"...Any lack of confidence in the economic future...is foolish." I had read that paper before, around seven months ago. 'Sure,' I always say to myself, 'that's easy for you to say, sitting in luxury with a guaranteed $200,000 paycheck each year.' I don't even know why I voted for Hoover in the first place. Him and that Andrew Mellon, with his "liquidate everything and everyone who doesn't have money; let's purge the rottenness out of the system." To hell with the both of them. There I was, standing in that breadline for hours, while I'm sure Hoover and Mellon were eating steak, or poultry.
"A chicken in every pot, eh?" says Frank, reading my thoughts. Frank's an old neighbor and an even older friend of mine. "It's not possible for me now; the wife had to sell the pots to buy food last week." I replied with a grim smile.
I guess it would have been funnier if I wasn't so damn hungry. It's been a while since I ate last, around two days now.
Remembering better times helped dull the sharp pains in my stomach. I like to think of the year me and Sarah got married, 1926. I was a wealthy bank owner, and I had it all: a new Model-T, a new radio, a new house, a new wife. The house was a sight, three stories in all, four bedrooms, a study, a gigantic kitchen, a huge lawn filled with green grass, a white picket fence, the works. It cost me more than thirty thousand dollars, but it was worth every cent. I only ended up paying nine thousand, because I had purchased it on credit. They took it from me because I didn't have the other twenty-one grand. That was two and a half...