Too Many Bodies

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During my fifty-five years I have lived what the tabloids would describe as a checkered career. I have been, in chronological order, a high school teacher, an associate professor of English literature at a state university, a successful burglar, an unsuccessful burglar, a convict, a women’s club lecturer on the subject, Crime Does Not Pay, a memory-act vaudevillian and a newspaper music critic. But of all the methods by which I have managed to eke out a living, by far the most hazardous has been my ten years’ employment by Miss Sedalia Tweep.

The census bureau lists my work as “secretarial,” which is about as descriptive as listing the work of the President of the United States as “administrative.” About one-tenth of my job as personel flunky for the world’s most exasperating female concerns secretarial duties, and the other nine-tenths involves every hare-brained idea which conceivably could pop into the dynamic mind of a middle-aged virago which too much money and an overpowering curiosity about other people’s business.

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