THE LUCK OF MARY BROWN

The Luck
of
Mary Brown
by Stephen D. Gross

I dreamt last night that Mary Brown had finally gotten married. She was 81-years-old, looking fresh and virginal in her "Uptown-It's-Alexander's" wedding gown. The muscular groom, a half-century her junior, beamed warmly at her as they stood beneath the Chuppa. "He must be Jewish", I reflected, looking up at the bough-covered canopy. I recalled that Mary wasn't - she was Irish-Catholic, and wore her heritage like a medal.
The big room looked familiar to me. My father, carrying a tray, walked softly by the door and I realized we were at Park Terrace Caterers. Dad worked there as a waiter. The old catering hall, which lay diagonally across the street from Yankee Stadium, reposed under the creaky Jerome Avenue El. I had been Bar-Mitzvahed, and cousin Cheryl had been married at the Park Terrace.
The young, tow-headed groom adjusted his yellow, satin yarmulke as it crept across the crest of his marine-length crewcut. He turned to acknowledge a relative with his engaging smile and I saw, with some degree of astonishment, that it was Yankee slugger, Mickey Mantle! The Mick, himself, standing at the altar with Mary Brown! I was stunned as a pneumatic charge blasted my brain and I slowly became aware of humid sheets and the garbage truck's air brakes braying over the Washington Heights dawn.
But the damage was done. My consciousness was soaked with images of my 3rd -Grade teacher, the longshoreman in Persian Lamb's clothing with Rita Hayworth hair, the fabled Mary Brown. She drove, each morning, to 'work' at P.S. 98 on Upper Broadway, all the way from her home in Yonkers' Sherwood Terrace.
Sheathed in white gloves rescued from Gimbels' basement, her hands gripped the steering wheel of her '46 Plymouth as if it was the helm of a clipper ship (like the one emblazoning the front of her old Plymouth). Our class was fascinated - actually, madly in love with her! Because we were always hungry for new adventure, we basked in the aura of imminent excitement and peril she moved in.
Attending her classes was always fun; we could hardly wait to hear what vital secrets she had to share with us. Never dull, her tales were always fascinating, and occasionally spellbinding She loved birds and adored the New York Yankees, orally dissecting them, and candidly commenting on how they were conducting themselves. She carried a silver hip flask of Jamieson's Irish around in the pocket of her Democratic cloth coat as a buffer against New York's frosty winters (and springs and autumns), and she loved to spread its warmth. Her salty speech caused many a cabby to blush but because we knew she could do no wrong, we quickly became used to her colorful language and loved her all the more for it.
One day we brought brown-bag lunches to school and were loaded into two dirty-yellow schoolbusses for a trip down to the American Museum of Natural History - One of the grandest places in the universe! A broad-shouldered, well-funded edifice, the castle-like institution fills two square blocks of prime real estate on Manhattan's West Side, and its impressive main entrance overlooks Central Park West. Embellishing the steps leading to its massive doors stands a gargantuan hood-ornament of a statue honoring one of the museum's founders and benefactors, Theodore Roosevelt.
Cast in copper, this dynamic statue rests on a Gibraltar-sized chunk of granite and looks heavy enough to tilt 81st Street. It depicts a robustly healthy Teddy astride an energetic stallion whose reins rest in the hands of an Iroquois or Algonquin Indian - to this day I'm not sure which. A testimony to challenge, adventure and exploration, the century-old sculpture has turned a gorgeous patina of green over its entire surface - except in one very conspicuous spot.
If you're the size of an average third-grader, and if you stand on the ninth step and get a boost from a large friend, you could manage to scramble up onto the stone pedestal. Once there, if you stand on your tippy toes and brace yourself against Teddy's right boot heel, you might be able to reach up and touch the stallion's watermelon-sized balls. In the tradition of generations of New York City school children (actually visitors came from everywhere), it was the custom to rub these formidable spheres for luck.
Recipients of a hundred years of studious polishing, the titanic testes shown with the brilliance of purest gold. Especially in contrast to the vast expanse of aged, green copper from which they hung. On even the rainiest of days they shimmered and pulsed like twin suns with a vigorous life of their own.
We talked about the statue's famous globes on the bus ride down - most of us had been there before and had seen them - and we looked forward to nailing down, in the spirit of tradition, a bit of good luck of our own. We spilled out of the bus rolling like a chattering tide up the grooved stone steps, and Peter Lufkin eagerly volunteered to be shine boy for the day. Gawky David Herzog donated his narrow shoulders and Peter climbed aboard. But no matter how he maneuvered, shimmied and clawed, Peter could not haul out onto the little stone mesa.
And then along came Mary Brown, taking her time, striding off the bus like the Queen of Scotland. Most teachers customarily jumped off the schoolbus first to make sure their charges didn't melt and fade into the breezy, dark hallways of the stately museum, but not Mary. She took a pull or two off her flask, (it was spring), and took her time, tucking it away in her pocket so as not to corrupt the children. We weren't going anywhere, yet, and she knew it. She was our peerless leader. Our Colonel. She set her own pace, and once we began our exploration of the museum, we liked to cruise with her and hear what she had to say. And here she came, marching toward us, warmed by a snort and ready for action!
She eyeballed Peter scraping and clawing his way up the vertical stone wall. She appraisingly measured the width of Herzog's shoulders. She squinted up into the blaze of the legendary twin orbs. We knew she loved us. We could tell she wanted us to be as lucky - luckier, even - than the legions of classes which had preceded us.
Of course the museum guards, and there were always several strewn about, were officially supposed to discourage kids from climbing on the statuary, but being civil service employees, they usually had their heads together in serious conversation about Important Stuff, (they had their priorities too), and didn't pay us much attention.
Nowadays guards at the museum are much more attentive. They're afraid someone will fall or impale themselves on a Swahili spear and sue. We Americans are much more litigious now than we used to be. That's what present-day guards guard against. In those days they mainly worried about keeping you from getting hurt. If you did, someone was liable to get on the boss about it and he would get angry with the guards. So they guarded mainly against placing themselves in a position where they would be the target of someone's anger. Now folks just sue their buns off!
One youngish guard stood at the top step, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. He saw Peter wasn't going to make it to the top which meant he wouldn't fall off and get hurt, so he drank his coffee and turned his attention to a woman getting off a schoolbus. She had a green kerchief with a picture of the Mountains of Kilkenny on it from under which hair shot like flames. Chin high, strong jaw set, she regally mounted the museum steps like she owned them. Forgetting his steaming cup of java, the guard stood and ogled Mary Brown.
He watched her as she strode past Teddy and his mighty steed - and then stopped. Her third-graders were trying to grab their piece of good luck. His coffee grew colder as he observed Mary get closer to the granite block and slowly stretch her body as high up as she could extend it. As she removed her sensible brown pumps, showing a masterfully lathed calf, his forgotten cigarette, with its four-inch ash, fell from his fingers.
When he finally realized what it was she was trying to do, he was first amazed and then amused. It wasn't long before he remembered what he was doing there at the museum, and realized he probably had to do something about it. That was his job. What he got paid for. If he saw stuff going on that wasn't permitted, he was expected to do something - if he saw it. She was really a kick, this red-head with the swagger. "I'll bet she's their teacher", he thought, "and she's goin' up there to polish old Seabiscuit's balls! This is one show I don't want to miss!"
Mary was sizing up the stone and attempting to get a grip in the smooth walls with her blood-red toenails. She saw the guards deep in conversation down by the street and was also aware of the guy with the chilly coffee who was trying to be cool up near the door. Then there was this bouncing herd of eight-year-old fireballs cheering her on. Her jaw was growing more set, signaling to us she was up to the challenge. Besides, she was never one to back down.
The guard was in a quandary - he wanted to watch Mary Brown twitch and wiggle herself around trying to scale that wall, but he didn't want to be seen seeing what was going on because he was committed to doing something about it, if he was. The two other guards were in a world of their own, still banging their heads together, so he thought about just turning his back to Mary and the statue and grabbing peeks of the action over his shoulder. But he was up at the top of the steps next to the big brass and glass doors, and if he turned his back he'd be facing the door, looking through it, into the main lobby of the museum. He could always look at the reflection in the door - but that was just a ghost of what was really going on.
Mary wasn't making much progress in pursuit of her noble quest. She was tough and determined, and "not badly put together for an old lady", most of us thought - she must have been thirty - but she wasn't particularly athletic. She ceased her attempted ascent and stood back to reassess the situation.
She'd seen the young guard surreptitiously scoping her out of the corner of one green eye. I have a feeling she noticed his vigilance when she first got off the schoolbus. But she knew he wasn't going to run over and arrest her, so her actions weren't affected by his attentiveness. She noticed, in fact, that as she increased her efforts, there was a proportionate rise in the guard's alertness.
She probably knew at that point that she wouldn't be able to attain the heights on her own, but her mind was quick and she had been working out a plan. Regrouping her energies and showing a little more knee than most of us had been privy to before, she writhed and scrambled around the "cliff" for a few seconds more.
Not wanting to miss any of this, the guard had given up trying to be cool, and was unabashedly taking it in with both eyes wide open. Unsuccessful as before, Mary gazed up at him fifty yards away on his top step, and unloaded a sweet smile of helplessness. Like a harpoon hurled straight and true, her missile found its mark. He was hooked and she reeled him in. He hesitated at first, thought it over for maybe two, three seconds weighing the consequences, and finally made up his mind. With a nervous peek at the grimacing, gesturing uniformed pair mutually involved near the street, the guard strode purposefully toward us.
As he got closer we could see his flushed face trying not to crack a grin. We speculated wildly among ourselves, later, as to what made his cheeks so rosy. Those of us close enough to hear heard him ask, "Can I give you a hand m'am?" There were those among us who had expected him to either whip out his handcuffs or deliver a stern lecture to Mary Brown, or both. We were relieved to see our Colonel wasn't going to be dragged off to the Gallows after all.
Mary was prepared with another disarming smile - she didn't even look a little embarrassed! - and she replied, "well, if you don't mind - just for the children?" Of course he didn't mind. He would do anything for the children. He could hardly wait! He stood next to the pedestal and locked his fingers together, palms up, forming a 'step' into which Mary could place her pump-less foot. He couldn't help but ogle this fragrant expanse of femininity rustling and grunting six inches in front of his russet face - until he saw the children curiously staring at him - at which point he averted his eyes.
Meanwhile Mary Brown stretched herself and pulled, got one knee up, and finally attained the summit. We loudly cheered as she pulled off her kerchief with the Mountains of Kilkenny and with a ceremonious sweep of her arm, did the deed. 'Seabiscuit's" brassy melons immediately seemed to sparkle with a new light. Like soft waves washing over the wintry morning, they rhythmically pulsed with a fresh glow all their own.
Beaming brightly, the chivalrous guard stood by like a man impervious to all danger - inoculated by his own goodness and immune to any misfortune. He helped Mary down and they exchanged a few words and smiles before he went back to his post at the top of the stairs and Mary herded us together and ushered us up the remaining steps and through the doors of the huge museum.
It was almost a month later, toward the end of April, the baseball season had begun and Ringling Brothers' circus posters were enjoining us to celebrate the Rites of Spring when we got a call from Mary Brown. We were having dinner when the phone rang, mom answering it and obviously enjoying the conversation. Mary Brown had tickets to the Yankees-Red Sox game at the Stadium the next day and wanted us to come to the ballpark with her and her friend. She and mom had become good pals and we'd gone with her to the ballyard on a few other occasions, so mom, pleased with her proposal, told her we'd love to come along.
We heard a car horn tooting at eleven the next morning and not wanting to keep Mary Brown waiting, we hustled downstairs and eagerly climbed into the back of her crusty Plymouth. She turned around so we could give her a couple of fat hugs and proudly introduced us to her new friend.
The face looked familiar, but somehow different. A few seconds later I realized it was because the last time I had seen its owner, he had his hat on - along with the rest of his Museum guard uniform. Her "date" for the ball game was, of course, Mr. Googly Eyes, the, gallant young man who had helped Mary climb the 'mountain' at the entrance to the Museum of Natural History.
The amazing Mary Brown had helped to overcome the shyness of the bashful admirer who had helped her 'polish' the celestial orbs that twinkled beneath Teddy Roosevelt's horse. Obviously it had been a collaboration which had proven to be extremely lucky for both the museum guard and the irrepressible Mary Brown!

EHE WALRUS & THE STOCKBROKER

(....with absolutely NO apologies to Lewis Carroll)

The Walrus and the Stockbroker
by Stephen D. Gross

The neon puddled in the street
lurid, garish, bright
And did its best to expose
the pitiful neighborhood blight
and this was odd because it was
a National Heritage Site

Flourescence stared through office panes
and with the neon's glare
exposed the sidewalk's
cracks and stains
which had no business there
"A painted whore" a man complained
"and I don't have the fare!"

Polychrome the gutters shone
reflected rainbows danced
and raw as a gnawed, dog eared bone
He felt inside his pants
the downtown ladies laughed at him
he went into a trance

The streets were wet as wet could be
Their throats were parched and dry
the quivering mounds of rotting trash
reached half way to the sky
the Norway rats which ruled the streets
were learning how to fly

"If seven brothers named Santini
worked for seven nights
loading up their 2-ton truck
scraping up this blight
I fear this hell hole would remain
a place too wronged to right"

The Walrus and the stock broker
were sullen, pissed and rude
With dangling arms and shoulders hunched
They looked hostile and crude
But looks be damned they couldn' t care less
They were obsessed with food

The stock broker revved his beast
he drove a De Lorean
The broker expressed remorse
the tears he wept were saurian
(His moon was ruled by Scorpio
He spent too much time worryin')

Alleyways as dark as pitch
littered with jagged glass
brimful with the smell of death
the stench of burning grass
a gun, flashlight, undying faith
you'd better watch your ass

"Good eve young rats", the broker croaked
How goes your April night?
The eldest rat just sneered and toked
and chortled with delight
"We've got the munchies, come with us
We'll find ourselves a bite"

The rat pups pulled their jerkins on
They laced their high-top shoes
They crept between the building's bricks
and squeezed up through the flues
they smelled of reefer, acrid smoke
offal, plague and booze

Two by two the rodents crept
The moonlight sickly yellow
four by four and eight by eight
vigilant yet mellow
they climbed aboard the blood red car
all bowed and squeeked, "Hello!"

The young rats numbered sixty-six
some corpulent, some tiny
they squeezed between the smirking men
the car smelled new and piney
Drove down Grand Street at 4 am
Their eyes glittery and shiny

Turned down Delancey, headed south
over the Brooklyn Bridge
Past Red Hook, Bushwick too
Flatbush and Bay Ridge
The DeLorean pulled up suddenly
Next to a rusting fridge

The Walrus and the Stockbroker
walked a block or three
the rats followed close behind
snickering with glee
the men sat on a broken bench
the rats beneath a tree

"The time has come", the broker said
"to recount our adventures
to speak of orthodontists, and
the man who made my dentures
The wolves and bears of Wall Street
Who traded my debentures"

"But we don't care about your teeth
your Muni Bonds and buy outs
Your feeble struggles, failed attempts
Your weaknesses or tryouts
your twelve step plans, your preachy ways
addictions or your dry outs"

"An onion bagel or bialy
salt, mustard, some horseradish
a bit of brie some provolone
good cheese - nothing fadish"
the Broker weeping crocodile tears
was feeling kind of baddish

"But wait a sec" said one rat
the others called him Terry
These condiments of which you speak
we think unnecessary
Behind him glowed
a ship's blue lights
the Staten Island Ferry

"You're thinking Rats-a-Roni?
or Ratatouille Stew?
A bowl of sweet Rat's Pudding?
Hell, we've been thinking too!"
"We came along for dinner
we thought we'd dine on you!"

The Walrus and the stock broker
raced back to their car
Their legs were two, the rats had four
they didn't get very far
Their screams were drowned by music
from a nearby Folky bar

The sixty-six rats bit clawed and chewed
like kids with an ice cream cone
crawled through the sockets of their eyes
gnawed through every bone
And the last thing the two men ever heard
was "Like a Rolling Stone"

CATS BALLS

A few years ago, San Francisco attempted to reduce the feral cat population explosion by offering $5. to anyone who would have their cat neutered.
This caterwauling definitely called for a dose of doggerel.

Catballs
by Stephen D. Gross

There's a Bay City Bounty on your Tomcat's Balls
five bucks for the family jewels
what'll he do when Nature calls?
what's he gonna use for tools?
He'd yowl down the alleyway
at four am
looking for a Manx in heat
now he's howlin' another way
it ain't no fun
and his sex life's incomplete
you can't buy much for half-a-sawbuck
a piece of steak with too much fat
a bag full of lollipops you could suck
but your jewels should be worth more than that
I might trade my rocks for a week in Paris
or a brand new Mercedes-Benz
or a hundred shares of IBM
or a barn full of fat, tasty hens
I might let 'em go for a coupla' Renoirs
or a life with the world's best cook
or a room full of pussies but
bless my claws - all I could do is look!
I'll tell my kittys
to stay away from town
if they wanna keep
the surgeon's knife from ringing
there's no greater shock then to
turn your gaze south...
and see that there's
nothing there a-swinging

INVOKING MABEL

Invoking Mabel
by stephen d gross

Just before my eighth New Years Eve, Mom, Grandma, Grandpa and I took a train from New York to Florida. I loved the heat and smell of old leather inside the Yellow Checker, and the gritty snowdrifts we skidded through on the way to Penn Station. We were heading down to Miami to visit Grandpa's brother, Pinchas, who spent half the year in Florida, and the other half shmoozing with his Magyar buddies who worked at his "cloak" factory in White Plains. (I'd heard Transylvania was near Hungary and I knew from the movies Transylvanians wore cloaks.)

The Champion and the Silver Meteor, replicating horizontal Chrysler Buildings on wheels, were the pride of the Atlantic Seaboard Railway, and the pair of crack streamliners made the New York-to-Miami run a thrilling adventure. We were aboard the aerodynamic Champion, which was permeated by a distinctive aroma - shoe polish, southern cooking, chicory coffee, and headrests marinated in Wild Root Cream Oil and Bergamot. The soulful, steely rhythms cranked out by the big driving wheels was the big train's personal liturgy, and in its lifetime, it had transfixed many a moonlight traveler.

I remember awakening in the quiet syncopation of a dawn spiced with honeysuckle and magnolia, and sticking my head out into a toothy chill which had morphed into something soft and balmy while I slept. Still dazzled by all this when we pulled into Jacksonville four hours later, my excitement frothed at the prospect of hopping off the train and feeling Florida beneath my feet. I couldn't wait to touch my first palm tree, inhale warm Gulf breezes scented with mimosa and coconuts, feel sticky, humid air thick and sweet enough to eat with a spoon. I'd read volumes about the South and particularly about Florida since I learned we were coming down here. There were thousands of things I wanted to see and touch - the Everglades and Okeefenokee, gators, Bok Tower, creamy-white beaches, Cypress Gardens, Tropical Hobbyland. Painted against a backdrop of gulf stream-heated water, Art Deco beach front hotels with names like Saxony and Essex House, shells and jellyfish, pelicans and barracuda - I thirsted to check all of it out, even if I was going to begin my safari on Jacksonville's tired, splintery train platform.

We had a twenty-minute layover, so I made my way across the dog-eared boardwalk looking forward to my inaugural taste of Florida drinking water. Cool, sweetly tropical, it geysered up from the spout to greet me. From a nearby bench painted green I heard a clucking. There sat an elderly black man with a disapproving look, gently waggling a long, gnarly forefinger without lifting his hand from his knee. I remember thinking the finger looked like the right front leg of Aunt Rose's mahogany Steinway upright - the one Bucky, the Chow, liked to work over to keep his teeth sharp. Wondering why he had a problem with me helping myself to water, I followed his bobbing head to the wall above the drinking fountain where, in green block letters, someone had stenciled, "Colored". Nearby was another drinking fountain which appeared to be just like the other - except for the white block letters which spelled: "White". I looked over at the weathered man who'd executed the bobbing and waggling, and saw above the bench on which he was sitting another sign reading "Colored" in the same swamp-ooze shade of green. Immediately, I forgot about the palm trees and went looking for Mom. I had questions. I needed answers.

She filled me in on the local skinny. "That's the way they'd arranged it in Florida and New York people didn't have much to say about it." They could say all they wanted, she explained, and some people didn't know when to shut up about it, but it was their Florida, and they got to set it up the way they wanted it to be. And people were still allowed to leave Florida and move elsewhere, if they didn't like it. I asked Mom if Mabel knew about this.

Mabel Dewey was the lady who helped clean our tiny four-room apartment in Washington Heights twice a week. She scrubbed for Grandma, she spruced for Aunt Blanche, and she'd been attending, along with her husband, Earl, our family's weddings, bar-mitzvahs and funerals for a long time. Considering I was not quite eight, Mabel had been a member of our family for more than twice as long as I had. I enjoyed lunch with her every Tuesday and Thursday from the time I was three, and we sometimes gave her a lift home in Dad's sky-colored '49 Mercury. (I loved that powder blue!) to the lovely house she and Earl owned in the north Bronx.

I couldn't imagine Mabel not being able to share a bench with me or drink from the same fountain. I felt ashamed, as if somehow I'd been tricked into betraying her. I was glad she wasn't there, for I imagined the words jumping off the wall and slapping her across the face. It wasn't that I was being noble - I didn't have the sophistication to affect an attitude of nobility. Nor was I, at seven, fully aware of the racist message borne by the words. But the suggestion of this forced separation from the woman I considered my surrogate mother was very disconcerting. It left me with an insecure feeling. I wondered if Mabel knew and if she did, how she felt about all this. I wondered why someone didn't just come along with a paint brush some night, and paint over all those words. I wondered a lot of things. Mom explained that Mabel was from North Carolina and considered herself lucky to be living in New York. She told me that there were so many reminders about how North Carolinians had it arranged, they didn't even bother to paint signs. Everyone automatically knew which benches and drinking fountains were "Colored" and which ones were "White".

I thought about all of this a great deal, but I didn't have any trouble falling asleep because I'd been awake for much of the last two days and nights. The neighborhood in Miami where Uncle Pinchas lived had a placid, dreamy retirement-community feel to it, and when I awoke early the next morning, I was anxious to explore the neighborhood without any thought of danger. The streets all had names like Neptune Drive, Surf Avenue, Mermaid Blvd. and Seahorse Row. Sunwashed, ocean-breeze fresh and aromatic, the neighborhood's houses looked like they'd been lovingly colored with enormous pieces of chalk in my favorite pastel colors. Lush, perfectly-tended landscaping sequined with brightly-hued blossoms graced every residence. I imagined the chalk artwork being redone after each rain.

I'd walked for fifteen or twenty minutes when the first human I'd seen that morning approached me from two blocks away. He was on the same side of the boulevard that I was walking on and he ambled slowly as he went. I could see he was frail and elderly and his skin was the color of a horse chestnut. When the distance between us closed to about a half-block, he seemed to take notice of me for the first time. Then he did what I considered a peculiar thing. He changed his direction and shuffled slowly across the wide boulevard before continuing to travel in the same direction in which he'd been headed. I didn't think I'd looked threatening. I was not quite eight years old and small for my age. I wasn't carrying anything that looked like a weapon. What had I done now?

When I returned home, I asked mom, who seemed more concerned that I finished my Wheatena before it became lumpy and cold. We'd had some big tiffs over that - her trying to get me to choke down sodden lumps of cold cereal. The rubbery mounds congealed in my little throat and once they did, there was no way I could get them down. Try explaining that to the one who springs for the Wheatena. She seemed reluctant to talk about the old man who crossed the street but I wanted to know why he had and what it was that I'd done. Finally she explained that it was because I was White - and a kid - and he wasn't. Maybe he'd been kicked in the knee by little white kids in the past, or maybe he'd heard 'stories' and was old and wise enough to steer way clear of potential trouble, but, she said, I, personally, hadn't had much to do with it - other than being born White and being in the same general vicinity. I felt really bad about this. I think it was one of my earliest experiences with Guilt.

I tried to climb inside the man's head and see his line of reasoning. I pictured passing close by him and stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk. The scenario unfolds: As I fall, I brush against his pant leg and crash against the concrete sidewalk yelling in pain. Pitchfork wielding retirees come spilling out of their candy cane cottages, lurching toward the victim and his attacker in fuzzy-bunny slippers, poly cabana suits and pink terry robes. Pushing walkers before them, they advance menacingly. With all the evidence of the "crime" heaped before them on the sidewalk, all that's left is to string the brutal attacker to the nearest lamppost with a length of that orange nautical rope that comes in 50-foot rolls from the Piggly-Wiggly. I could understand why the poor man was terrified. No wonder he had crossed the street. I decided if I ever had a similar encounter, I would be the one to do the street-crossing. If anyone was going to trip and fall, it was only fair that it be me.

Not only was I experiencing the exhilaration of swimming in the ocean in December and learning about exotic plants and creatures I'd never seen running around New York, but I was receiving lessons concerning other topics as well. I'd written postcards to several of my schoolmates and a letter to dad, who was at home in New York waiting on tables in a Garment District dairy restaurant. I felt like I should write Mabel as well. I was greatly disturbed by some of the lessons I was receiving and felt a need to talk with her about it. When she cleaned house for us, I noticed Mom made it a point to be there to help her. Mom referred to Mabel as her "psychiatrist" and all the while Mabel was in our apartment, she and mom kept up a constant stream of animated chatter. Sometimes the two of them would spend an hour or more in the kitchen, elbows on the Formica table, blowing on hot cups of Lipton's Tea, lost in earnest conversation. Mom always looked better and sounded less tense after her sessions with Mabel. Sometimes I wished Mabel would come see us more than twice a week. At the moment, I felt I wanted very much to sit with her, drinking tea and having a long talk.

Mom and I had a really great time visiting Uncle Pinchas with Grandma and Grandpa Katz. Knowing nothing about the malignant havoc ultraviolet rays wreak on bare skin, we basked for hours in South Florida's famous sunshine getting darker than we ever imagined we could in New York's more northerly latitudes. Mom was born with a healthy dose of Melanin in her system and the equatorial rays stained her a dark walnutty burl. Tante Pauline (she and Mom shared the same name) was a wonderful cook, specializing in Hungarian treats like Pugaches and Schliskas (dumplings), and we enjoyed a healthy sampling of Only-in-Florida experiences.

We watched a Seminole wrestle a sleepy alligator out of a turgid pool and send him back to sleep by rubbing his belly while people from Gary and Newark threw nickels of gratitude at him. A tiny monkey ran up my mother's arm and flashed a grin causing both of them to suffer brief hysterics - and I saw an albino peacock strut around and spread wide his snowy tail feathers. I'd tasted fresh coconut and gnawed on Florida sugarcane, eaten tangerines from Uncle Pinchas' back yard, and I'd even been to the movies. Mom and I saw "Harvey" , starring James Stewart, and "King Solomon's Mines" in which Stewart Granger avoided being trampled in what was the best animal stampede in movie history. I fell in love with a freckled redhead from Poughkeepsie named Martha, and whenever I see cocoa palms illuminated from below with pink and coral lights, I think about her and wonder if she ever pauses while playing with her grandchildren, and thinks of me. Except for a postcard telling her what a great time I was having, I hadn't written Mabel because it was very difficult to put what I felt into words. I was looking forward to my regular lunches with her. In many ways, I missed her more than I missed Dad. There were important things we needed to talk about. It was the day before we left to return to New York that the strangest thing of all happened, and I still haven't sorted through and catalogued all the feelings I experienced because of it.

Mom wanted to pick up a few Florida souvenirs for people back in New York, so Uncle Pinchas dropped us off in a section of Miami where there were gift shops, department stores and restaurants that catered to both tourists and locals alike. Public transportation was designed for easy comprehension and a Dade County bus ran within a block of Uncle Pinchas' house. We finished our shopping with good-humor - there had been lots of kitschy things to gawk at - much of it crude, some gratuitous, some outrageous, all tropically-themed. The imaginative use of shells and coconuts, bamboo and palm trees was inspiring. After a couple of hot corned beef sandwiches (with a Dr. Brown's Cream Soda) at Wolfie's, we lugged our gifts over to the bus stop to wait for our ride home.

Buses ran frequently and they were usually half-empty. Arms piled high with packages, we climbed aboard one and after Mom dropped her money into the fare box, we plopped down behind the driver. Close to the door, the seats would make it easier to spot our stop and we'd have less schlepping to do. Nobody likes schlepping, especially when burdened with packages. Noisily settling ourselves, we couldn't make out the driver's words - we just heard him mumbling something. Preparing to lurch out into the slow-moving traffic, the driver spoke again: What he said was: "Move to the back of the bus, please". Having never heard these words spoken before, Mom and I looked around to see who it was he'd spoken to. We felt embarrassed and we wanted the recipient of this creep's remark to know we shared their mortification. Haltingly, we looked around, but we didn't see anyone changing seats. There weren't any dark-skinned people sitting in the front of the bus, either. In fact, of all the people sitting in the bus' nose section, our skin was the darkest.

"Ma'm, kindly move to the back of the bus, please", droned the driver, impatiently. Mom and I looked at each other awash in disbelief. Was this boorish Cracker speaking to us? Over his shoulder, out of the corner of his slack, froggy mouth - he's issuing orders to us? Telling us where we should sit? Scarlet rushed lava-like beneath Mom's very deep tan as she tried to process and figure out how to deal with the message we were receiving. I think she summoned up some of the conviction she'd learned from Mabel. She hurled her 4-foot-eleven-inch, 96 lb. frame at the driver like Thor's hammer and proceeded to verbally eviscerate him for 20 or so minutes. Her tirade would have been longer but she smoked too many Camels and didn't have much lung power. Snapping at him like a rabid terrier, she verbally lacerated his shapeless white hide, turning him into a stain of pink Jell-o too dismayed and confused to drive. Except for Mom's gushing heat, the bus was uncannily silent. Even the sounds of the traffic around us had been swallowed, lost in the vacuum created by Mom's fury. Anxious to stop this banshee from chewing him up alive, mortified at having made what he considered a terrible mistake, the driver tried to apologize. Having had her say, her lips pressed tightly together to keep them from quivering, Mom gathered up her mountain of gifts and hustled me to the rear of the dusty bus where we plopped ourselves down amid a small sea of approving, sweaty. mostly black faces.

It's rare that someone manages to push Mom's buttons the way that driver did. They're hidden away and hard to find. I replayed the incident dozens of times in the following weeks, trying to figure out exactly what it was that lit her fuse.
Living her entire life in New York City, the youngest of four kids born to Hungarian immigrants, Mom was raised with nurturing protection and love. She wasn't a Jewish Princess, but she didn't take to people telling her where to sit, either. Except that was only part of what triggered her reaction. The driver had obviously believed her to be a Black lady and I don't think she liked that a bit. Did she resent being mistaken for Black? I don't think so - it had happened a few times before and she always considered it a compliment. She loved being thought of as "exotic".

I think part of her reaction was due to the demanding tone in which the driver had "ordered" her to the back of the bus. He could have been speaking a foreign language for all it mattered, but his tone and demeanor were, to Mom, insultingly rude. She didn't allow anyone to speak to her this way because, in her eyes, she never, ever provoked or was deserving of such behavior. And she would be damned if she would permit this swine-swilling, red-neck to cop an attitude with her. Mom had dealt with loutish people before and she'd more or less regarded their loutishness as a disability to be pitied. She'd been firm, polite - terse, even snappish - but this was the first time I'd seen her impersonate a volcano. I viewed the scene over and over, and finally decided to have a heart-to-heart with her and see if even she knew what had angered her so.

"It was a little of this and a little of that", she stonewalled. We laughed about the driver's abashed reaction - how badly she'd shaken his closed-minded Cracker reality. Then one morning a few days later, she told me she'd been pondering the incident. "You know", she confided to me, "what really bothered me when we were being assaulted by that fat jerk's hatred was, I thought of how much I loved Mabel - and what a good friend she's been" - her hand shook just a little as she lit one of her Camels - "and how she's always been there for us." "It was almost like I could feel Mabel standing there saying, 'Well, Pauline? You gonna do anything about this?' "I could actually feel for a second or two, the kind of stuff she - her people - have had to put up with. "How, especially in the South, they're subjected to prejudice on a daily basis. But I'm ashamed to say I see it in New York all the time, too!" Her eyes got a little wet behind her wing-framed prescription sunglasses. Her voice rose as she spoke. "They get it all the time, almost every where they go, in restaurants, in businesses, taxicabs - with most everything they have to deal with - and you know what they do? They take it! " "They keep their mouths shut because that's the easiest way to get through the day. It's what causes them the least heartache." I was amazed. This was already the longest speech I'd ever heard Mom make, and she wasn't finished yet! "But I'm not a Negro!" (That was the word she used back then). "I don't have to put up with that crap! I can scream and yell about it as loud and as long as I like! I'd like to see them do something to me - just let 'em try!"

I know it sounds Frank Capra-Movie sappy. Almost like Henry Fonda-as-Tom Joad making his little speech in "Grapes of Wrath". The one that goes, "....every time there's a cop beatin' up a guy, or a family with hungry kids, I'll be there!" But her feelings were genuine - she didn't have any other kind. And it was scary, seeing Mom wax so emotionally about something other than Birth and Death. Although she talked intimately with Mabel about a thousand things, she never once told her about what happened on the bus in Miami. She talked about how fine it was to escape the icy-gray chill of New York's winter, and how the little monkey had run up her arm, but I think she was too embarrassed to talk about the Bus Incident. Embarrassed for all the world's racism, for all the meanness and the lack of compassion. Besides - she didn't want Mabel to think she was patting herself on the back for speaking out - on who's behalf? She wasn't quite sure. After all, she knew Mabel Dewey preferred to do her own speaking in her own words. She did quite a bit of it and it was just one of the many things that she did really well.

The Night I Met Screamin' Jay

The Night I Met Screamin' Jay
by Stephen D. Gross

I loved the New Music - we called it Rhythm 'n Blues and because the tunes were liberally seasoned with Bop-bop-shoo-do-bops, shang-a-lang-langs and Bi-doom-be-doom-be-dooms, we labeled them Doo-Wops. My folks' combo Admiral ten-inch tv, am radio and record player was equipped to dig sounds out of 78s, but the Doo-Wops were all 45s. My old wooden Sylvania "homework special" managed to feebly lock onto a signal from WNJR in Newark, however, and I got introduced to sounds I never dreamed existed. All 15 of WNJR's DJs were Black and the sounds that ricocheted off my tympanic membrane made me long for an alternate reality I really knew nothing about.

After awhile a guy named Alan Freed, the man most credited with coining the term Rock and Roll (avoiding the stigma attached to R & B and so-called Race Music). Born in Johnstown Pennsylvania in 1922 of a Welsh mother and Lithuanian born father, Freed was twelve when his family moved to Salem, Ohio where he formed a band known as the Sultans of Swing (!), in which he played trombone. In 1949 Freed left Cleveland's WXTL for New York City's WINS, armed with an armada of tight harmonies and dazzling arrangements, and Life As I Knew It changed forever.
One of the first DJs and producers to popularize Rock and Roll, Freed mounted a number of heavily talented R&B shows headlining up and coming stars such as Bo Diddley, Texans Buddy Holly and Buddy Knox, and Mickey and Sylvia ("Love is Strange"), and groups such as the Cleftones, Platters, Moonglows and Cadillacs.

Although I first saw Screamin' Jay Hawkins when he appeared at Freed's Brooklyn Paramount Christmas Show, it was two years before I actually got to talk to him. And the circumstances were strange, indeed.

Born in Cleveland in 1929, Jalacy Hawkins studied classical piano as a child and had aspired to follow in the prodogious footsteps of the great Paul Robeson and become an opera singer, but when his ambitions were unrealized he felt he could perhaps best express himself by playing piano and singing the Blues. Spending time in the Pacific Theater during World War II, Jay claimed to have been captured and tortured as a POW. According to the documentary, I Put a Spell on Me, upon liberation he blew his chief tormentor's head off by taping a hand-grenade into his mouth and pulling the pin. He reportedly served as Alaska's Middleweight boxing champ in 1949, but shortly after, gave up boxing trunks and gloves for red leather, leopard skins, outrageous hats and a guitar.

Jay's main claim to fame, I Put A Spell On You, a tune he originally envisioned as a refined ballad, became infused during its creation with a heavy dose of voodoo and has taken on a life of its own.
According to the AllMusic Guide to the Blues, "The entire band was intoxicated during a recording session where "Hawkins screamed, grunted, and gurgled his way through the tune with utter drunken abandon. The resulting performance was no ballad but instead a "raw, guttural track" that became his greatest commercial success and surpassed a million copies in sales. "The performance was mesmerizing, although Hawkins himself blacked out and was unable to remember the session, afterward being forced to relearn the song from the recorded version." Meanwhile the record label released a second version of the single, and in response to complaints about the recording's overt sexuality, removed most of the grunts. This still didn't prevent it from being banned from radio in some areas.

At Freed's Christmas show, he bribed Jay to lie in an on-stage coffin from which Jay emerged with a devilish onstage persona replete with leopard and snake skins, cauldron, Voodoo accoutrements and a smoking shrunken head at the end of a stick.

But the night I met Screamin' was bizarre and entirely unscripted. It was a post-Bar-Mitzvah summer evening and Dennis, who was one of my main Doo-Wop buddies, had informed me that The Channels, The Kodoks and Screamin' Jay Hawkins were performing that evening, at a record hop in a high school gym in the South Bronx. Although born in the South Bronx, by the time I was old enough to sneak off to Hunts Point for some 4-part harmony, it had turned into a third-world war zone - brutal, unforgiving, and predictably dangerous. But we were cool. Dennis and I. We were harmless, pale waifs - little, very white kids who were obviously there for the music. And so we were. There was a slick hardwood floor, designed for roundball, an exotic mix of shifting schools of Black kids, Haitians and Dominicans, a few roiling clots of brassy Puerto Ricanos, the performers of course, and me and Dennis. Not a teacher, security person or school official was to be seen except for the M.C., who also furnished all the music.

At one end of the gym floor stood a battered card table with a record player that only accommodated 45's, and a short stack of records by those performers who were ready to lip sync their Greatest Hits. No band, no mikes, no kick ass speakers. Just a Crosley 45 rpm Stack-O-Matic and a hungry, impatient crowd, sneers and sharp elbows.

The Kodoks kicked it off with "Gee Oh Gosh", hitting every note impeccably and the crowd loved it. After awhile it was The Channels with Earl Lewis singing lead in his signature falsetto. Opening with "The Gleam In Your Eye", a tune Earl wrote on his paper route, the gym lights softened and we could hear the crowd noises punctuated by groans, grunts and barks, any of which could have suggested a mood change in the big room. The Channels were amazing of course, hitting every note exactly like they did on the recording, which was one thing we never worried about when we went to record hops. They rolled into "Now You Know", "Closer"'s flip side and a complex vocal arrangement, pulling it off flawlessly, and upon persistent urging from the crowd, (and a skitterish DJ on the Crosley), they began to mouth "The Closer You Are" about two beats behind the recording. No one minded - they were seeing the Channels in person - and Screamin' Jay was in the on deck circle.

"Closer" is a very romantic tune, and the gym was stuffed with posturing, amore-seeking, testosterone driven teen age boys competing for space and attention. The shoving, strutting and loose elbows slowly escalated as the Channels wrapped it up and Jay walked out onto the floor.
"Constipation Blues" and "Feast of the Mau Mau" were still a few years down the road and The Screamer hadn't too many tricks in his Sack 'O Tunes to offer the crowd . Hearing "I Put A Spell On You" was the reason most of us were there.

Dressed in red, leopard skins around his shoulders, hair slicked back in a tidal wave conk, Jay glowered like Baal and shook his little stick with the shrunken head on the end menacingly at us. We all gasped and gawked and shuffled up toward him to get a bigger dose of what he was handing out.

"You better stop
The things that you're doing
I said "Watch out!"
I ain't lying, yeah!"

I looked around for confirmation that this was the greatest thing that had ever happened to all of us and saw the crowd growing more agitated. "What a performance!" I thought and then with

"I ain't gonna take none of your
Fooling around
I ain't gonna take none of your
Putting me down"

the fight broke out. There were leather heels slippin' and slidin' on the hardwood floor, arms flailing and girls screaming. Everyone was scrambling to get out of the way, and Jay kept on singing. Shaking his little monkey head stick and moving his lips along to his tune, but I could see he was losing his concentration. Maybe it was because he fought professionally in Alaska at one time, but his focus was on the brawl. There were several guys involved, mostly missing with wild roundhouses, throwing themselves off balance and falling hard - sometimes falling on their own switchblades - and drawing blood. And this made the hardwood floor very slippery. Loose change spilled from pockets, lay glistening in the little scarlet pools, and as a watched non-combatant onlookers diving for the sticky dimes and quarters, I was reminded that this was a very poor neighborhood. Someone upended the Crosley effectively ending the concert but Jay's jaw had dropped and his eyes bugged out like shiny black beetles as he reflexively continued to shake his mojo monkey-stick. Standing near him I drifted closer and started making small talk with The Great Man who was riveted on the folks diving for spare change among the felled warriors. I asked him if the little shriveled head had a name and never taking his eyes from the writhing, grasping bodies he said, "Yeah, this is Henry - he don't talk too much. Screamin' Jay went on to play roles in several movies including American Hot Wax (in which he played himself) and Jim Jarmusch's Mystery Train, in which he played a night clerk in a Memphis hotel.

Hawkins died on February 12, 2000 after surgery to treat an aneurysm. He left behind many children by many women; about 55 were known (or suspected) upon his death, and upon investigation, that number "soon became perhaps 75 offspring". Maybe one of these days I'll have the good fortune to meet one and be able to tell her about the night I met her dad.

note: I PUT A SPELL ON YOU by Screamin' Jay Hawkins has also been recorded by Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Animals; Natacha Atlas; Audience; Jimmy Barnes; Dick Barsamian;
Tab Benoit; Kat Bjelland; The Blowin' Smoke Rhythm & Blues Band;
Arthur Brown; The C.A. Quintet; Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds;
Joe Cocker; The Countdown Singers; Countdown; Tim Curry;
Demon Fuzz; Baby Jane Dexter; Steve Ferrone; Bryan Ferry;
Fever Tree; The Five Americans; Robben Ford; Diamanda Galás;
Golly Wobblers from Hell; Jerry Granelli; Buddy Guy;
Screamin' Jay Hawkins; ..... and many others.

(....Because you're mine.
All right!)

Attached Thumbnails (click for larger view)

Attached Images

"Sarah"

I wrote this a few months ago -  I couldn't help it - Dylan's "Sara" on his wonderful Desire lp
has been begging for a little revision. Now that she's in the news again I'm dragging it out of the hamper.

With respect to St. Bob, here it is:

SARAH
by stephen d gross


"I hid in a bush I loaded my gun
Had me too many kids, I refused to abort
I shot me a moose, I was jes' havin' fun
Call me hockey mom, it's a ballbuster's sport"

Sarah Sarah
With your shrill brittle voice
you drill holes in my mind
Sarah Sarah
What ever made you
the dull-witted kind?

"I can still see it bleedin', its guts in the sand
I grabbed me my knife to strip off its hide
I held the wrong end I cut up my hand
my kids watched me bleed
then we went for a ride"

Sarah Sarah
the Republicans chose you to run as their veep
sarah sarah
whoever picked you gets far too much sleep 


When you went to Wassila you captained the team
Barracuda your nickname, a fish to be feared
Then you tried junior college but ran out of steam
now you wish we'd acknowledge that Jesus appeared

Sarah Sarah mascara'd musher
and teacher of kids
sarah sarah you kept the bars open
then provided the skids

You ran down old lupus in a chopper one day
when he gave up you shot him, a game we abhor
You call it "sport" - morons must have their way
how else can they get a new rug on the floor?

Sarah Sarah dimwitted bimbo
Republican star
Sarah Sarah
her eyeballs are fixed 
on the USSR

I still hear the sound of your corvid like croak
and the prickly tones of your harsh strident voice
you debated Joe Biden it seemed like a joke
McCain would bail out
but you've left him no choice 

Sarah Sarah
aquarian queen in a pair of mukluks
Sarah Sarah 
you might lead the free world
and that really sucks

It's raining in Juneau the Governor's left town
all the buddies she hired are running the State
she's gone to DC, got a job as a clown
got a tank with hot air
and balloons to inflate

Sarah Sarah
evangelical leader of National cheers
Sarah Sarah
America's no place for liberals and queers

PEE WEE'S REVENGE - A PLAY WRITTEN FOR RADIO

(One of a series of plays about Louie, 17-year-old son of a Brooklyn capo, his Williamsburg pet shop, and his friends.)

PEE WEE'S REVENGE

BY STEPHEN D. GROSS

Cast of Characters: Angela (A)

Wendell (W)

Louie (L)

Carlo (C)

Little Sally Boxes (LSB)

SCENE I

Sound of SNORING

alternating with persisitent RAPPING on door

ANGELA: (in stage whisper) Lou-ieee! Hey, Lou-ieee...!

(More SNORING)

AB: Maybe he ain't here...

A He's here - he's always here....! Lou-ieee...!

BC Maybe he's wid somebody - 

A Nah, not Louie ...

AB Whaddya mean - why not?

A 'Cause - Louieeee! (louder) Hey LOUIEEE...

AB Shhh- not so loud....!

A What loud, people holler around here all the time

AB But it's three o'clock in the morning...

A So? We gotta find a place to keep 'em....

AB Just let 'em go...

A Whaddya you crazy? You think dis is the jungle or somethin'? Can't just let 'em go....

AB Why not? Lots to eat - plenty of fruit stands all over the place - they can climb pretty good, get away from people an' cops...

A They can't survive in the city - they'll get run over...chewed on by dogs....

AB I don't know why I let you talk me into this shit, Angela, I must be...

A Cause it's a good thing to do, is why...y'unnerstan'? They do experiments on the poor things, stick needles in their brains and put burning crap in their eyes that blind's 'em an'...

AB So they got a reason for doin' it, right? They're scientists, ain't they...? They know what they're doin'....

A They're just makin' shampoo and soaps and skin stuff and junk like that - they don't need to torture little animals for that crap! It's not like they're savin' lives or anything important....

AB Shampoos an' soaps? Dats it?

A Cosmetics - when you come down to it, it's stuff nobody really needs...

AB Bullshit! People get dirty, they gotta use soap, they gotta wash their hair...! 

A HEY, LOU-IEEEE!

L What!? Who the fu....Angela, is that you...? What the fuck are you doin' here in the middle of the night? Who's wit you...?

A Open the door! Louie, open the door an' I'll tell you what I'm doin' here...

(Sound of DOOR OPENING and CLOSING SHUT)

L Who's dis...?

A This is my friend an' confederate, Wendell - Wendell this is my cousin Louie, the one I toldja about..

L What'd she tell you?

W Hey, how ya' doin'? Nothin' but good stuff...

L Yeah, like what...?

W Like how youse always helpin' people out an' stuff...

L Uh huh - so whaddya you guys doin' bangin' on my door at tree in the morning..? You in trouble...?

A Nah, not really....well, it ain't exactly us who's in trouble...

L But somebody is, right...?

A Yeah - well, not exactly a somebody, know what I mean...?

L I have no fuckin' idea - you want coffee?

A You got some made?

L You think the coffeepot's full o' coffee sitting around waitin' for you to drop in at three in the fuckin' morning?

A I dunno what you was doin'

L Here, look at my eyes - all red and squinty - It's a coupla hours before sunrise - see if you can figure it out....

A I guess you musta been asleep....right?

L You always was the brainy one, Angela, I gotta hand it to you....

A Come on Louie, we need some help - we wouldn't come bangin' on your door at tree in the morning if we didn't need your help...

L So who's in trouble...? You need bail money for one of your hippity-dippity friends...?

A It's not exactly a "who" Louie, it's more of a what...

AB Yeah, a couple of "whats"...

L It ain't human, right? You got some dumb animal an' you think this dumb animale is gonna help him out...?

A Them, Louie....AB Yeah, there's two of 'em....

L Uh - oh! Two a what?

A Well, you know that lab down in Canarsie with the barbed wire and shit?

L Yeah, the one we're they're supposed to be makin' poisons and nerve gas and toxic shit......

AB We found out that ain't what they do there....

L Oh, yeah? Whadda you know? You got the inside poop?

A We decided to leave the poop behind, Louie....

L Angela, it's too fuckin' early to play Ring Around da Rosie....

A They do experiments on animals, Louie, that's what they fuckin' do there...

AB You should see - dogs, cats, rabbits...!

L So don't tell me - youse broke in dere?

A They was sufferin', Louie - somebody had to help 'em, give 'em a break...

L You guys really broke in? Just the two o' you?

A Somebody had to do somethin' Louie, y'unnerstand? Wendell and me got these bolt cutters?

AB My cousin Ronnie Stole 'em from the precinct....s

L Ronnie who? Do I know 'em?

AB Ronnie Mendell, he lives in Far Rockaway

L Ronnie Scissors? I know that punk...

A He ain't a punk, he's a good guy...

L Yeah, right - you don't know him Angela, believe me, you don't know some of the stuff he's pulled...

AB He's really a good guy once you get to know him...

L He's your cousin? You must be Wendell Mendell - right? I heard a' you....

A Lissen Louie, they're in the car....

L What's in the car, Angela? Whaddya gonna lay on me this time...

A There's just two of them...

AB An' they're pretty small...

L Cats? Bunnies? Break it to me gently....

A They're monkeys...

L Monkeys?

A Rhesus monkeys....

L Reese's monkeys? Did they ever play for the Dodgers?

A Whadda you talkin', Louie?

L Pee Wee Reese - used to play shortstop for the Dodgers - you said they was Reeses monkeys....

A They're damaged, Louie - don't make fun...they was sufferin'

AB An' we sprung 'em. Ronnie's fuckin' bolt cutters popped 'em loose....

L Whaddya mean damaged?

AB One of 'em's head is all shaved so they could attach electrodes and wires and shit, and it has seizures...

A Epilepsy - it has epilepsy. An' the other one had its vocal cords or something removed and all it can do is hiss...it hisses all the time...

L Crippled fuckin' monkeys you wanna dump on me?

A Not dump, Louie, we're not dumpin' 'em, we just wanna leave 'em here until we can find a good home for 'em...

W C'mon Louie, I'm always hearin' what a swell guy you are, how you're always helpin' people out....

Yeah, Louie - you got the room, you know about animals - have a little compassion...

W Think about it Louie - what would Jesus do if he was in your place....?

L I dunno - move to Jersey? Turn water into chianti an' sell it to the Sons of Italy?

A C'mon, Louie, we busted our butts to rescue them - help those sick monkeys out...

L A'right...you got 'em out in da car? Bring 'em in..

A Thank you, thank you...we knew we could count on youse!

W Yeah, you're a good man, Louis. They was right about you, all those things I heard...

L Just be quiet - you don't need to wake up the whole neighborhood

(FOOTSTEPS, door opens and closes)

SCENE II

L The one with the shaved head I named Pee Wee after Pee Wee Reese, and the other one I call Buttercup.

CS I like dat - Howja come up with those names?

L Angela told me they was Reese's monkeys, so one of them had to be Pee Wee and the other one I named after my favorite movie time munch - 

CS Buttercup? They sell candy in the Paradise called buttercups?

L No, dummy - you know Reeses Peanut Butter Cups? You're always grabbin' one practically out of my hands...?

CS Not always, just sometimes...

L Yeah, well he's a Reese's so I named him Buttercup....

LSB So what's the story - what happened down at Mooneys?

C Did your monkey really kill O'Brien the cop?

L He never laid a hand on 'em - it was just, whaddya call it, an act of God....

LSB We heard from Uncle Arnie and Frankie Spaghetti it was the monkey gave O'Brien a heart attack...

C Six-foot-six, 280, offed by a fuckin' two pound monkey...!

L Not that the asshole deserved to live, what with the way he treated Bridgit and Joey...

LSB Like Father Loughlin says, sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways...

C So how'd it happen..?

(Music)

L It was freaky, the way it all happened...Like, if it wasn't a Sunday, O'Brien might still be runnin' around kickin' ass...

C Why a Sunday...?

L 'Cause–

dats when him an' Bridgit an' Joey go to Good Shepherd, and O'Brien always stops at Mooney's after church for a coupla' beers an' some of Frankie Spaghetti's spaghetti an' meatballs..

LSB So....?

L So I'm in the shop havin' my morning coffee an' mindin' my business, kinda feeling a little like Tarzan surrounded by all these monkeys and birds and shit when my cousin Arabella comes by...

C The one who lives in the Village an' hangs out with all those ....?

L Don't say it Carlo - I know what you're gonna say....

C What? I didn't say nothin'!

L Yeah, but you was gonna call 'em queers.....right? 

C I didn't say.....

L They're okay guys - I met a few of 'em an' as long as they don't come onto me, they're alright....

LSB Yeah, yeah, so what happened with O'Brien...?

L So she comes by, she was out here visiting Grandma Rosa, and she shows me these masks she got from Rosa who's had 'em in an old trunk since she came over from Palermo....

C What kinda masks?

L I seen 'em a coupla' times before. They're from the Commedia Del'Arte and they're really nice....

LSB So what happened...?

L So we're shootin' the shit an' she shows me the masks and we're talkin' about our Grandma and family stuff, and we hear this weird hissing....

C A gas leak...?

L No, dummy - it was Buttercup - the monkey that the only sound it can make since the lab people fucked with its neck is hissing..

LSB So then what...?

L Well it's hissing because the monkey with the shaved head, Pee Wee, is hassling it, so I grab Pee Wee an' take him outta his cage to calm Buttercup down...and Arabella's pettin' him an' stuff, and I start thinkin' how cool it would be to try one of the masks on the monkey, just to see how it'll look, ya' know?

C You put a fuckin' mask on the monkey?

L Yeah, she's got this skull one, what she calls a Death's-Head,

an' I'm thinkin' how cool Pee Wee would look wearin' it, so I put it on his little face, and it's kinda big, so I tie it in the back so it won't fall off, and it looks so weird Arabella starts to crack up....

LSB Heh-heh-heh!

C Shut up Sally....den what happened?

L I guess Pee Wee doesn't like his face covered so he starts to freak out, an' I go to grab him an' he jumps off the counter an' runs out the open door into the street....

LSB Hehhehheh

C Holy Shit! He's out in the street...?

L Yeah, but not for long.... he runs down the street an' the Brighton local comes along an' musta freaked him good, 'cause he runs into the first open door he sees, which is Mooney's....

C The monkey ducks into Mooney's...?

L Yeah, Carlo - I just said that...ain't choo listenin'?

LSB Hehhehhehhehheh

C Yeah, yeah, so what happened?

L So there all there, after church wid a coupla beers under their belts, O'Brien and McGonigle an' old man Flanagan, an' I guess O'Brien was feelin' bad about all the shit he's been doin' to Joey an' Bridgit...treatin' 'em mean an' wailin' on 'em and stuff...

C He's one mean prick, that O'Brien....

L He ain't nothin' any more...

LSB Hehhehheh Hehhehheh!

L So, you know how it is after church, how sometimes all that religious crap makes you feel guilty an' stuff?

C I wouldn't know about that, but I heard that some....

L Some people do there confessin' in the bar instead of in church - for some of 'em, it's easier that way once they got a few beers under their belt....

C So the big cop is feelin' bad about bein' such a jerk all his life...?

L Yeah, that's what I heard, he was cryin' an' stuff, scared he was gonna suffer eternal damnation an' like that, when the monkey ran into Mooney's, an' seein' all those feet, he jumps up onto the bar...

C Onto the bar...?

LSB HEhhehheh...!

L An' it's bad enough, this little animale suddenly jumpin' up onto the bar in front of these half-loaded guys, but Pee Wee's still wearin' the mask I tied onto his head....!

C The death mask, the skull? The fuckin' monkey's still wearin' it...?

L Yeah, and all of a sudden O'Brien who's feelin' really bad about himself an' thinking about Hell looks up from cryin' an' sees this hairy little thing with a big Death's head starin' him right in the face from about a foot away...

C Holy Shit!

LSB Heheheheh....!

L An' that's when it hits the fan......

C He musta freaked...!

L He screams an' turns white, and the scream freaks Pee Wee who goes into an epileptic seizure right on the bar in front of O'Brien!

C He musta shit his pants....!

L Yeah, he did - that's one of the things that happens when you drop dead - you kinda lose control an' everything comes out....

LSB HEHEHEHEH...!

C O'Brien drops dead...?!

L Yeah, he's feelin' guilty an' miserable, thinkin' what an sshole he's been, an' all of a sudden a little naked hairy thing with the face of Death appears in front of him an' starts twitching an' convulsin', and O'Brien being a religious type knows it's the Reaper comin' for his ass, so he hands it to him on a platter...

C Holy fuckin' shit....!

LSB He died? O'Brien dropped dead...?

L Heart attack, they said it was, but I think he died of fright brought on by his own guilt....

C So what happened to the monkey...?

L He just laid there twitchin', the poor thing, an Frankie Spaghetti not bein' too smart, comes out with his carvin' knife to put Pee Wee out of his misery, but Pee Wee suddenly recovers an' runs out into the street an' seein' me, he jumps into my arms like for protection?

LSB Yeah, protection....

L An' I brought him back here and locked the door...

C Fuckin' heart attack - holy shit!

L So the cops came down an' they talked to the people who were in Mooney's, asked a lottta questions, but the stories they heard were so weird - an' they got a different story from everyone they spoke to....

C They arrest Pee Wee?

L Carlo, sometimes you're so fuckin' dumb! No, they don't arrest monkeys - my father talked to them an' laid a coupla C-notes on 'em an' they wrote it off as an accidental....

LSB So your monkey's a cop killer....right?

L Arabella says it's justice, ya' know? Poor Pee Wee was mistreated his whole life an' now God has kinda allowed him to get even for all the shit he's been through by offin' a bad guy...

C I dunno, maybe Loughlin is right - sometimes the Lord does work in mysterious ways...!