Aside from the fact that
Cosmopolitan paid substantially more than the two-cents-a-word rate common in
the pulp world, it afforded the author a significantly larger audience, and --
believe it or not -- a more upscale audience, a fact that must beggar belief to
anyone looking at the covers of recent issues of this woman's magazine. With
headlines such as "Guys Rate 50 Sex Movies," "How to Outsmart a
Bitch." "50 Things to Do Butt Naked" and the highly doubtful
"The Sex Article We Can't Describe Here!" it is completely
understandable that most modern readers have difficulty wrapping their heads
around the fact that Cosmopolitan began life as a premier fiction magazine, and
that it once led with fiction, and even that it once marketed itself without
prejudice to either gender. Helen Gurley
Brown changed all that when she took over as editor in 1965, but even then the
change was gradual. Back in its heyday Cosmopolitan was a highly respected
publisher of fiction -- popular fiction, to be sure -- but fiction nonetheless,
featuring authors of every level of the business, including Ernest Hemmingway,
Ambrose Bierce, Sinclair Lewis, Damon Runyon, Willa Cather, Edith Wharton and
A.J. Cronin.
After World War II the
magazine shifted slightly and began including many popular writers, some
graduating from the then-dying pulps, and including names like John Cheever,
A.A. Milne, Mary Roberts Reinhart, Agatha Christie, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.,
Patricia Highsmith, Ian Fleming and, of course, John D MacDonald.
MacDonald's first sale to
Cosmopolitan took place in 1947 with the publication of his crime tale
"The Pay-Off". It was the author's third sale to a large-circulation
slick magazine, following appearances in Esquire and Liberty. "Pickup" was published the
following year, in the February 1948 issue. It's not a mystery and contains no
crime whatsoever, unless one considers a tired premise and an artificial
situation as crimes. It certainly has the feel of the author "writing to
market," despite his protestations that he never did such a thing. Worst
of all, it features a female protagonist -- thankfully revealed in the third
person -- who is dealing with decidedly female problems, and if MacDonald had
any weakness, it was getting inside the heads of women. Not that he couldn't do
it on occasion, usually with secondary characters, but the author's singular
ability to create fictional people who seem uncannily real seemed to fail him
when it came to the ladies. Examples include Alice Furmon in Contrary Pleasure,
Judy Jonah in All These Condemned or Ginny Sherrel in Murder in the Wind. (His
bad girls, on the other hand, are usually marvelous creations.)
There's nothing really wrong
with MacDonald's depiction of Catherine, the subject of "Pickup," but
then there's nothing really deep about her either. JDM's attempts at meaningful
introspection in Catherine are done so with overly-florid language that makes
it seem like a smokescreen, covering up something the author really didn't
understand. In the end "Pickup" is unsatisfying and almost trite,
although it's subject matter is anything but, and one gets the feeling that in
more competent (and female) hands, this could have been a deeper story.
Catherine Hazard is a young
housewife, the mother of two young children and married to Carl, a man twelve
years her senior. The family lead a seemingly happy and fulfilling life in a
midsized city -- Carl has a good job as an accountant with a building
contractor and Catherine is a stay-at-home mom (this is, after all, America in
1948). But something is not right, at least with Catherine. A darkness is
creeping into her soul, an emptiness whose cause she is unable to identify.
"[She] looked out the
wide front window, saw the street distorted by the large wet flakes that melted
against the glass -- and something in the wet asphalt's shining, something
about the yellow of the early street lights, the soggy fall of snow, called up
the feeling of emptiness, of strangeness that had haunted her for over a
month."
As she awaits the arrival of
her two children from grade school, she contemplates her husband Carl's return
from work at five and it brings another dark shadow across her mind.
"Thinking of him
brought back the new dark feeling of aloneness, and she knew that it was tied
up with him somehow, but there was no way for her to find out. The new feeling
was something restless within her that receded as she tried to grasp it, to
find its component parts, its chemical analysis."
She wonders if this first
autumn with both kids out of the house during the day has brought about her
feelings, with the silences offering more time to think about herself.
"[As she looked around
the house, it] looked different. She saw frayed edges where before she had seen
newness and adequacy. She felt the smallness of the house; the constriction and
tension building within her was like a spring, which, if released, would
flatten the walls, send the roof sailing off, open the square rooms to the gray
sky above."
This foreboding fades away
as the kids come in and, later, Carl arrived home. This is the typical
MacDonald family unit, one he used in virtually all of his early This Week
stories, where there was never any gloom or feelings of doom, and here we are
presented with the hardworking husband, weary from work but shrugging off that
weariness once he sees his wife and kids. And MacDonald is at pains to depict
Catherine as a good wife, loving, supportive and properly domesticated. After
dinner she has more housework to do, but with the kids put to bed all she
wants to do is "sit and look at Carl's strong square hands holding the
[newspaper.]" When Carl gets up and announces that he has to return to
work for a few hours, Catherine sees the weariness in his eyes "and she
[wants] to hold him tightly, somehow to rest and restore him." Even a
troubled housewife in 1948 couldn't resist her innate impulse to be an Earth
Mother.
Carl senses something wrong
with his wife and asks her about it. Catherine deflects any idea that there
might be something wrong, but when Carl shrugs off his concern by blaming
"the old differential" --
their pronounced difference in ages -- Catherine inwardly wonders if he has put
his finger on exactly what ails her.
"There had been dancing
and music and brightness, and in the middle of it all Carl had come along, with
his steady eyes and gentle hands, and before long the world had become a place
full of grocery bills and washing and cleaning and formulas and bitter fights
with the man from the diaper service. Maybe the sense of loneliness came from
the thought of time going by, each second a knife that neatly sliced off a
small chunk of the only life given her."
A few moments later the
doorbell rings and it is the babysitter, arriving on the wrong night. But
Catherine urges her to stay and watch the kids anyway so she can go out for a
long walk, to be by herself for a while and contemplate her feelings. Here
follows many column inches of prose as Catherine wanders the snow-covered
streets, looking at life going on around her. She spends a few minutes in a
hotel lobby, imagines herself to be an actress in a movie, fends off a would-be
suitor who offers to buy her a drink, and without realizing it, begins to weep.
On her way home she is
walking down her street when a car comes up behind her and follows. Catherine
begins to walk faster, but the horn beeps a familiar beep and she turns to see
her own car with Carl behind the wheel.
Carl: "You going my
way, lady?"
Catherine (affecting
coyness): "And what way would you be going?"
Carl: "Oh, I thought I
might go out on the turnpike and buy a beer or two. Come along. I'm
harmless."
Now if this were a really
cool John D MacDonald pulp tale, Carl would be someone else -- a "sex
maniac" or something -- and Catherine would be in a in a mood to expiate
her depression with a mad fling, only to be terribly sorry for doing so once
she got into the car (see "Jail Bait"). Or even better, Carl would be
himself, but suffering some sort of psychotic reverie, and it's later revealed
that he has been secretly trying to kill Catherine since last year! ("Mr.Killer") But no, this is a JDM social tale, so the reader has to suffer
through an extended scene of this married couple pretending to be strangers,
the only way -- apparently -- that they can reveal their true hearts to each
other. The ending of "Pickup"
is as glib as anything MacDonald was ever guilty of writing.
MacDonald continued to pen
these kinds of "women's stories" throughout his career, and the pages
of magazines like McCall's, Good Housekeeping, Woman's Home Companion and
Redbook are full of them. He got better as he went along, and some of these
stories are incredibly well done. It should be remembered that "Pickup"
was published only nine months after he had his first story published in a real
magazine, so I suppose I should cut him some slack. Yet when the ultimate John
D MacDonald short story anthology is finally published (yes, I'm dreaming),
"Pickup" shouldn't be included.
MacDonald was rarely what
one could call a pretentious writer. He dealt straightforwardly with his
subject matter and told a tale as well as any writer who ever lived. Yet his
invention of story titles reveals a side to him that the general reading public
didn't see. In the case of "Pickup," MacDonald should have gotten
down on his knees and thanked fiction editor Dale Eunson for sparing him the
embarrassment of his original title: "A Soupcon of Despair."
The MacDonalds were living
in Clinton, New York when JDM wrote this story, and were
still there when it was published. He wrote a column for the local paper during
those day, and he mentioned "Pickup" in one of his rare moments of
self-revelation. Under the headline "ADVERTISEMENT" he wrote (using
that annoying royal "we"):
Strange things happen in
this business of putting words on paper, and in the interests of breaking a
wrist, slapping our own back, and in order to bolster the sagging newstand
sales of our major masterworks, we herewith record this one.
This is the month in which
we became the composite author, the cross section of American scribblers. All
at the same time, and all on the same newstand we were shocked to find
ourselves published as follows:
One gentle little love story
in Cosmopolitan entitled "Pickup."
One humorous story in Blue
Book entitled "The Pastel Production Line."
One sports story in Sports
Fiction entitled "Punch Your Way Home".
One story of politics and
murder in New Detective entitled "One Vote for Murder."
One psychological crime
story in Dime Detective entitled "High Walls of Hate."
One worlds-of-the-future
story in [Astounding] Science Fiction entitled "Cosmetics".
The thing which gives us
pause is the fact that not yet have we ever written a story of which we are
completely proud. We are serving an apprenticeship to the Angry Gods of the
Typewriter, but we can't bury our lesser efforts. We have to sell them for grocery
money. It's a good thing they don't let doctors practice this way.
I notice the COSMOPOLITAN cover also lists the name of William E. Barrett. As a pulp author he wrote the Needle Mike series for DIME DETECTIVE in the 1930's.
ReplyDeleteIt's hard to understand how much the world has changed since I was born - this story was published before, and presumably JDM did at least some research into what was selling in these magazines before he submitted to them.
ReplyDeleteWomen, at least the ones I know, expect different things than 'being domesticated.' Not all, but a significant fraction have far more input into where their time will go than the heroine of this story. And far more sources of satisfaction. You can't judge his writing then by our standards in the twenty-first century. Which have changed decidedly even since you posted this.
Even when I re-read Travis McGee stories, I am careful to not pay undue attention to his women.