10

Archie Bunker Vignettes

By: Kristi N. Zanker

Author's Note: I first wrote the following vignettes in 2003 and recently discovered them buried in the caverns of my computer. Every vignette presented here is a Depression-era/Pre World War II story that was told either by characters' Archie or Edith Bunker throughout the 1970s All in the Family TV series.

Since these events took place during another time in U.S. history, the language, people, places, and actions are as authentic to the 1930s and 1940s as I could create them without officially being there. This story can be heard in the eighth season episode, Two's A Crowd.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Bud Yorkin Productions, and Norman Lear/Tandem Productions. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of All in the Family. No copyright infringement is intended.

Warning: The following piece consists of mild language, some violence, and adult themes.

Shoebooty

February, 1934

"What's taking you so long?" Sarah Bunker, Archie's mother, called to him upstairs.

He couldn't find his other shoe. There was no more time to search for it now. Instead, Archie ran a comb through his brown hair and quickly looked out the window. The weather seemed deceiving, although the sun shone. Thick patches of glistening snow lay on the ground and wind whipped the branches on the tree next to the window, making a clack-clack sound as they hit the house. How am I going to get to school with only one shoe? He thought. Archie, almost entirely dressed for school, trampled downstairs to where his mother was waiting, sitting in a chair next to the cathedral-shaped radio listening to a Kate Smith song.

"Where are your shoes?" she asked, getting up from the chair.

She had on a well-worn gray cotton housedress that Archie thought was the only piece of clothing she owned. Still wearing it after he went to bed and here it was morning.

"One's lost and the other shoe has a big hole in it," he replied.

The sole to his only pair was sliver thin and after daily usage, a gaping hole now peeked through. Archie could feel everything on the ground when he walked, especially in winter.

"Maybe I can fix it," she told him.

"You can't."

"I can fix anything; bring it here."

He ran upstairs to get his shoe. Eight-year-old Fred shouted goodbye from the front door. The two hardly walked to school together anymore. His kid brother actually enjoyed school and didn't like to be late. When Archie came down with the shoe, two of his fingers poked through the hole, while the frayed and well-worn laces hung limp.

"This'll be the last time I sew this together," she said, rummaging through her sewing basket, which was next to the chair. After peering at his socks, she said, "I only wish I had time to darn those. But your shoe is more important right now."

All he could do was nod.

The radio now softly played "Please Don't Talk About Me (When I'm Gone)" by Bert Lown.

"Why can't you be more careful with your things?" his mother sighed as she placed a oblong piece of cardboard inside the shoe to cover the hole, then threaded a thick piece of white string through the eye of a needle. "You know because your father lost his job, money's been very tight."

"I know, Ma, I'm sorry, I'll try to be careful next time."

"Just be glad your father isn't here to see this."

"How am I going to get to school with only one shoe?" he asked.

"Well, let's see what we can find."

It only took her about ten minutes to sew the hole. Then, Archie's mother went to the hall closet and pulled out old umbrellas, Archie's father's hats, and several mismatched shoes much too small or large for him to wear at that moment. She finally found one boot in the back of the closet that Archie had the year before and handed it to him.

"Put this on."

It fit, but it was a tight squeeze when the buckles were latched. Archie had grown a little since last year. Luckily, he had a right shoe and a left boot. His mother kissed him on the cheek goodbye.

"Now run along; hurry before your father sees you."

Archie figured he was out looking for a job and would come home angry like any other day with no luck. He'd sit in his chair and curse at President Roosevelt for not helping him find a job with that "damned New Deal of his!" He'd sometimes shout obscenities during Fireside chats and Archie's mother would have to cover Fred's and Archie's ears. But both of them still heard what he said.

"Bye, Ma."

Grabbing his books and opening the door, he stepped out into the chilly February day. Winter had definitely worn out its welcome. The hole his mother had sewn could not keep out the fierce wind. He walked as fast as he could to school. Cars slowly made their way down the impacted ice-covered street. The motorists could not see the deadly obstacle until they began to slide uncontrollably. No accidents occurred though.

People on the street rushed on their way to work. With the way many were dressed, they probably didn't even know the Depression was going on. They wore long wool coats, donned matching hats, some of the garments were made of fur. The men wore black slacks that looked very clean, pressed, and new. Women had on color-coordinated, fancy hats with their dresses, blouses, sweaters or skirts. Even though they looked nice, compared to how Archie was dressed, an aura of snootiness followed them every which way. They pushed him out of their path on the sidewalk, as if they were more important.

His button down, light-blue shirt had two buttons missing and a gravy stain on the collar. His brown pants were worn through. It felt like he was wearing nothing at all. If I had one of them long coats, I'd be so warm! He said to himself, weaving in and out of people as he briskly walked.

Stores were beginning to open. Archie would always pass the bakery on the way to school. He'd smell the fresh bread and doughnuts being made. Another day, if there was time to spare; he'd watch the baker through the window as he placed doughnuts on the shelves to be purchased. Plain, chocolate, and even colorful frosted ones soon dotted the front window, enticing passersby with the look and aroma.

The young boy wished he had enough money to buy one. It would taste better than the thick, bland oatmeal his mother fed him every morning. But he knew if he'd bought a doughnut and his mother found out, she'd be hurt. She tried her hardest to keep things as normal as possible during these bleak days..

By the time he got to school, Archie couldn't wait to sit at his desk which was situated in the corner of the back row, near the radiator. After all, he didn't mind being in the hot seat then.. Even though he didn't like school, it was still better than being at home.

"Archie Bunker, you're late," said his teacher, Miss Bates, as he came into the room.

A few kids snickered as he went toward the cloakroom to hang up his tattered Navy blue peacoat. Some of them were better off than him in his class. Some classmates even had hats, gloves and two boots or shoes. Archie suddenly felt lucky to have a coat, even though he saw those rich people on the street. He was better off than Elsie Graves, who came from a family of seven, and was only able to eat lunch two days a week. The rest of the days, he once heard her say, were for her younger brothers and sisters.

"Sorry, Ma'am," he replied, taking off his peacoat and hanging it on a hook in the cloakroom before heading to his desk.

"One more time you are late, Mr. Bunker, and you'll have to stay after school. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied again as he sat down in his desk.

The radiator hissed behind him, almost as if it were taunting him.

"Good."

Miss Bates stood in the front of the room, with her hands clasped to one another, as if she were going to pray. Her dark blue dress and brown hair in a fiercely tight bun matched her personality—cold, bitter, and dull.

"Well class, today we are going to write letters to President Roosevelt. I read in the newspaper that children across the country have done this and thought we should give it a try. Now, take out your pencils while I hand out some paper."

When Miss Bates finished passing out the paper, the room became silent as they began to write. Archie began his letter.

Dear Mr. Presadent,

I'm Archie Bunker. I hav a brother Fred and mother and a father. Can you give my father a job? He comes home cersing you becase you havnt yet.

Sinserly,

Archie Bunker

Archie pretended to write more while the others' heads were still bent. He couldn't think of anything else to add. That was all he wanted to ask the President anyway.

"Archie? Are you finished already?" Miss Bates asked as she stood by his desk.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Then I'd like to see what you have written."

He handed it to her and watched her eyes dart across the page.

"I've never read such a terrible letter in all my life! I will not have this. You won't be sending this to the President of the United States! Why some of these words were on last week's spelling test and I see you haven't studied them. And the grammar, my word! Certainly President Roosevelt wouldn't take such a letter seriously!" She crumpled up the paper and threw it in the wastebasket.

"Write another one," she demanded.

Again, he heard some classmates giggle as she placed another sheet of paper in front of him. Archie sighed. He didn't know what to ask the President now. He was only telling the truth.

When Miss Bates stood at this desk again nearly ten minutes later, she found the boy still staring at the blank sheet of paper.

"Haven't you written anything yet?" she asked.

"I don't know what to say," he replied, shaking his head.

"Well, I'll give you until the end of recess to write something, if you don't, you'll stay after school and do it."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, as he began to write Dear…

For once, he was elated about staying in from recess. That radiator continued to hiss—now as if to encourage him.

Miss Bates collected everyone else's paper and then led them out into the snow. She followed them outside seconds later, only turning back once to bark at Archie about writing a decent letter and having until the end of recess to complete it.

The room was silent now and he had an idea. Archie slowly got up from his seat and walked over to the teacher's desk. Stacked neatly next to a cup that held three fountain pens and several pencils, stood the letters. He grabbed them and glanced at each one quickly. Elsie had asked for money. Their rent had been late again, she wrote, and some men kept knocking on their door, demanding money. If they didn't give the money soon, she had written, they'd throw their things on the street, including them. Bobby Henderson had asked for a stove to cook food on and stay warm. The rest were pretty much the same. Only they weren't written the way Archie's had been. He checked the spelling on theirs and believed it was correct. Worrying that Miss Bates would be back to check on him, he ran to his desk and began his second letter to President Roosevelt.

Dear Mr. President,

My name is Archie Bunker. My father has no job. You said on the radio that with your New Deal, you can help people like my father find a job. He is a smart man and can do anything. Please give him a job soon. Our rent is due.

Sincerely,

Archie Bunker

The last part was a lie. Archie's relatives had been helping them with the rent. But he had hoped FDR would read his letter first, and get his father a job, so that he wouldn't be home much.

When Miss Bates returned with the rest of the class, she read over Archie's letter.

"This is an improvement," she smiled at him and stuck it in the pile with the rest. Archie grinned to himself, glad that he hadn't been caught..

When everyone had sat down at their desks, Miss Bates told them that she was going to send them to President Roosevelt that afternoon. Next she gave the class a spelling test and Archie spelled every word wrong, except his name.

"I just don't know what I'm going to do with you," Miss Bates told him.

"I don't know either, Ma'am," was all he could think of to say.

When school ended for the day, Archie went out into the bitter cold sunshine and headed toward home. The snow wasn't too deep, but the well-worn shoe and boot still didn't make it any warmer. Archie saw his classmates throwing snowballs at each other and some girls shrieking while sliding on a patch of ice, attempting to mimic the graceful moves of famous Olympic ice skater Sonja Henie. Archie had seen her in a newsreel at the movie house several times. Two years ago, she had won an Olympic Gold medal. After today, Archie didn't know what was better, to stay at home or be at school. If he had it his way, he'd stay at the movies every day. He'd hide in the back of the theater where no one would find him.

The boy felt so alone. His brother Fred always brought home good marks from school. At that particular moment, he made a promise to himself that he'd study harder for his spelling tests and do better at everything in school. Suddenly, several dark shadows loomed above. In front of him blocking the sidewalk stood Winston Walker, the only colored kid in his class, Bobby Henderson, who seemed larger than life, and Charlie Smith, who was small, but looked as tough as the rest of them. Then, there was Freddy Weaver, who seemed wider than life.

"Hey, Bunker, whaddya got there, sissy," growled Bobby, who pushed Archie's textbooks and papers out of his hands. While the stray papers fluttered to the sidewalk, two pencils hit the ground and Charlie stepped on them. Winston picked them up and cracked both in half with one hand. That got Archie's attention.

"I'm talkin' to ya, you damn sissy," Bobby shouted.

"I hear ya, so can all of New York City," Archie answered.

"Did your mother dress you?" Charlie sneered at him. "She must be blind. I can tell the difference between a shoe and a boot."

"Yeah, but you can't find your ass with both hands," Archie shot back, using an expression his father repeated often about people he didn't like.

"Know what your name should be? Shoebooty. A sissy name for a sissy." Bobby said.

"Tutti Fruity, here comes Shoebooty," they all chanted and then laughed. Archie wanted to punch out every one of them, he hated when people made fun of his mother. And how can Bobby be so cruel, they were in the same boat.

"Shuddup all of youse!" Archie yelled.

Bobby pushed Archie to the ground.

"Look at that, Shoebooty really is a sissy," said Winston, who spoke for the first time.

"I ain't a sissy, you nigger!" Archie yelled and stood up ready to punch all of them. He suddenly felt his face cave in on the left side. Winston had punched him first.

"Don't you ever call me that again, you hear me Shoebooty!?" He punched Archie in the nose this time and Charlie pushed him to the ground. Winston kicked him in the shin. A throbbing sensation crept up his lower leg. Archie winced, trying not to cry. He tried to stand up, but Bobby knocked him down again, cursing him, and calling him Shoebooty. Archie hurled back a few curse words. He knew that if his mother heard him, she'd shove a bar of soap far into his mouth to get it as clean as possible. Bobby gave Archie another kick, this time in the stomach and the four of them ran down the street, laughing, turning back to throw more curses and insults at him. Winston threw a snowball at Archie that landed on his head.

"You shouldn't've done that to Shoebooty, Winston, it would make him even more dumb!" Bobby said. All they did was laugh.

Archie couldn't understand why Winston roughed him up. He only called him what his father always said people like Winston were. And his father never got into a fight; he was always right and knew a lot. Archie tried to stand up, but his body protested. He felt queasy and tasted blood. He ran his hand across his nose and saw more blood. This isn't worse than what Pop does to me, he thought to himself. He found his textbooks, and the remains of his schoolwork, wet with the ink from Miss Bates' marks of D's and F's with comments that were no longer legible, dripping down the pages. His mother would not be happy when Archie would walk in the front door. And neither would his father.

His mind churned on the way home, replaying the events of this afternoon and wondering what he would face when he got there. He tried to take care of the things his parents gave him, but it was hard. He didn't mean to lose his shoe, and the other boot had disappeared.

One of Archie's chores each day was to get the mail out of the mailbox. This was a task he actually liked. But lately, all they were getting were bills, so it wasn't as fun as it used to be. When his father worked for the Long Island Railroad as a brakeman, Archie enjoyed getting the mail; sometimes a letter or a package would be waiting for him from his grandmother. She always sent him cookies. He even liked getting the bills then even though his father groaned about how high they were all the time. They were able to afford to pay them when he worked for the Long Island Railroad. Now, his father had been out of work for months.

Archie opened the mailbox to find a few envelopes inside. He grabbed them, closed the lid and ran up the steps into the house. He didn't want to say hello to his mother yet. He hoped he could run straight to the bathroom to clean himself up. He dropped the envelopes on the small table by the door and took off his coat.

"Hello, Archie, how was your day at school?" his mother greeted him before he could run upstairs. Archie didn't have time to answer because his mother had seen his face. "Archie! What happened to you!"

"I—I ran into—" No! I can't lie to Ma! His mind shouted. "I—got into a fight today at school, Ma. These four boys punched me."

"Why would they do such a thing to you?!"

"I don't know. They didn't like my shoe and boot, I guess." He shuddered at the nickname branded to him only twenty minutes before.

"I'm sorry, Archie, but you have to take better care of your things. These are hard times, you know that. We can't run out and buy things, even if your father had a job."

At that moment, his mother saw his sopping wet textbooks and crumpled schoolwork at his feet.

"Oh, Archie! What did I just tell you?" she said.

"You saw it before I could show you," he replied.

She sighed as she took the textbooks and papers into the kitchen and laid them on the table. She then mopped up the puddle that had formed as Archie stood in the front hall. After that, the two of them went upstairs and his mother helped Archie wash the blood off of his face. He sat on the closed toilet lid. The pull-chain, hanging from the large tank four feet above him, tapped on his shoulder. Archie pushed the pull-chain away, but all it did was hit him back.

When he was six years old, Archie had been terrified of the tank that seemed to balance itself on the top portion of the toilet. When he pulled the chain to flush, he would run out of the bathroom so fast, thinking that the tank would fall and crush him if he pulled it one too many times. But he wasn't a dumb kid anymore, he knew better. He gave a loud sigh.

"Did Pop find a job yet?" he asked his mother as she rummaged through the linen closet for a washcloth. She found one, soaked it in warm water and gently dabbed Archie's face. He winced when the cloth touched him.

She shook her head. Archie knew not to ask anything else about that.

"Where's Fred?" he asked.

"Doing homework. You have any?" His mother asked as she rinsed out the washcloth and laid it over the side of the claw bathtub.

"Yeah, I have to study for a spelling test," Archie replied glumly.

"Okay, you can do that after dinner. What did you do in school today, besides get into a fight?"

"We wrote letters to President Roosevelt. I wrote asking him to give Pop a job."

"We can only hope for the best." She hugged Archie. "Try not to get into any more fights."

"I'll try."

His mother left the bathroom and headed downstairs to fix dinner.

It was then that Archie made the promise to himself—again—about trying to do better in school. He'd do his best to take care of his things, and even find odd jobs around the neighborhood. With the money he earned, Archie would help pay for or buy his mother anything else she may need...

For a moment, he felt very grown up and then tears stung as the pain crept up in his stomach, and reaching to his battered face. So much for being a grown-up, he thought to himself as he shut the bathroom door. He didn't want his mother and Fred to see or hear him cry.

Copyright © 2003 by Kristi N. Zanker