Eddie Cantor - Caught Short! A Saga of Wailing Wall Street

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Caught Short! A Sage of Wailing Wall Street by Eddie Cantor

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Dedicated to the thousands of members of my profession who lost everything but their sense of humor.

(Originally published in 1929)

My throat is cut from ear to ear. I am bleeding profusely in seven other places. There is a knocking in the back of my head, my hands tremble violently, I have sharp shooting pains all over my body, and in addition to all that, my general health is none too good.

One of the greatest diagnosticians in America thumped me and probed me all over the premises.

You are a very sick man, he said finally. A very sick man. You are suffering from Montgomery Ward of the liver; General Electric of the stomach; Westinghouse of the brain; and besides, you have a severe case of Internal Combustion.

The jokes on the doctor. He didnt notice me as I walked into his office or hed have discovered that I also had a bad limp from taking an unexpected ride in Otis Elevator! They let me in on the top floor. When I ran out of collateral, the cable snapped, and I landed in the basement without a shock absorber. They sent a margin-check and two other interns to collect the pieces.

You can readily guess that I was in the market. Brother, I wasnt in the market; I was under it. Just mention Wall Street and Im ready to break down on your shoulder and give you a tear-drenched lapel to take home to the wife and kiddies. That is, if your broker didnt sell them at the market.

Only one fellow I know got a lucky break in this panic. That was my uncle. He died in September, B.C. Before the Crash. Poor fellow! He had a blood pressure of 160, and when it reached 250 he tried to split it four for one.

This is what they call Republican prosperity! If Al Smith were in the White House, they would have sent out the marines with the first slump and they would have been Republican marines.

Naturally, no right-thinking man will blame Hoover. After all, he was only elected to be in the White House for four years. But thats no consolation for the rest of us, wholl probably be in the Poor House for the rest of our lives.

Paul Reveres ride was tame compared to the wild gallop the market took when everything tumbled. They passed Babsons prediction in the first five minutes of play. The only thing that stood up was a persons hair. The night of the worst crash, I was too frightened to go to my home in Great Neck. I went instead to one of the larger hotels in New York City and asked the clerk for a room on the 19th floor.

The clerk looked up at me and asked, What for? Sleeping or jumping?

He probably had in mind the two fellows who jumped from a bridge together because they had a joint account.

It was a night Ill never forget. It must have been early in the morning when I finally fell off to sleep. I was rudely awakened by a clanging noise. It was the AT&T crying for its mate. I picked up the receiver desperately.

All right, all right, I cried by force of habit. Ill be right over with that margin!

It was only the hotel operator wishing me a cheerful good morning good till cancelled.

When I came down into the lobby, I met an actor friend of mine anyway an actor. He looked tired and sleepy, although it was well past the breakfast hour.

Whats the matter, George? I asked.

I didnt get much sleep last night, he said, rubbing his bleary eyes. I had to give up my room at four-thirty this morning. I had it on margin!

Wherever you went, the market was the chief topic of conversation. Everybody was Moanin Low! And the Morris Plan was loaning Moe. The only fellows who made themselves heard above the din were the brokers yelling for more cash. And, believe me, it wasnt until the panic came that the brokers discovered how many of their customers were hard of hearing.

There are no two ways about the market. When youre in, youre in right but when they take you take it from me they take you good. A pal of mine thought he was smarter than all the rest.

The only way to beat the market, he said, is to get in and out. Be a real trader, get in and out.

He did, too. He got in, and they kicked him out!

This same in-and-outer returned to his Park Avenue home the night of the smash.

Darling, he said to his wife, Im crazy for your two new bracelets.

So am I, she replied.

You dont understand me. I mean Id like to take them with me.

But they dont need fixing, she cried.

Youd be surprised, he answered.

But, honey, she protested, they belong to me.

Oh, no, the husband said, they belong to my broker.

My God! Whats happened?

Plenty! And besides, were moving tomorrow.

Whos moving us?

My broker.

Sweetheart, are we ruined?

Yes.

Who did it?

My broker.

Well, said the wife, if thats the case, Im through. Im leaving right now.

Where are you going? asked the husband.

To your broker!

It was also during this period that Ramsay MacDonald, the Prime Minister of England, drove through the financial district. The windows were packed with people. They yelled and screamed like madmen. The happy visitor smiled and doffed his hat continually, but the English Labor Minister was laboring under a delusion all the while. They werent greeting him at all. They were just brokers yelling for more margin!

The most startling news of all I got on the third day of the panic, when fundamental conditions were sounder than ever. Word was flashed about town that Woolworth had formed a holding company; had taken over all the brokerage houses throughout the country and was going to sell the stocks over the five and ten cent counters.

At any rate, this catastrophe should teach everybody a lesson. You cant play on the big board without getting a lot of splinters. And those who frolicked around the curb are now lying in the gutter.

When the market went from bad to worse, bedlam reigned. People who hadnt visited their vaults in years rushed there like madmen to hide from the brokers what few dollars they had left both of them.

After all, the whole crash may simply have been the long-promised scheme for solving the traffic problem by forcing people to hock their automobiles and clear the streets.

It got so bad, one speculator, who lost everything, radioed his wife, who was then Europe bound, to come home immediately.

I cant, she cabled. We are mid-Atlantic.

Great! he radioed back. Use the unused half passage to come back on!