Original Motor Chums Sketch Continued (1970)

[A continuation of the original Motor Chums (then Moter Boys) sketch, written 15 October 1970.]

“I should have known you’d be a coward, Tom Wilshire,” Alvin sneered. “You and the rest of your gang. Well, I’ll get even with you, you white livered sneak.”

“Get even with me for what?” remarked Tom Wilshire softly.

“You motherfucker! I haven’t forgotten that cigar…”

“Well, really,” admonished Tom, “You knew that smoking was against the school rules.”

“So what! You were smoking too.”

“That’s irrelevant. The mere fact that others were breaking the rules was no reason for you to do so also. The rules were meant to be obeyed…”

“Don’t be so goddamned goody-goody. You didn’t have any business giving me an exploding cigar! I might have been killed.”

“I give you an exploding cigar! Hell, no! It was your guilty conscience, the knowledge that you were doing wrong, that made that cigar explode. That’s the scientific explanation.”

“God, you’re a bastard, Tom Wilshire,” snarled Alvin.

“Besides, the existence of that cigar is doubtful in the first place,” interposed Harry Fletcher. “You cannot show us the cigar now; we only have your word for it that there ever was such a cigar. Your perception of events differs from ours, and since events only occur within the mind, the events that are real for you may be fantasy for us. Perhaps for you that cigar exploded, but it didn’t explode for us.”

“You didn’t light it, that’s why! I’m gonna report you all!”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” laughed Tom Wilshire. “I know some teachers who would find an account of the conversation we just had about the game very interesting.”

“Besides that, there’s the metaphysical question of whether that cigar ever had an actual existence in reality.”

“What Harry means,” amplified Ned, “Is that there are five of us who didn’t see the cigar and only one who did.”

“You’re outnumbered,” said Tom.

“And surrounded,” said Harry.

“And who’s dat teacher gwine to believe, a good kid lak Tom or white trash lak you,” put in Ersatz.

“You stinking n-gg-r,” snarled Alvin, “you keep out of this.”

“And anyway, if you tell anyone about that cigar, I’m gonna beat the hell out of you,” put in Dick Trefoil.

“Dat goes double fo’ me,” shouted Ersatz.

“Now we don’t want any violence,” said Tom. “But really, Alvin, that remark about Ersatz stinking was uncalled for. We demand an apology.”

“Yeah! Ersatz don’t stink any more than any other coon,” said Dick.

(“Thank you fo’ dem kind remarks. I ain’t never gwine to forget dem,” said Ersatz.)

“I won’t apologize to any fucking n-gg-r,” shouted Alvin, and he turned to run.

But the others had formed a circle around him. Alvin saw at once that there was no way to leave without a fight and he was too great a coward to fight five at once, especially if two of them were Dick Trefoil and Ersatz Simpson. But like all cowards, he possessed a certain shrewdness that allowed him to get himself out of difficulties such as the one he now found himself in.

“All right, what do you want?” he demanded.

“We want you to apologize to Ersatz,” said Tom Wilshire.

“Or to be more precise,” added Harry Fletcher, “we want you to sign this written apology here.”

Alvin Dodge looked around him desperately. He saw no chance of help coming. He turned back to the Moter Boys and said, “Let me see that paper.”

Tom Wilshire handed him the apology he was to sign. Alvin took it ungraciously and began to read it, but before he was even half-way finished he grew red in the face and hurled the document to the ground. “I wouldn’t sign that fucking paper to save my life,” he exclaimed.

“A pity,” remarked Harry Fletcher.

“Speaking of fucking—” said Ned.

“Yes,” said Tom, how would it look if we were to tell—say—your parents—what movie that was you really went to Friday night when you said you were watching Mickey Mouse Meets Frankenstein.”

The bully went white. “My God,” he gasped, “they’d cut off my allowance.” He paused. “You dirty sneak, if you tell—”

“Nobody said anything about telling,” said Harry. “Tom was only speaking hypothetically.”

“So, if you sign this paper, there’s no reason why anyone should know where you were Friday,” said Tom, handing Alvin the paper after picking it up from the ground where Alvin had thrown it.

“Shut up you bastards,” groaned that lad. “Where’s a pen?” Quickly the business was completed and Tom pocketed the paper.

“Now, get outa here,” said Dick Trefoil, hurling the bully out of the circle.

“You’ll pay for this,” screamed Alvin back.

“Remember what happened last time you said that,” called Tom, and then the whole group collapsed in laughter.

Finally Ned said, “Hey, Tom. Why didn’t you go along with Alvin Dodge’s plan? You know that we have to win that game or we’re in a hole. Why didn’t—”

Tom Wilshire interrupted. “Have you ever known me to do anything wrong since I became leader of the Moter Boys?”

The smaller lad replied, “What do you mean, ‘wrong’?”

“Did I ever do anything stupid?”

“Well, no.”

“Don’t I always know what I’m doing?”

“I guess so.”

“Well then, there you are.”

“But why didn’t you want to follow Alvin’s scheme?”

“I had my reasons.”

“What reasons,” demanded Ned impatiently.

“All right, lesson one. First, Alvin is not very bright, and his scheme wasn’t foolproof.”

“He does better’n me in school,” interrupted Dick Trefoil.

“So?” said Tom. “Second, most probably he just wanted to get us in trouble. No doubt he would have reported us as soon as we carried out the plan. Third, the fool didn’t notice that Mr. Deraton was listening when he proposed it. Of course I had to object. My God!” [15 Oc 1970]

Original Motor Chums Sketch [early October 1970]

[Written before 10 October 1970. In later incarnations the Moter Boys became the Motor Chums, Wilbur Medley High became Horatio Alger High, and Central Grumley High became Jefferson High.]

“W

e just have to win tonight’s game,” said short Ned Eliot to his friends.

“I know that,” replied Tom Wilshire, the leader of the Moter Boys, as Dick Trefoil had named the gang.

“How we gonna do it, Tom?” asked the last-named lad.

“We’ll just have to do our best and pray for success,” interposed Harry Fletcher.

“Ise gwine fight till I drop to win dis game, and nobody’s gwine to stop me, nuther,” stoutly insisted Ersatz Simpson, a colored boy whose eccentricities of speech provided much amusement for his comrades.

When the laughter had died away, Tom Wilshire said, “Sure, sure, Ersatz, I know you’ll carry the water bucket to the best of your ability, but winning this game’s going to take some athletic skills.”

Just then they were joined by another lad, Alvin Dodge, who had no reason to like our young heroes as you will remember if you read the previous book in the series, The Moter Boys and the Exploding Cigar Trick.

“I heard you talkin’ about the game,” said that young lad quietly.

“Yes, you certainly did,” replied Tom.

“Well, you know it would mean a lot to me and my friends if Wilbur Medley High wins this game.”

“I didn’t know you were so concerned about school spirit,” said Harry.

“Oh, shit, you know why I want our school to win,” said Alvin, “and it hasn’t got anything to do with school spirit.”

“Ok, ok,” said Tom, “I’m sure of the purity of your motives. But what about it? I mean, why come to us?”

“Hell, everybody knows you’re the best player on our team.”

“I’m going to do my best pitching. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Hell, no! Look, I have a plan. Fred Aaron’s their pitcher, and he’s the only good guy Central Grumley’s got.”

“So?”

“So if he’s out of the game, Grumley hasn’t got a chance.”

“All right.”

“Now, I’ve got a plan. Before the game, as a gesture of fellowship and good will and all that shit you invite Fred to have a Coke with your side, free.”

“Free!”

“I’ll give you the nickel.”

“Ok.”

“But how’s that gonna win the game for us?” asked Dick.

“When you give him the drink, put this powder in it, and kggggsh, Fred’s out of it.”

“You want me to poison Fred?”

“Not poison him. Knock him out for a while. Long enough so we can win the game.”

“I don’t want anything to do with your reprehensible plan,” shouted Tom. “It’s dishonest, sneaky, and I don’t like it.” [early October 1970]

Seagle Morning [1970]

[As told to me by Mohammed, the self-described Persian Jesus Christ, one morning when I was desperately trying to complete a paper for college, about 10 May 1970]

                        I was walking in the morning

                        and there were white birds

                        white birds from the sea

                        how do you call them?

                        Seagles yes seagles on the field

                        And I walked over to the seagles

                        to see if I could be with the seagles

                        without the seagles going away

                        And when I walked to them

                        the ones that were here were gone

                        and there were only the ones there

                        till I was on the field alone.

                        And the seagles made a circle around me

                        And I lay down in the field so they could come back

Much Ado About Porridge [1970]

[Written 27 March 1970]

[Thunder. Enter Goldilocks]

Gold: Blow winds, blow; hurl thy sulph’rous fires;

Let loose thy cataracts of furious water

Till all the earth is drenched, till Neptune’s realm

Doth overflow the land. With thunderbolt

And lightning strike the palaces of kings,

Tear sun and moon from sky, break mountains down,

Level the earth, till all lies dead and ruined.

[She pauses]

What use is there, to rail on the element?

The horrid thunder, nor the roaring wind

The sheets of fire, nor the blasting rain—

The senseless elements will neither hear me

Nor be my ministers. I should do better

To seek some shelter. [thunder] This night’s tyranny

Is more than man can bear. But what rude hut

Doth meet my gaze? Perhaps beneath this roof

Some shelter may I find to put some shield

Between ungentle heavens and myself. [She goes in]

[Enter three bears]

2 Bear: A fierce and horrid night you picked to walk.

1 Bear: How could I well predict the heaven’s fury

The monstrous storm, disorders ’mongst the spheres?

When all the gods to choose to hurl chaos

At we poor mortals, crawling on the earth

Beneath their gaze, should I be called to account?

2 Bear: These late eclipses of the sun and moon

Did presage some great evil.

3 Bear: [aside] Ay, they blame their own defects on the unoffending planets.

1 Bear: Didst thou speak?

3 Bear: I said nothing.

1 Bear: Nothing will come of nothing.

2 Bear: Last night a dream did greatly trouble my soul.

Methought a bolt of lightning struck this house

And toads did croak (their rusty voices seemed

To shake the world); creeping things did crawl,

And bats did fly. But groaning voices spoke

Saying, Beware. And then a head of gold

Arose from ashes—

1 Bear: Woman, be silent. Thy dreams always augur ill.

Let us go in.

3 Bear: Ay, and quickly too. I am soaked and half frozen, and the other half like to be food for crows.

[they go in]

[Enter Goldilocks]

Gold: That meal that I ate did warm my bones,

Yet still within me I feel some unease.

Last night a lioness bore in the streets

A two-headed cub, alive and all the while

Ghosts did shriek and fiery warriors fought

And old graves yawned, and yielded up their dead.

A burning comet hurtled through the air

And fell into a pond outside my house.

Can these disorders mean me any good?

When comets die, there are no dangers feared

The heavens themselves protect the lives of men.

So I shall rest. [She goes within]

[enter 2 Bear]

2 Bear: Help! Thieves! Murder! My porridge stolen,

The chairs thrown and broken, the house disordered

And all as still as death!

[Enter 1 Bear]

1 Bear: Quick, let us seek the malefactor out—we

Have not sought throughout the house.

3 Bear: [within] Help, O help, a fiend!

[Goldilocks in bed discovered]

3 Bear: See, I have discovered the culprit.

1 Bear: O monstrous villain! False woman! Accursed fiend.

Thou art as opposite to every good

As the antipodes are unto us.

Or as the South to the septentrion.

Gold: [aside] I think tis time to leave this woeful stage.

1 Bear: Woman, thou art on thy death bed.

Gold: But not yet to die. [She leaps up]

1 Bear: Stop! Halt!

Gold: I am gone forever! [Exit, pursued by a bear]

A Man For No Season [1970]

[The opening of A Man For No Season. Written 3 February 1970]

The stage is dark. Suddenly a single spotlight lights up the center of the stage. It illuminates nothing. Enter the Common Man. As he enters the light, he stumbles over his feet and falls heavily. He picks himself up and addresses the audience.

Common Man: Look at me! I’m a common man! I occasionally philosophize, I change costumes rapidly, and I also change sides quickly, but the main thing is, I’m common. I’m going to act as an interpreter for you—this play is almost incomprehensible without one.

(He puts on his costume for the next scene.)

This is a costume. It covers me; it keeps me from being naked, and more important, it allows the play to begin.

Lights! Lights! (He turns towards the audience.) A street scene. It’s my proposition, the commoner a man is, the better. (He spits into the audience.)

(The lights come up revealing Lincoln, the two Betses, Williamson, Sherwin, Doll Williamson in a shirt of mail and a whole crowd of revolutionaries of all shapes, sizes, and times.)

Come, come, we’ll tickle their turnips, we’ll butter their boxes! Shall strangers rule the roost?

Betts: Brother, give place and hear John Lincoln speak.

Common Man (sings in a cracked voice): Aye Lincoln my leader
And Doll my true breeder
With the rest of our crew
Shall ran tan tarra tan.
Do all they what they can
Shall we be bobbed, braved? No!
Shall we be held under? No!
We are free born
And do take scorn
To be so.
[Corrects himself] To be used so.

Doll: Peace there! I say, hear Captain Lincoln speak. Keep silence till we hear his mind at large.

Common Man: If his mind’s at large, we’re all in trouble. (To the audience) That’s Lincoln. He’s running this riot.

Count Marko on the Generation Gap

O

n 12 January 1970 “Count Marko” wrote in the Columbian: “Young people today, and free-loading foundation-grant-grabbing adults, delight in perpetuating the myth that all of today’s problems with adolescents are the result of a ‘generation gap.’ As if there hasn’t always been a generation gap, no matter which centu­ry one researches. … Now, suddenly, when a parent forbids a son or daughter to do something, or go somewhere, it’s considered a ‘generation gap’ and a reason for the spoiled brats of today to have nervous breakdowns, or join roving bands of unwashed hip­pies. ... Without a generation gap civilization would come to a disastrous halt.”

[From a clipping I saved for some reason. I must admit the concept of the count doing research, especially research in another century, rather boggles the mind.]