This is another Dark Fantasy production, and we know it because it opens with DF’s trademark howling wind that sends a chill down your back, perfect for this hot, humid day I’m working on this recap. Debt From the Past aired on January 16, 1942 and starred well-known actress Jane Wyatt, best remembered as the mom who vacuumed while wearing pearls on Father Knows Best and Spock’s mom on Star Trek, who uttered the line everyone’s always wanted to sling at a Vulcan: “Logic! Logic! I’m sick to death of logic!
The story begins with tooting horns and the traffic noise of a big city. A young woman (Wyatt) approaches a man lounging on a park bench and politely asks to peruse his newspaper. He invites her to sit then offers her a cigarette—1942’s version of a pick-up line. She shuts it down with a “Oh, no thanks,” which he takes with good humor. He hands her his newspaper, noting how she immediately turns to the Help Wanted page, and they commiserate about both being out of work.
After griping that he’s been sleeping in the park for three weeks, the bench bum introduces himself. “My name’s Mark Matthew,” he says. “And mine’s Luke John,” she snarks. Mark (Dark Fantasy regular Ben Morris) laughs and insists that’s his real name, not the alias he uses when he gets rousted by the cops for sleeping on a park bench.
After some more chit chat, Mark good-naturedly says Mary looks hungry and asks if he can buy her some grub. “I’m sorry I can’t buy you the 35-cent blue plate special,” he says (which, in 1942 dollars, probably buys a plate of filet mignon and caviar). He offers to buy her a hamburger instead. She agrees, because women always agree to go to dinner with bums who’ve been living on park benches for a month. We’re romantic that way.
Weepy organ music segues to the next scene, where our couple is polishing off their meal. The bench bum tries to foist another hamburger AND a pack of cigarettes on our heroine. She declines both and he’s all, say, you’re a nice girl to know—inexpensive! Mark’s a regular Romeo, huh? Then he starts in on how pretty she is, and Mary heaves a sigh, turning back to the newspaper want ads.
“This sounds perfect,” she says after a moment. “Someone’s looking for a woman.” Well, she meets all the qualifications, so I guess she’s a shoo-in. She reads the description, which today would get the employer hundreds of complaints, a visit from fifteen different government inspection agencies and probably a fine:
WANTED: STENOGRAPHER. If you are an ambitious, talented, and reasonably attractive young woman who can use a typewriter, the adding machine and do light shorthand, apply in person to Mr. Gibson, Friday night, after midnight, room 1313, Temple Building.
Ohhhh-kaaaay. There’s so much wrong with that ad that I want to ring all the alarm bells in Mary’s head. But then the story would be over, and we can’t have that. Mary and Mark ponder over the after midnight angle, thinking it’s weird, but that doesn’t dissuade our girl. Mark offers her a loan of four bits for carfare and she takes him up on the offer, promising to pay him back tomorrow, then goes on her merry way. Mark’s a good guy, I guess, but a little dense. I’d offer to go with her, because, you know, after midnight and all.
More weepy music, and Mary’s at the Temple Building. The place is empty and the elevator operator’s gone home, so she has to press the buttons herself. Mary steps off the elevator into a busy office that fills the entire 13th floor. After a brief interrogation, a snotty office manager (another DF regular, Eleanor Naylor) directs Mary to Mr. Gibson’s office. Mary monologues for the audience’s benefit as she crosses the room, describing the office workers as being dressed in funny, old fashioned clothes.
Mr. Gibson (voice actor Muir Hite, a specialist in animal impressions) is all brusque and business-like, so Mary doesn’t mess around, quickly rattling off her skills. Impressed, Gibson hires her, telling her she’ll be paid $20 a week. “That’s okay to start,” she says. “But if you like my work, I’ll ask for a raise.” Pretty cheeky for a girl who was so hungry she let a guy who lives on a park bench buy her a burger two minutes ago.
Mr. Gibson has one quibble—Mary’s clothing is a little too…uh, modern. “I’m afraid you’ll be compelled to wear a high collar dress, long sleeves, and a skirt to the ankles,” he says, and not only that, no makeup allowed, and she must let her short haircut grow out. Mary verbally gapes, adding a sputter for good measure, but $20 a week is on the line, so she meekly agrees.
Next, it’s Mr. Gibson’s turn to sputter, as Mary insists on tidying up his office. I object too; housework was not in her job description. But tidy up she does, tsk-tsking over the dusty shelves and piles of papers everywhere and clucking over the way-old calendar on her new boss’s desk, showing the date as April 16, 1912. “But it is 1912,” Mr. Gibson chuckles. I’d be backing toward the door, but Mary earnestly argues with the old guy, insisting that it’s January 16, 1942.
This back and forth goes on for an annoyingly long time before the boss man shouts, “Poppycock!” He snatches up a newspaper and brandishes it in Mary’s face. “Just look at the date!” Well, of course, anyone who has an even passing acquaintance with This Date in History knows that April, 1912 the Titanic sank, and that’s exactly the headline Mary reads.
“But…but…” Mary begins, then gives it up. After all, $20 is good money for a hungry girl—so what if her boss is a bit of a loony? She gets to work, typing this and that, trying to ignore the weirdness of having to type 1912 on the invoices.
The snooty office manager comes to Mary’s desk to verify her name and address. “You were born in 1890, correct?” Snooty asks, and here’s where I realize Jane Wyatt was a mighty fine actress. Wyatt makes a couple of little sounds, like she’s trying to respond, but can’t, and I not only see Mary’s alarmed expression in the theater in my mind, I feel every bit of her fear and confusion.
Eerie music moves us to the next scene. Mary’s called into Mr. Gibson’s office just before quitting time at 8am. “You’ve done good work tonight,” Mr. Gibson says. “You’re just as I expected you to be.” How’s that now? Mary asks, her breath hitching, but the boss man brushes her off and tells her to go home. “Oh, and here’s your check,” he says. “Eighty dollars; I believe that’s the correct amount.” Mary’s understandably confused, but Mr. Gibson ushers her out the door before she can question him.
The next day, Mary’s back in the park, looking for the bum – er – I mean Mark. He finds her, and he has good news—he got a job, a good job, $55 a week! That is indeed a good job, but I suspect it won’t last since WWII is on and he’ll probably be drafted to work for Uncle Sam soon.
Mary tells Mark about her strange job and Mark asks if he can tag along with her that night. Cut to Mary and Mark in the elevator gliding upward. “Say, this is some elevator,” Mark says, impressed. “You have to push the button yourself.” Hey, Mark, welcome to the world of tomorrow!
The elevator doors slide open at the 13th floor, revealing… An empty room. Mary gets all freaked and flustered. Where are the desks and the other workers and the snooty office manager? Where is Mr. Gibson?
Dramatic organ music brings us to the final act. It’s some time later, weeks, maybe, after Mary’s returned from a visit to her hometown. She invites Mark to her apartment, saying she’s solved the mystery of the vacant building and the check Mr. Gibson had given her. It’s made out to Margaret Billings, who was Mary’s mother. Mary has her mother’s diary and reads a passage out loud, dated April 16, 1912:
“My company today declared bankruptcy. Forty-two employees left without work and due a month’s pay. The owner—Mr. Gibson—promised to pay the $80 he owed her as soon as possible.”
A debt from the past that was never paid—until now.
I’d say this was an odd little story, but all the old-timey radio shows I’ve recapped so far have been off-beat, with nary a time machine in sight. That’s been fun, but for next time, I’m hoping for a more traditional type of time travel.
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