The Key West Citizen

HOMETOWN, U. S. A. (P)—

Wilbur Peeble, America's average citizen, joined a group reading a notice his boss had just pinned to the office bulletin board.

The notice said:

"To all employees:

"The management has been asked whether it plans to start a gift fund to retain high caliber employees who have been offered government jobs at three times their present salary. We don't.

"A statement of the firm's financial position is attached. Attention is directed to the portions in red ink.

"The management also announces that if the employees wish to start a private fund to help the firm meet its expenses their contributions will be gratefully accepted."

(Signed) THE BOSS."

Wilbur shook his head. Later in the morning he sneaked downstairs to get a haircut on company time.

Before attacking with his shears, the barber bowed and handed him a sheet of paper covered with figures.

"What is this, Tony?" asked Wilbur.

"My profit-and-loss statement for the last 20 years," replied Tony.

"What do I care about that?" said Wilbur.

"I'm tired of hearing the public say barbers are scalping them," said Tony. "You will please note my car is five years old and I am still using the same scissors I started business with. Just can't afford a new pair."

Fascinated, Wilbur studied the figures. After work he dropped into a bar across the street. With his martini the bartender held out a black notebook.

"My income tax payments for the last five years," he said. "The politicians say they are clean as a hound's tooth - well, I'm cleaner than a toothless hound. You can see no tax payment for 1949. I want to go into that in detail. I worked for my brother that year, and anybody knows when he works for a member of his own family he can't even steal enough to make him owe taxes."

Still later, when he entered his neighborhood grocery store, Wilbur was dazed to see the butcher scribbling like mad.

"The housewives are demanding a complete accounting of my finances," he said. "They even started an ugly rumor that I was curing my lumbago with a mustard plaster made of $100 bills. Come with me, Mr. Peeble. I want you to know the full truth."

Wilbur followed him into the back room, where the butcher peeled to the waist. Five $100 bills were bandaged across one kidney.

"You can see how easily things get exaggerated, can't you?" demanded the butcher.

"The political candidates now have got the voters following their bare bankbook campaigns," he told his wife, and added joking

"When are you going to give a public report on your private fur coat fund?"

"I'm glad you brought that up, Wilbur," said Trellis Mae. She went to a vase and shook out a small storm of paper.

"The fund is empty," she said. "But I have ten of your I O. U.'s totaling $150. What I want to know is what you did with the money. And don't tell me you used it to fight communism. Are you subsidizing that new blonde stenographer in your office?"

Wilbur's mouth opened and closed like a wounded goldfish.

"I deny all," he said. "I will not dignify such baseless accusations with an answer. This trend toward financial nudism has got to stop somewhere, and it's going to stop right here."

But if you think it did, well, you don't know Trellis Mae.