Cabbages and Kings
In the haste of the final election rush, there has been a sudden increase in the number of Cadillacs bearing the slogans "Murphy for the Common Man," or "Herter Cleaned up State House Graft." On the street corners political hustlers have been pasting up their unused signs and calling to passers-by to "vote for a really decent guy." Behind these activities are the campaign headquarters, grinding out last minute letters to the veterans, the aged, and Mother.
Both parties have their own personalized stationery and organizations. The letter-heads are recognizable in a glance, but it takes an entire day to plow through the hierarchy of offices. The Democratic headquarters, for example, is listed on Bowdoin Street, which as it turned out, is a tricky way of saying nothing. At their central office a circling staircase led to a series of small signs promising political information just ahead. Inside the room numerous papers were cluttered about two prim ladies who were methodically dampening stamps.
"Now what can I do for a fine Democratic young man?" said the nearer.
"Oh, Maggie, how do you know he's Democrat?" complained the other one who kept spilling her water.
Chuckling, the first remarked that each campaigner had his own office, but that this was (said with a wink) "sort of mine."
The remaining headquarters are spread out across Boston, apparently hiding from one another. Murphy's office is at 10 State Street, but no placard or listing in the first floor directory mentions his room. The aging elevator man mumbled that "They'd get too many cranks coming in if they went around advertising the place," adding, "You aren't from Harvard are you?"
The Republicans are also worried about their visitors and have put in a check system that would make the FBI blush. Inside their building at 8 Beacon Street they had the entire seventh floor blocked into special rooms, one for each type of guest. Their elevator operator wore a large red, white, and blue button that announced "I Like Everybody."
The first of the rooms was decorated only by a small desk and an oversized color portrait of the President when he was about 35 years old. A solid looking-man with his sleeves rolled up was in the corner smoking a cigar.
"The campaign staff is over there," he yawned and waved his hand at a large table covered with more color pictures.
"What about voting records?"
"Voting record? Look, kid, nobody gets up a voting record unless they wants prove their opponent messed up. What the hell, kid, our man never voted wrong anyway." At this point an attractive secretary appeared, and showed the way to another room, this one filled with a number of well-sweatered girls. They didn't have the voting records either.