University and died about the time his son became a war hero, leaving only furniture and some grocery bills.

He had to go to work – immediately.

It was early afternoon when he walked into the office of Theron G. Macy, who owned the biggest supermarket in town. Plump, wealthy, wearing an unwelcoming smile, Macy spoke to him.

"How are you, Bryan? What can I do for you?"

To Dalyrimple, his own words, when they came, sounded like a beggar asking for money.

"Why – this job.

"A job?" Mr Macy repeated unexpectedly.

"You see, Mr. Macy," continued Dalyrimple, "I feel I'm wasting time. I want to get started at something. I had several chances about a month ago but they all seem to have disappeared."

"Let's see," interrupted Mr. Macy. "What were they?"

"Firstly, the mayor said something about a vacancy. I was counting on that for a while, but I hear he's given it to Allen Gregg. He’s forgotten what he said to me."

"You should push those things."

"Then there was that engineering expedition, but they decided they needed a man who knew mechanics, so they couldn't use me."

"You had just a year at the university?"

"Two. But I didn't take any science or mathematics. Just before the war started, Mr. Jordan said something about a vacancy in his shop. I went around there today but I found he meant a store detective, and then you said something one day," he paused, waiting for the older man to continue, but had to go on himself, "about a job, so I thought I'd come and see you."

"There was a job," said Mr. Macy, "but since then we've filled it. You've waited quite a while."

"Yes, I suppose I did. Everybody told me there was no hurry, and I had these offers."

Mr. Macy started going on about how there were very few jobs these days, which Dalyrimple ignored.

"Have you had any business experience?"

"I worked on a ranch two summers ago as a rider."

"Oh, well. How much do you think your salary should be?"

"I don't know."

"Well, Bryan, I tell you, I'm going to give you a chance. Your salary won't be much. You'll start by learning the stock. Then you'll come in the office for a while. Then you'll go on the road to sell. When could you begin?"

"How about tomorrow?"

"All right. Report to Mr. Hanson in the stock-room. He'll start you off."

Realizing the interview was over, Dalyrimple got up awkwardly.

"Well, Mr. Macy, I'm certainly very grateful."

"That's all right. Glad to help you, Bryan."

Dalyrimple found himself in the hall. His face was dripping water, though the room had not been hot.

"Why did I even thank him?" he muttered.

Next morning, Mr. Hanson told him coldly that he had to arrive for work at seven every morning, and asked him to do as another worker, Charley Moore, told him.

Moore was a lazy man of twenty-six. He was pale and his clothes smelled of cigarette smoke; he enjoyed playing billiards, and had many bad habits.

The first morning he lay down on some boxes and carefully explained the many problems of working for the Theron G. Macy Company.

"It's a good-for-nothing organization. I'm leaving in a couple of months!"

People like Charley Moore are always going to change jobs next month. They do, once or twice in their careers, and then they sit around saying that their last job was much better than the new one.

"What salary do you get?" asked Dalyrimple curiously.

"Me? I get sixty." He replied.

"Did you start at sixty?"

"Me? No, I started at thirty-five. He told me he'd put me on the road after I learnt the stock. That's what he tells them all."

"How long have you been here?" asked Dalyrimple anxiously.

"Me? Four years. This is my last year too, I promise you."

Dalyrimple hated the store detective, just like he hated the time-clock that he had to use every morning and evening, and he came into contact with him almost immediately because of the ‘No smoking’ rule. He was used to smoking in the morning, and after three days without his morning cigarette, he followed Moore to a quiet place where they enjoyed a smoke in peace. But this was not for long. One day in his second week the detective told him that next time he smoked he would report him to Mr. Macy. Dalyrimple felt like a naughty schoolboy.

He learnt a few unpleasant facts. There were people who had worked there for ten or fifteen years at sixty dollars a month carrying boxes and several times a month they had to stay at the factory until nine at night.

At the end of a month he stood in line and received forty dollars. He sold his sunglasses and was just able to live – to eat, sleep and smoke, but nothing else. As he got no increase in the second month, he got worried.

"Ask Macy, maybe he'll increase it," was Moore's unhopeful reply. "But he didn't give me any more till I'd been here nearly two years."

"I've got to live," said Dalyrimple simply. "I could get more pay as a labourer but I want to feel there's a chance of promotion."

Moore shook his head and Mr. Macy's answer next day was also unhopeful.

Dalyrimple had gone to the office just before closing time.

"Mr. Macy, I'd like to speak to you."

"Yes." The unwelcoming smile appeared.

"I want to speak to you about more salary."

"Well," he said, "I don't know exactly what you're doing. I'll speak to Mr. Hanson."

He knew exactly what Dalyrimple was doing, and Dalyrimple knew he knew.

"I'm in the stock-room, sir. While I'm here, I'd like to ask you how much longer I must stay there."

"I'm not sure exactly. Of course it takes some time to learn the stock."

"You told me two months when I started."

"Yes. Well, I'll speak to Mr. Hanson."

Dalyrimple paused dissatisfied.

"Thank you, sir."

Two days later he again appeared in the office with some papers the accountant had asked for. He was busy and Dalyrimple, waiting, began looking through the book on the secretary’s desk. He turned a page and saw his name. It was a salary list:

Dalyrimple, Davis, Demming, Everett,

His eyes stopped:

Everett ............ $60

So Tom Everett, Macy's nephew, had started at sixty dollars, and in three weeks he was out of the stock-room and into the office.

So that was it! He would have to see man after man promoted before him: sons, cousins, sons of friends, even if he was better than them. At forty, perhaps, he would be an accountant like old Hesse, tired Hesse with a boring routine and a boring life.

"I won't!" he shouted aloud.

The accountant looked up in surprise.

"What?"

"Here's that information," he said. "I can't wait any longer."

It didn't matter what he did; he just had to get out of this situation. In a dream he walked into the stock-room and sat down on a box, covering his face with his hands.

"I've got to get out of this," he said aloud and then repeated, "I've got to get out", and he didn't mean only out of Macy's store.

When he left at five-thirty it was raining hard but he went in the opposite direction from his hotel, feeling a sense of happiness. He wanted a world where the future was unknown, but instead he was in the world of Mr. Macy's smelly store-rooms. He began to make other plans.

"I'll go – to a big city – meet people – who'll help me. Interesting work somewhere. There MUST be!"

Then he decided that his chance of meeting people there was small. It was here in his own town that he should be known, famous, before his legend was forgotten.

You had to cut corners, that was all.

He walked a long way while he thought about this.

Cutting corners meant forgetting what he was taught as a child: that success came from doing your duty, that bad behaviour was punished and good behaviour rewarded — that it was better to be poor and honest than rich and dishonest.

Cutting corners meant being hard.

It seems to me, he thought, that morality depends on the situation. It depends on whether or not you are caught. In fact, he decided, it wasn't worth worrying about what's bad and what isn't. When I want something enough, I should just go and take it – and not get caught.

And then suddenly Dalyrimple knew what he wanted first. He wanted fifteen dollars to pay his hotel bill.

With great energy he stood up, took off his coat, and cut a piece about fifteen centimetres square from its black lining with his knife. He made two holes near the edge for his eyes and then put it on his face, pulling his hat down to hold it in place.

It was night now and very dark. He began to walk quickly back towards town, watching the road with difficulty through the eye-holes. He was not nervous. He just wanted to do the thing as soon as possible.

He carried on until he saw a bush, far from any lamp post, and waited behind it. After a minute he heard the footsteps of several people. He waited – it was a woman and he held his breath until she passed ... and then a man, a labourer. The next person, he felt, would be what he wanted ... the labourer's footsteps disappeared ... other steps grew suddenly louder.

Dalyrimple got ready.

"Put up your hands!"

The man stopped, let out a little sound, and put his fat arms up.

Dalyrimple looked in the man’s coat.

Then he said, “You run! If I hear your feet stop I'll shoot you!"

Then he stood there in sudden uncontrollable laughter as frightened footsteps hurried away into the night.

After a moment he put the money into his pocket, took off his mask, and ran quickly across the street.

The day after his first robbery he ate in a little café with Moore and, watching him open up the newspaper, waited for him to say something about the theft of the day before. But either the theft was not mentioned or Moore wasn't interested. First he read the sports pages and then he read the cartoons.

Dalyrimple felt lonely. He felt like he was fighting the whole world. Other men who broke the law lied to the world. He would not lie even to himself.

Happiness was what he wanted – and he had a strong belief that happiness could be bought with money.

The night came for his second robbery. He felt very confident as he walked the dark street. He felt he moved like a cat.

He passed a man and then another one a few hundred metres later.

He was on Philmore Street now and it was very dark. Far up the street was a man walking, possibly a policeman. After a long time he found himself following the shadow of a lamp post across a garden. Then he was standing without breathing.

He listened carefully – and he felt his heart beating fast. Inside the house it seemed to be very quiet. He was glad he did not know who lived here. He took out his knife. In a minute he was in the dining room.

Then he put the open knife in his coat pocket, took out his torch, and tiptoed around the room.

There was nothing here he could use. He moved a chair slightly, held his breath, listened, went on, found the stairs, started up them. The seventh stair made a noise, the ninth, the fourteenth. He was counting them automatically. At the third noise he paused again for over a minute – and in that minute he felt more alone than he had ever felt before. In the army, even when he was alone, he knew that people were there to help him, but now he was against everybody. He had never felt this fear, yet he had never felt this triumph.

The stairs came to an end and he was looking at a doorway; he went in and listened to regular breathing. His feet took only a number of steps at a time as he pocketed all the objects which seemed valuable. He felt on a chair for possible trousers and his mouth smiled mechanically as he found money in the pockets.

Another room ... the same breathing. Round object – watch, chain, money, two rings – he remembered that he had got rings from the other room as well. Down the stairs. He missed two noisy steps but found another. He was all right now, practically safe; as he neared the bottom he felt a slight sense of boredom. He reached the dining room and was soon outside.

Back in his room at the hotel he examined the things he had stolen:

Sixty-five dollars in notes.

A platinum ring with three medium-sized diamonds, worth probably about seven hundred dollars. Diamonds were going up.

A cheap gold-plated ring with the initials O.S. and the date inside '03. Worth only a few dollars.

A case containing false teeth.

A silver watch.

A gold chain worth more than the watch.

A dollar and sixty-two cents as small change.

He put the money under his pillow and the other things in an old boot, putting a sock in on top of them. Then for two hours his mind raced like an engine here and there through his life, past and future, through fear and laughter. Finally he fell into a deep sleep about half past five.

Though the newspaper report about the burglary didn’t mention the false teeth, they worried him a lot. He felt sorry for the person who had no teeth.

He felt so bad that he put the false teeth in brown paper and wrote FALSE TEETH on the package in pencil. Then, the next night, he walked down Philmore Street and threw the package onto the grass so that it would be near the door. Next day the paper said that the police had a clue – they knew that the burglar was in town. However, they didn't say what the clue was.

At the end of a month he was known as "Burglar of the Silver Area”. People were afraid of him. They thought he had done five burglaries, but he had only committed three. Someone had seen him once, but described him wrongly.

Dalyrimple sometimes felt good, but sometimes he felt guilty. He found that it was better to give up thinking of himself as a rebel. It was better to think of everyone else as a fool.

His attitude toward Mr. Macy changed. He no longer felt inferior. As his fourth month in the store ended he found himself thinking about his employer almost like a brother. He no longer worried about his future. He had the plan of saving several thousand dollars and then leaving – going east, back to France, down to South America. Half a dozen times in the last two months he had been about to stop work, but he was worried that people would notice. So he carried on working, but behaved like it was a joke.

Then suddenly something happened that changed his plans. Mr. Macy sent for him one afternoon and asked him if he had plans that night. If he hadn't, could he please visit Mr. Alfred J. Fraser at eight o'clock? Dalyrimple was worried that he had been discovered, but decided that there was nothing to worry about. At eight o'clock he arrived at the big Fraser house in Philmore Avenue.

Senator Fraser.

"How do you do?" he said, holding out his hand. "Sit down. I suppose you're wondering why I wanted you. Sit down."

Dalyrimple sat down.

"Mr. Dalyrimple, how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-three."

"You're young. But that doesn't mean you're stupid. Mr. Dalyrimple, what I've got to say won't take long. I'm going to make you an offer. To begin at the beginning, I've been watching you ever since you came back from the war and made your speech.

"It was a speech I've remembered. It was clever and everybody in that crowd had a lot to think about after it. I know. I've watched crowds for years. But, Mr. Dalyrimple, I've seen too many young men fail because they were not ready to work hard. So I waited. I wanted to see what you'd do. I wanted to see if you'd go to work, and if you'd finish what you started."

Dalyrimple felt very pleased.

"So," continued Fraser, "when Theron Macy told me you'd started down at his place, I kept watching you, and I followed your progress through him. The first month I was afraid for a while. He told me you were getting restless, too good for your job, wanting a salary increase ….

"… But he said after that you made up your mind to shut up and get on with it. That's what I like in a young man! That's what wins. And don't think I don't understand. I know how much harder it was for you after being a hero. I know what a fight it was for you."

Dalyrimple's face was very red.

"Dalyrimple, you've got brains and that's what I want. I'm going to put you into the State Senate."

"WHAT?"

"The State Senate. We want a young man who has got brains, but is solid. We've got to get more young men into politics."

There was a sudden ring at the door-bell.

"That's Macy now," said Fraser, rising. "I'll go and let him in."

He left Dalyrimple in a dream. The world was opening up suddenly – The State Senate, so life was cutting corners, that was the rule. No more taking chances now unless it was necessary – but being hard was what counted. Never feel sorry about anything you did.

He jumped to his feet in a sort of triumph.

"Well, Bryan," said Mr. Macy stepping in.

The two older men smiled their half-smiles at him.

"Well Bryan," said Mr. Macy again.

Dalyrimple smiled too.

"How do you do, Mr. Macy?"

"I want to thank you, sir," said Dalyrimple simply. He felt like he wanted to cry.