THE CLOWN OF THE BASKERVILLES

In celebration of the 74th anniversary of its theatrical release (March 31st), I dedicate this blog to, "THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES," (1939).  It was the first (best) of the Basil Rathbone, Nigel Bruce,  fourteen movie-series, based on the Sherlock Holmes novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  For the purposes of my story, please try to imagine those actors in the starring roles, in the specific time period from Wednesday September 28, 1938 until Sunday October 2, 1938.

RATHBONE AS HOLMES (center) BRUCE AS WATSON (seated) AND MARY GORDON AS MRS. HUDSON.

Sherlock Holmes leaves his bedroom at 221-B, Baker Street and enters the living room.  He finds Dr. Watson with one knee on the settee, craning his neck around the half-drawn drapery as he spies on the late-morning street scene below.  "Well old man," starts Holmes, "I see you decided to wait for the postman up here."  Watson stammers, "W-w-whatever left you that impression?"  "Here, here my good man, your motives are as obvious as the origins of Stonehenge are mysterious."  "Out with it Holmes, if you have something say...just say it."  "Very well, you are timing a rendezvous."  "What?"  "Yes Watson, autumn is upon us but spring is in the air.  And this awkward position you struck...resembling a Norwegian Blue pining for the fjords...can only mean that you are hatching an intricate web of intrigue designed to procure the company of the opposite sex."  "Holmes you are daft?"  "But before I complete my thought on the subject, one other thing.  Why after all these years do pretend to be an British subject.  What do you have to gain by turning your back on your native Brooklyn?  Just because your mother dropped you on your head several times..." "Holmes, you are unmistakably, an insignificant heap of parrot droppings."  "Once again doctor, you've tickled my fancy with your acumen.  But let's not digress, why do you insist on hiding that perfectly lovely accent that was ever so ingrained in you from birth...in the hamlet, you so eloquently call, Greenpernt?" 

The doctor scoffed, "Greenpernt?  Of all the impertinence..."  "No really Watson, tell me again how you address local inquisitors who question where this so-called English accent of yours is from?"  "I tell them I'm Welsh...from the north end of Cardiff..."  "No, no, no Watson, I know that part, please delight me and tell me where exactly?"  "Does it really make you feel better about yourself, to embarrass me every chance you get?"  "So sorry but anytime I need a belly laugh, I imagine you telling people that you're twang is specific to the tiny section in North Cardiff, on or about a Hundred-Twenty-Fifth Street and Broadway."

Watson opened his pocket watch before sneaking another peek out the window.  Holmes said, "Don't think I forgot our original topic..."  Watson squashed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and barked, "If you must make a fool of your self..."  "On the contrary, what you have is a healthy appetite for female companionship..."  "Holmes..."  "No, no Watson, let me continue because I specifically know the object of your affection...our landlady, Mrs. Hudson."  "You have crossed the line sir!  This wild assertion challenges your worth as my friend, confidant and shudders the very fabric of what it means to be a gentlemen."  "Doctor you may find it convenient to deny my revelation...but can you look me in the eye and tell me why you are suddenly sending your shoes out to be shined and using a musky fragrance that masks your perfectly normal body odor?  More importantly, can you tell me why you waited in the downstairs foyer yesterday, as well as last Tuesday to meet the postman?"  When Watson groaned Holmes plowed on, "You did so...so that you would have an ideal vantage point to gape at Mrs. Hudson's undulating posterior as she scrubbed the marble vestibule on her hands and knees." 

Watson shook his head, "The residual affect of all that cocaine has increased your already acute repression and now has left you delusional as well as ..."  "This isn't about me or my voluntary abstinence...not everyone wants to avoid having their clarity distracted, corrupted or challenged.  What you are experiencing is, a common case of vanity that has manifested itself, in the form of a mid-life crisis or as you Americans like to say, if you don't use it, you'll lose it." 

"Well," Watson countered, "I'm neither a priest nor a germophobe hence I've never taken the utterly unnecessary vow of celibacy that seems to have invaded your psyche.  And, and, and!  Let me make this perfectly clear, I have no problem with close inter-personal contact."  "Ah, you are playing into my hands.  So you do pride your self in being a skoit-chaser?"  The doctor's eyes bulged out of his head, "No shit Sherlock!" "Elementary my dear Watson, so why don't you just admit that you have a thing for Mrs. Hudson."  "You are a loathsome boor and an absurd...little man."  "Trust me, I do not revel in discomforting you but all right then, I will prove my point.  A mere moment ago, you were looking out the window because you know that the postman arrives about now...within a ten-minute grace period.  You also know that the newspaper is coincidentally delivered in its own ten-minute interval that is slightly later than the mail."  Watson was nervously pulling at his mustache as Holmes continued, "And occasionally an over-lap occurs when the postal delivery runs late and the newspaper is ahead of schedule.  Ergo, before you developed your scheme to woo Mrs. Hudson, you'd wait downstairs for both the mail and the paper...to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.  Now, except on vestibule scrubbing Tuesday, you anxiously press your face...starting promptly at 10:10 in the morning, against the glass in the anticipation of the post man.  But do you race downstairs to meet our reliable postal carrier, Mr. Caleb Jennings and relieve him of our daily correspondences.  I say NO!  And that Watson is the crux of the matter.  You idly remain up here.  Thus, causing Mrs. Hudson to interrupt her other responsibilities, to trudge up here...as to hand our communiques to you...so you might have a private moment with her..."  "Holmes, despite your earned reputation for an astute gift of discernment, you have the mind of a hamster."  A wry smile came over Holmes face, "I've never seen such piety turned towards oneself...but nevertheless I will persevere to make my point.  If...as I said...you became cowardly in this private moment...you have devised a fail-safe procedure that would provide you a second opportunity 'to get somewhere' when she trudged up again, approximately ten minutes later with the newspaper."

The two men simultaneously stopping talking when the bell over the front door downstairs jingled.  Seconds after it jingled again, Watson scurried to their flat's entrance and put his ear to the door. When he heard Mrs. Hudson's familiar footsteps getting near, he jumped back to the settee and feigned innocence by tapping the raw tobacco he never smoked...out of his pipe.

In an unnatural, cross-legged pose, Watson coyly remained seated as his comrade responded to the gentle but rhythmic rap on the door.  Mrs.  Hudson appeared in the door jamb, extended a collection of envelopes and a small parcel towards Holmes and said in a sweet Irish brogue, "Good morning gentlemen."  Holmes took on the role of wingman when he asked her inside.  "Mrs.  Hudson, Watson and I were just discussing the possibility that you have added new ingredients to your even more delicious Yorkshire Pudding..."  He stopped in mid-sentence when the jingle of the downstairs bell signaled the arrival of the LONDON TIMES.  Holmes was gallant as he bowed to the woman and said, "While you are chatting, I'll retrieve the newspaper."

For three minutes, Mrs. Hudson pleasantly explained the new subtleties in her recipe as Watson twitched in anticipation of divulging his social invitation.  During a pause in Mrs. Hudson's report, the doctor cleared his throat as his voice faltered, "M-m-my dear Mrs. Hudson, I was wondering..."  At that precise time, Holmes returned holding the newspaper.  Without looking up from his reading, he crossed the living room and said, "The cricket matches in Ceylon were postponed due to a typhoon," before he disappeared into his room.

The kindly woman waited for the door to close before saying, "Dr. Watson, you were wondering..."  "I was er-uh-umm...w-w-wondering, why after all these years, you never call me John."  Mrs. Hudson adjusted her apron and puffed up her hair before saying, "That would be fine...John.  Is there anything else you might be wondering about?"  The shrill, amateurish sound of Beethoven's, "ODE TO JOY," in the form of violin music from Holmes' room filled the air as Watson nestled a bit closer.  In a hushed tone he stiffly stated, "I would like to get to know you better Mrs. Hudson."  She smiled, "What did you have in mind?  And please...call me Margaret."  "Yes of course...I thought perhaps Mrs...I mean Margaret...that we could stroll through Hyde Park this Sunday afternoon.  If all goes well...we could also go punting on the Thames.  In the early evening, we could sup together in the restaurant at the Savoy.  Then if I could be so bold, it would be my esteemed priviledge to have your accompaniment, to the crackerjack show they have at the Odeon."  "Why John..."  "If it isn't too late, we can end our lovely evening with a nice glass of sherry."

Margaret Hudson's nodded in approval before bursting out in a screeching laugh, "Funny, I've had my eye on you for years.  I hoped this day would come but I gave up because I assumed...you two...how should I say it...kept to yourselves."  Watson harrumphed, "Madame, really?" Mrs.  Hudson apologized, "Please excuse me...no honestly, I didn't mean to imply anything sordid. Let me start over. I accept your suggestion, it would be wonderful to get to know you better, this Sunday."

Watson was still confounded by her squeal of delight and queer assertion so he changed the subject, "What sorts of things do you like?"  "Aye," she started, "Travel for certain but I haven't left the district in quite some time.  In my youth, I was told that I was quite a lively dancer.  Alas, I'm not as spry as I used to be so these days, I enjoy doing macrame...but I'd  rather dance."  "I've seen you twisting those coarse fibers into interesting patterns."  "Nae John, macrame may look like twisting but it's actually knotting lacy chords into designs...but I'm glad you like it."

"Margaret," Watson said louder as Holmes' violin butchery of Beethoven continued, "I would also like you to know, that I'm really from Brooklyn, in the USA.  Also, I don't gamble, rarely smoke my pipe and only drink socially."  "Well Johnny boy, I don't care where you're from.  And if being from Brooklyn is supposed to suggest you're tough....remember this, I was right in the middle of Belfast's Bloody Sunday and the only reason I survived all those other riots into 1922 was, I'm a scrapper.  That means, I knew how to handle my self...and still do.  But more importantly,  if you think you're going to lure a woman of my high-standing up here after hours using sherry as bait, you are sadly mistaken...I like gin!"

Watson was smiling as he tried to compose himself.  Mrs. Hudson looked towards Holmes' room and added, "Don't you think 'what's-his-name' might object to you having a landlady with benefits?"  Watson robustly said, "Old 'what's-his-name' might know everything about the human spirit but he doesn't know how to enjoy it.  Besides, after he has his nightly glass of warm buttermilk and a scone or two, his sleep is so deep that any hibernating bear would envy him.  Believe me, after he dons his ridiculous night mask, an orchestra playing the crescendo from the "1812 OVERTURE" next to his bed, wouldn't stir him."

ALTHOUGH SHERLOCK HOLMES DID PREFER HIS VICTORIAN BLACK,  SILK SLEEPING MASK WHEN HE WAS OUT OF TOWN, HE ALMOST EXCLUSIVELY WORE HIS FRILLY LAVENDER ONES AT HOME.

The giggling couple ended their frivolity after the downstairs bell rang. When the music from the other room stopped, Holmes came out with the paper under his arm and said, "Tomorrow, the Prime Minister will be taking a big chance signing the Munich Agreement with the Huns." Mrs.  Hudson winked at her Johnny, switched back to her Spartan facade and matter-of-factly said, "Will you require anything more Dr. Watson?"  Watson beamed as he discretely said, "No thank you."

Moments later, Watson answered a stern knock at the door.  A man handed Watson a card, introduced himself as Dr.  James Mortimer and said, "Sherlock Holmes I presume?"  Holmes approached the door, ushered the man in and said, "I'm Sherlock Holmes."  Mortimer said, "I represent Sir Henry Baskerville of Devonshire.  In honor of his son Edgar's fourth birthday, Sir Henry is putting together a rather large party...pony rides, a magician and so forth"  Watson interjected, "Why in blazes would you need us at a kiddie party?"  "Banshees," cried Mortimer.  "Banshees," Watson cried, "what's that!"  Mortimer said, "Banshees are female spirits whose wailings warn of impending death."  Watson said, "I knew that, I was just surprised that anyone believed in that sort of rot." Mortimer said, "It's the Baskerville family curse and I've been dispatched here to secure your services, to assure that the proceedings go smoothly." Mortimer removed two, twenty pound notes from his pocket and added, "To cover your time at Baskerville Hall and expenses, here's a good faith retainer." 

Holmes scratched his head in disbelief, "My colleague is right.  There is no supernatural evil.  Certainly a man of you stature should realize such apparitions don't exist."  Mortimer said, "It's not a superstition, the estate has a long history of heinous, unexplained deaths.  The unfortunate placement of the grounds are along the desolate, foggy, swampy moor, between Grimpen Mire and Dartmoor Prison.  Many a man has lost his way in the moor and with one missed step was never seen again.  Plus, death shrouds the entire area. A mere hundred meters from the property line, archaeologists have unearthed Neolithic ruins and an altar in which countless souls were sacrificed to appease the Gods.  Not to mention the real and perpetual threat from escaped convicts.  Even back to the first world war when the property was used as an allied aerodrome, death surrounded the hall. So when I state that I am not an ethereal man please realize that after being repeatedly exposed to the bedeviling Banshee's wail, all I can say is that I'm glad to be out of the house."

"I will take your case," Holmes said.  But I have an appointment with Inspector Lestrade and this pressing business will keep me from returning with you and Watson.  So until I catch up to you on Saturday, keep your money till we get results." 

AS A DODDERING FOOL, ENGLISH ACTOR DENNIS HOEY (1893-1960) PORTRAYED LESTRADE.

Holmes informed Mortimer of the finer details.  Only he and the Baskervilles would know Watson's true identity. The men made travel arrangements for Friday night and Mortimer left.  Holmes said, "Watson, remember make no mention of your association with me.  While you are there you will simply be called Uncle John.  When you get off the train, telephone me here. Then report your findings at noon, before bed or on a needs basis."  "Right Holmes."  "And one more thing Johnny boy...where did you come up with calling me, 'what's his name'?"  "Confound it man, how can you play that infernal fiddle, read the newspaper and simultaneously eavesdrop on personal whisperings?'  Holmes shrugged, "A wise man never reveals his sources or his secrets..."

On the tedious train journey, a strain developed between the doctors when Mortimer asked, "Where is your accent from?"  "It's Welsh."  "I spent a bit of my youth in Wales...but I can't place..." I'm from North Cardiff..."  When Watson added the non-existent cross streets, Mortimer who was familiar with Cardiff became acutely suspicious.  When Watson sensed the distrust, he became weary of Mortimer.

On Saturday morning, birds were chirping and the sun was shining brightly when they stepped off the train.  Mortimer seemed confused when he was approached by an antique coach driver.  "Tuffle, where is Wethbee?  And where is the Bentley?" 

THE 1937 BENTLEY WAS THE ESSENCE OF WEALTH.

Tuffle said, "Sir, it seems Wethbee (the chauffeur) was so frightened by the Banshees last night that he disappeared...and took the car.  Mrs.  Baskerville suggested I take the brougham and meet you."

DRAWN BY ONE OR TWO HORSES, A BROUGHAM WAS AN ELEGANT, FULLY ENCLOSED, FOUR-PASSENGER CARRIAGE.  IT SHOULD NOT BE CONFUSED WITH A SINGLE-HORSE CALASH, FEATURING EXPOSED SEATING WITH A FOLDING HOOD OR A SINGLE-HORSE HANSOM CAB THAT WAS ENCLOSED BUT ONLY ACCOMMODATED TWO PASSENGERS.

Before they left the station Mortimer said, "John..."  When Watson realized that they hadn't rehearsed a surname he spat, "Hudson, John Hudson...I mean John Hudson Baskerville."  Mortimer continued, "Uncle John, this is Tuffle, the new butler.  He has been with us since Mitchell resigned last week, due the Banshees."  He turned to Tuffle, "Is the staff still intact?"  "I'm afraid not sir.  The last of the charwomen left last night and the laundress was packing as I left."  "How about Mrs. McKegney?"  "I can't put myself in her mind, sir. I've never had the opportunity of speaking with her.  So as far as I know, she's still with us."  Mortimer said, "She's a recent replacement herself..." 

Tuffle was loading the baggage as he said, "Honestly gentlemen, the agency didn't say anything about me being the chauffeur or gardening but these Banshees...if I get scared half way to kingdom come again, I'm afraid I too will resign."  Watson forgot to contact Holmes as he stepped into the carriage and said, "Come now, you look like a reasonable chap, you shouldn't be intimidated by something you can't see."  "Begging the gentleman's pardon, but decent people have been dying at the Banshee's behest at Baskerville Hall for hundreds of years."  "Come, come that's merely a legend...a veritable fairy tale."  "Gentlemen, I saw the beast."  The two doctors were frozen by the pure fear that throttled Tuffle's voice.  "That's right and as God is my witness, this vicious, spectral she-demon burned my skin with her fiery eyes and chomped at my face with its razor-sharp teeth.  I'm ashamed to say that only someone with a weaker resolve such as myself would hesitate from fleeing."

MANY ARTISTIC. RENDERINGS OF BANSHEES ARE REPRESENTED AS GHOSTLY, FLYING PHANTOMS.

Two hours later, the weather had made a dramatic turn for the worse when Mortimer announced, "That's the moor on the left."  Watson peered through the fog as Mortimer continued, "Don't let the beauty of the heather tempt you. Even natives get disoriented going through and fall to an excruciating death off steep cliffs.  Plus there are landslides, cavernous sink holes and the menace of getting sucked into quicksand."

Up a slight grade in the topography, medieval Baskerville Hall was placed on a beautifully manicured, long and narrow plot of ground.  Mortimer pointed into the moor and said, "In the distance, you may be able to catch a glimpse of the ancient ruins I mentioned."

At the main entrance to the great hall, Watson noticed that other than the occasional whistle of the wind, there wasn't a natural sound to be heard. Inside, the two doctors were met by the Baskervilles, Sir Henry and his wife Lucille as well as the housekeeper, Mrs. McKegney...who was now pressed into service as a cook.

McKegney was a gaunt and austere woman who looked fifty but was probably younger than forty.  Her constant pained expression was associated with some sort of permanent neck injury. Therefore she had a limited range so anything beyond normal peripheral vision, required her to move her feet or contort her torso.

Doctor Mortimer was told that the governess had resigned.  He was shaking his head as he got the Baskervilles up to speed on Holmes later arrival. Mrs. McKegney then escorted undercover Watson to his second floor room.  Along the way he asked the dull hag, "Aren't you afraid of the Banshees?" "It is my understanding that all the servants have deserted the Baskervilles at their hour of need except for that Mr. Tuffle and myself." "That Tuffle fellow said he was chased by the Banshee last night."  "If he says so...well then you should take him at his word.  But I've never spoken to the man so I can't attest to the quality of his character."

She handed him a skeleton key for his grand oak door and asked, "How shall I address you sir."  "John Baskerville."  "Very well Mr. Baskerville, can I be of any further service now?"  "Yes please, do you have a copy of today's London newspapers and where might I place a long distance call?"

Watson wanted to open up the lines of communication with Holmes but the telephone seemed as bedazzled by Banshees as everyone else.  Watson spent the day touring the property with Sir Henry and Mortimer.  Later during dinner, Watson unsuccessfully tried to get the Baskervilles to consider postponing their child's party.

Both Baskervilles, Mortimer and Watson adjourned to the library. An hour later a night cap was served.  Watson took a small swig.  Rather than complain about the acrid taste, he camouflaged his activity and dumped the remainder into his tobacco pouch.  When Tuffle returned, Watson extended his glass towards the butler and said, "Truly excellent."  He stood up, proposed a toast to the Baskerville's toddler and added, "May tomorrow's festivities go untainted by otherworldly nonsense."  The others said, "Here, here."  Watson took the refill to his lips, pretended to drink and said, "And here's to the end of the Baskerville curse."  He then secretly emptied his glass into a flower pot.

In his room, Watson started drinking water from the pitcher next to the basin. Due to his failure to contact Holmes, to avoid forgetting minute details, he wanted to chronicle both mundane and extraordinary events with an exact timeline.  Towards the end of his documentation, he was gulping down water at a feverish pace.  His last entry was a description of the aperitif he was served after dinner as having a lilting scent of burnt almonds.  He worried that the aroma might be associated with poison.

Watson intended to force himself to stay awake all night.  He turned his attention to the newspaper. He finished the LONDON TIMES article on the big anti-war summit in Munich between Great Britain, France, Germany and Italy. He was taking pride in Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain's talent for diplomacy as it was laid out in the DAILY MIRROR. 

CHAMBERLAIN RETURNED FROM MUNICH, A HERO. IN THE FAMOUS PHOTO (above), HE TRIUMPHANTLY HOLDS THE NON-AGGRESSION AGREEMENT HE AND ADOLPH HITLER SIGNED.  A FEW DAYS LATER, THE GERMAN INVASION OF CZECHOSLOVAKIA SIGNALED THE BEGINNING OF WWII. 

Halfway through the article, Watson heard a heavy, metallic thud.  He struggled to his feet in anticipation of the Banshee...when no other noise followed, he woozily looked out the window.  In the distant blackness of the moor, he saw a small light turn off, back on and off again. Seconds later, the light began a code-like cadence of discordant blinks.  He put on his coat, checked to see that his revolver was loaded, stumbled downstairs and around to the back of the hall...where the party was to be.

Watson crossed the croquette pitch and stopped at the edge of the moor.  He dared not venture into the wilderness but upon closer examination, he concluded that a flashlight, in the area of the Neolithic ruins was signaling the house.  Watson squinted back at the house and from the last window on the second floor...he saw similar blinks.

Dr. Watson held his pistol at his side as he tip-toed back up to his room.  He left the door open just a crack and started a vigil to see who or what would come out of the farthest room.  Then it started, the wail of the banshee.  At first, Watson was thunderstruck until he realized that the sounds were coming in through the vents.  More importantly, he discerned the background scratchiness of a phonograph record.  From his post at the door, Watson watched the corridor for twenty minutes, until the faux-fright show ended.  His patience paid off when the so-called strangers, Mrs. McKegney and Tuffle came out of the last room. The diabolical duo were passing Watson's lair as Tuffle reached under his waistcoat and adjusted what looked like the hilt of a dagger inside his pants.

Watson scribbled some entries into his notebook including that the metallic thud might have been the dagger falling on the parquet floor, three doors down.

The morning of the party, Sunday October 2nd, was breezy, sunless and drab.  At 6:45, Watson awoke in desperate need of the toilet. While clambering out of bed, he recalled the fear of being poisoned and was surprised to be alive. He was so roused that he ventured downstairs.  He was relieved to see Mrs.  Baskerville.  She greeted him with a tiresome sigh, "Aye, the Banshees were running last night."  He said, "Did you see them?"  She shook her head, "But they were in our bed chambers.  Mr. Baskerville heard them too as well as my little boy."  Watson was scratching his head as she handed him an envelope and added, "A special messenger just brought this for you."

The note was from Holmes, "I understand that the telephone is not working...I wanted you to tell the Baskervilles that I regrettably can not cut away to assist them."  Dr. Mortimer was coming downstairs as Watson informed Mrs. Baskerville.  When she shared the disappointing information with Mortimer, he became angry at Watson, "Sir, I am the advocate of this family.  I demand to know why we wasted all this time and energy to have the incredible Sherlock Holmes get to the bottom of this insidious mystery only to wind-up with a do-nothing like you."

Watson was perturbed.  He shushed the other doctor, guided him outside and said, "Be that as it may, we ought not contradict his strategy.  Now sir, did you see the Banshee last night?"  "No!"  Watson lost his temper, "What else...come, come now, answer the friggin' question!"  "I have never seen the Banshee but it was in my room last night."  "How many night caps did you have last night?"  "Are you implying that I was incapacitated by liquor...or are insulting me by calling me a liar?"  Before Watson could respond Mortimer said, "I never trusted you.  Your occasional unsophisticated choice of words suggest that your pedigree is not of an English gentleman.  And I wouldn't give a lead farthing for that phony accent of yours either.  I say it's from nowhere in Wales." Before Watson could make a rebuttal, he was cut-off.  "And far worse, you stand before me and accuse me of being intoxicated."  Watson tried again but Mortimer continued, "And sir...and I cringe at the thought of calling you a gentleman...where did you go this morning?"  "I came downstairs minutes before you."  "If that's the case, where did you go last night after we went to bed?" Mortimer could tell he was lying when Watson said, "I never left my room."  Mortimer pointed down, "I see.  I'm no detective, but why are the perfectly shined shoes you wore to dinner, so muddy now?"

Watson whispered, "I'm forced to confide in you because I am desperately in need of an ally. Sir, we were all drugged last night.  I would have liked to analyze the after dinner drinks because initially, I feared we were being poisoned.  But now it's fair to assume that an hallucinogen laced our night caps.  Therefore I conclude that Banshee was merely a piped-in sound-effect.  You can imagine that with our perceptions altered, the threat gained more validity."  Watson referred to Tuffle and McKegney as the primary culprits and added, "Moreover, I suspect that they are acting in collusion with a malevolent third party."  Watson explained the signaling in the night and said, "Somewhere near the ruins, I would expect to find hard evidence of a conspiracy against the Baskervilles."  Mortimer exclaimed, "We must contact the constables in town."  "Under normal circumstances, I would say yes.  But the telephone has been cut off, the car was stolen and its too far to go on horseback...and the party will be starting in two hours."

Watson flashed his gun and said, "The time for action...is now." Mortimer said, "I haven't been in that part of the moor in years, but I'm certain I remember the way." The men set out on the treacherous half-mile route through swampy territory as well as the hazardous narrow, chalky inclines that seemed to disintegrate under foot.

They avoided one last mud puddle as they approached their destination. In front of a cave that faced away from Baskerville Hall, the only thing out of order in Mortimer's mind were the charred remains of a fresh fire.  In the cold residue, the tiny edge from a piece of paper was found.  Both men agreed that the three discernible words were in German.

They were anxious to warn the Baskerville's of the peril they projected.  Despite the dangers, the two doctors hurried back. They were emerging from the wasteland as early arriving vendors set up for the party.  Amid the growing festive clamor, they were accosted by a panic-filled Henry Baskerville, "Where were you...?"  Watson cut him off, "Sir you must postpone the party!  Tell all your guests and vendors to leave immediately and alert the authorities."  Baskerville read them a note, "Your wife and child will be returned to you unharmed after the party.  Tell anyone who asks that the boy is sick and is being tended to my his mother..."

Watson said, "Have you any handguns?"  "Yes I have two."  "Perfect, get one for yourself and one for Mortimer...and don't forget the ammunition."

Mortimer looked around and said, "I don't know any of these blokes."  A man in bib overalls was unloading two ponies from his lorrie. A short man in a roly-poly clown costume was stretching balloons as his tall, gray-bearded cohort, in a tattered tuxedo assembled a booth labeled; ARBUCKLE'S BALLOON ANIMALS.

ARBUCKLE'S COSTUME WAS A WHITE, DIAMOND -SHAPED FAT SUIT WITH LARGE, PINK, PURPLE AND ORANGE DOTS.

In the shade of Baskerville Hall, a pudgy chef with a gigantic mustache that obscured his face was singing Italian opera as he rattled pots, pans, dishes, cups and silverware.  At the gazebo, a ten-piece musical band was arranging their chairs and warming up.

A spattering of neighbors, family, friends and business associates were arriving as Watson whispered, "We may have already been infiltrated by the Huns.  Mortimer said, "I don't many of the guests and all the vendors could be impostors."  Watson said, "This is quite a sticky situation.  I'll feel better when we are armed and we see what these pricks...I mean black'earts really want." Mortimer reflected, "Now that I think about it, I'm certain Mrs. Baskerville didn't hire musicians."

Mr. Baskerville returned empty handed, "My guns are all missing!  Even my hunting rifles.  I also did a quick search and my family does not seem to be in the house."  Watson said, "It seems they have the upper hand." Mortimer asked, "How many guests did you invite?"  "Thirty or so kids, we told the caterer to prepare for a hundred people."  Watson said, "Can you account for the validity of everyone here?"  He was shaking his head when a passerby with two youngsters said, "In the village, they said your estate was haunted...a lot of folks are afraid to come...but we wouldn't miss a Baskerville party for the world."

At eleven, the band started playing silly songs. Arbuckle the Clown twisted the first balloon animal into a pig and used a scissor to curl a piece of ribbon into a tail. At the same time, his partner posted a schedule of games that included, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Simon Says, Musical Chairs and a scavenger hunt. Far away from the food station, the ponies took their riders on an elongated oval path as the chef started doling out generous portions of spaghetti.

At ten minutes till noon, the band was playing, "LONDON BRIDGES FALLING DOWN," as a dot appeared over the farthest eastern horizon.  The gray-bearded man interrupted Pin the Tail on the Donkey and called out to the children, "SCAVENGER HUNT!"  As rehearsed, the kids dispersed in every direction.

This unidentified flying object was incredibly high in the sky and seemed headed directly at Baskerville Hall.  When Watson  realized that it was an airplane he muttered, "This is bad ju-ju."   Henry Baskerville quizzically arched a brow before responding, "Might be a bomber." In that instant, Tuffle appeared from out of nowhere, locked Baskerville's neck in the crook of his left arm and threatened his back with the dagger in his right hand. As a part of the synchronized assault, suddenly several armed men emerged from the moor.  Arbuckle made a screeching laugh that was familiar to Watson as shots rang out.  A guest fell. The band dropped their instruments, picked up their own weapons and fired back at the incoming marauders.

Bullets were flying everywhere as the Italian chef brandished a machine gun and ordered the nearby guests against the wall. At the balloon line, Mrs. McKegney wrung a little girl's wrist and pushed the other children towards the chef.  The previously mute Arbuckle, pounced on McKegney from her blind side and in a female voice shouted, "Kids, run away!"

The plane flying over head, bearing Nazi markings began dropping paratroopers. Watson drew his pistol on Tuffle but in the ensuing struggle, dropped it.  Watson was pinned down as Tuffle cocked the dagger over head.  It was coming down at Watson when the doctor smashed his skeleton key into Tuffle's eye.  The two wrestled for control. Tuffle was futility flailing the blade at Watson.  Watson shifted his body to the left and then lunged back at his attacker. Tuffle yelped in terrible agony as the key tore off a section of ear skin.  In his full-blown Brooklyn accent Watson cried, "Drop da fuckin' knife yuh fuckin' asshole or I'll drill a fuckin' hole tru yuh eardrum wider dan duh Holland fuckin' tunnel!"

From afar, most of the parachutists were firing machine guns before they set down because a crosswind caused them to drift into the moor.   At the same time, four civilian cars roared up the road from the village.  Scotland Yard's Inspector Lestrade leaped out of the first vehicle and led the charge of local police.

Hand-to-hand combat was breaking out in several places.  Dead and injured bodies littered the ground as the scavenger hunt organizer, from behind the wall of the balloon animal hut shot at the paratroopers.  He looked back towards the house and saw the Italian chef crack the butt of his machine gun against an adolescent boy's skull and then shoot the victim's protesting father.  The games man exposed himself to enemy fire by standing erect.  He took careful aim and shot the chef in the upper arm.  He chased down the fleeing yellow-belly.  When he grabbed the mustachioed cook's injured shoulder, Sherlock Holmes threw off his disguise and exclaimed, "Ah, we meet again Moriarty...I see you have now stooped to the depths of treason..."

PROFESSOR MORIARTY WAS A MASTER CRIMINAL AND HOLMES ARCHENEMY.  GEORGE ZUCCO (left) AND LIONEL ATWILL WERE TWO OF THE ACTORS WHO PORTRAYED  HIM.  INTERESTINGLY, THE PROFESSOR MANAGES TO BE KILLED IN THREE SEPARATE MOVIES IN THE SERIES.

Mrs. McKegney was trying to strangle Arbuckle but her pre-existing neck injury prevented her from getting enough leverage to finish the job. In the skirmish, the clown spotted a croquette ball, momentarily wiggled free and grabbed it.  With a last gasp of energy, it was smashed into McKegney's temple.  Arbuckle got on top of the housekeeper and pulled the scissors from a compartment in the costume. The clown screamed, "I'm going to slice you deep, wide and forever...now, where's Mrs. Baskerville and little Edgar."  The femme fatale was in excruciating pain but wouldn't give in. She tore at the top part of Arbuckle's costume and ripped it partially off as she spat at her assailant and barked profanity in German.  The clown's under shirt revealed that she was a woman.  With heightened inspiration, the she-clown went for the jugular by shoving the shears up against McKegney's throat.  The fake housekeeper strained her neck away from the points until the torturous neck pain was too much to endure.  Suddenly she screamed, "STOP, STOP! A cave in the moors, they're in a cave near the ruins."

Arbuckle called out in an Irish accent to Dr.  Mortimer and a police officer.  The three of them stepped around Henry Baskerville's bloodied body as they hurried into the moor.

The gun-fire had died-down significantly. Lestrade's brigade shot most of the paratroopers before they could free them self of their chutes. Several surviving Nazis surrendered while others fled in all directions.  The shooting vseemed over until only an occasional shot rang out.  One of the last, felled Sherlock Holmes.  Moriarty took the opportunity to limp around the far side of the house and commandeer a car that the local police came in.

Watson borrowed handcuffs from Lestrade to restrain Tuffle.  Under the promise of leniency, Tuffle confessed to being a German spy.  Further, in coordination with the invasion of Czechoslovakia (that was happening simultaneous with this attack), he admitted that the Luftwaffe, under the guise of a supernatural curse, wanted to vilify Baskerville Hall.  Once they controlled the property, young Edgar was to be held hostage as the Baskerville's were extorted to act in the Nazi's behalf. Then the German's would have free reign to take advantage of the hall's rural setting and use this forgotten outpost as a secret air base.

Watson was called to Holmes' side.  Blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth as he uttered, "You did it.  This time you're the hero."  "No old boy, we figured it out but we still needed you to rescue us. But how did you know?"  Holmes spit-up bloody gauze and bellowed, "Where's Moriarty?"  "The professor was here?"  "Yes, he was the Nazi's inside man..."  "Sorry, there's no sight of the blighter now...but how did you figure out this attack?"  "Elementary my dear Watson, when Mortimer..."  A coughing spasm stopped Holmes.  In a weaker voice he said, "I deduced that this estate was used in the first world war as an aerodrome, I put it together with the heightened foreign spy activity all over Britain and that twit Chamberlain negotiating peace with that warmonger Hitler.  Luckily for all of us, Lestrade had faith in my instincts and was able to muster enough brave men, on short notice, to stem the tide."  Watson shook his head in amazement, "Once again your intuitive mind is correct, the spy posing as the butler just said that the Germans are invading Czechoslovakia, right now." 

One of the remaining unmarked cars drove through the croquette pitch and stopped near Holmes. A squad of plainclothesmen brought a makeshift stretcher and lifted Holmes on it. Watson joked, "Before they take you to the hospital, don't you have a snappy colloquialism that questions my mother's virtue?"  "You're a saint Johnny boy...hence your mother was a saint as well." "One last thing Holmes..."  "I know Watson, you want to know how Mrs. Hudson got involved..."  "Precisely..."  "Well, you know I never reveal my sources...or my secrets."  "Your a pip Holmes, a fuckin' pip."  A spasm of pain tore through Holmes' innards as he huffed, "If the mood strikes me, I'll tell you later."  "Very well then Holmes.  But you lost a lot of blood.  But I gather that after an extended convalescence, you will make a full recovery.  I'll be along post haste to give you a transfusion...if the mood strikes me." 

At the same time, Arbuckle, Dr.  Mortimer and the constable emerged from the moor...with Lucille Baskerville and little Edgar.  They were happily re-united with Henry Baskerville as his wounds were being attended to. Suddenly a sniper's random shot rang out and killed Dr. Mortimer! 

Watson turned from Holmes and ran to Mortimer's aid as Lestrade's men raced into the moor.  A short volley of shots ended abruptly. Watson looked down at Mortimer and shook his head.  The clown embraced Watson and cried, "Oh John."  Watson pulled back focused on Arbuckle and smiled, "Mrs. Hudson? I mean Margaret."  He returned her hug with several hard kisses on her mouth as the band struck up, "RULE BRITANNIA."

                                                # # #    THE END   # # #

CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO HEAR THE SONG.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1XPHL4Q86t4

"RULE, BRITANNIA," often confused by Americans as the English national anthem was a patriotic poem, written to music in 1740, by Thomas Arne. If you want to sing along, here's the first stanza.

When Britain first, at Heaven's command

Arose azure main;

This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sang this strain:

"Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:

"Britons never will be slaves."



LET'S DO THE TIME WARP...AGAIN

A friend recently said, "Picture a guy whose mouth has been wired together because he has a broken jaw.  For over a month, every time he takes a meal through a straw, he rehashes what he should have to the guy who put him in this predicament. THAT," my buddy continues, "is how I feel every day...for the last forty years about my missed (sexual) opportunity with Dina Newgate."

His confession made me reflect on how my own stupidity cost me some great opportunities too.  But rather than dwell on them forever, I choose to make them into...hopefully...funny stories.

The finer details of the following summer of 1977 event are so clear that if I woke up tomorrow and found out I was in a time warp...and it was still 1977...I'd believe it.

My friend Z and I (both twenty-two) were allowed to use the summer home, (in a large bungalow colony) of a mutual friend, (actually his parents).  The allure of this road trip near Monticello New York included the usual yaddy, yada like: canoeing, hiking and swimming.  But the real reason we went up there was the expectation of "meeting" girls.

We arrived in the early evening of the Friday.  By 11:PM, we were in a watering hole (one of the few for miles around) called, "BEND AN ELBOW."  Two hours later, we accepted that we weren't getting "met." We lingered a little longer...just in case...and left empty-handed at 1:30 AM. 

Z was familiar with the area and drove, (in his world famous Z-Mobile), to a tiny (closed for the night) municipal airport.  We continued behind the only building (other than the flight tower), along an obscure, unlit, unpaved access road, beyond its only runway.  I don't know what Z was thinking but we wound up at the local "Lover's Lane." 

TOO BAD THIS SIGN WASN'T IN THE FIELD WHERE WE PARKED.

Under the romantic starlit night, I was glad nobody else was around.  Still, I insisted that we sat on the hood of his car during our long heart-to-heart conversion.  Included were projections for our next day's activities, as well as planning a big Saturday night destination...other than Bend An Elbow.

We got back after four and watched a TV movie until sunrise.  Somehow, we slept the afternoon away.  At six, we occupied our self by walking around the complex.  That's when we realized that all the kids up there...WERE KIDS!

At the basketball court, two perky girls (around sixteen), challenged us to a game.  I realized that even if the eyes of a hundred busybodies weren't on us, there was NO WAY this could end well.  But before I could say; no, Z innocently said, "Okay."

I understood that we were playing with children.  But foreign-born, nonathletic Z was enthusiastic. So I made a game within the game by making everyone laugh at his spastic style while setting him up to awkwardly score all our points, in a hard fought, Harlem Globetrotters versus the Washington Generals-like victory.

We were parting ways when one of the girls mentioned that the "casino" was open after dark and that it was their big hangout.  Again Z agreed to come by before I could poo-poo the idea.  Afterwards I explained the ramifications of socializing with teenie-boppers.  I actually saw the little light bulb over his head turn on when he saw my point.

At around 10:30PM, we were about to leave for Roark's Tavern in Monticello when Z said, "Let's at least see what the casino is all about."  I was whining my doubts when he added, "C'mon, what harm can it be, to just look."

Z had the car keys, so I had no choice but to follow him on a path, two-hundred feet beyond the treeline.  In the dark forest, we heard raucous rock-n-roll music before we found the isolated, stilted pavilion.  Up a short flight of steps, against the grain of screaming adolescent boys, we entered the casino. 

All eyes turned to us.  The ping-pong game stopped, as did the Foosball, board games, darts, card games and conversations. We were "adults" invading a kiddie stronghold, I felt creepy.  I wanted to leave immediately but our basketball foes, in a swarm of giggling young girls around a boom-box, saw us and called us over.

In a sea of twelve to sixteen year old girls, we were the talk of the town.  It was so uncool and Z knew it too. By eleven o'clock, we were getting strange looks from the parents who were dragging their brats out.  Soon, the basketball girls left on their own, as did a tiny boy with the boom-box.  In the sudden quiet, Z and I got involved playing bumper pool.

   THE GAME DIDN'T SEEM CHILDISH. WE FORGOT ABOUT DRINKING AND PLAYED FOR A LONG WHILE.

In the far corner of the casino, there were three young women quietly taking turns playing Othello.

"A MINUTE TO LEARN, A LIFETIME TO MASTER." OTHELLO, INVENTED IN  ENGLAND (1883),  IS A GAME OF STRATEGY,  TACTICS AND OBSERVATION.  THE SHAKESPEAREAN NAME IS DERIVED FROM THE CONFLICT BETWEEN THE MOOR OTHELLO AND IAGO, (THE SELF-DESCRIBED TWO-FACE).  SOME PEOPLE SUGGEST THAT THE GAME'S PIECES, REPRESENT OTHELLO (A BLACK MAN) AND DESDEMONA  (WHITE). ALSO THE BOARD WAS INSPIRED BY THE GRASSY BATTLEFIELD THAT GENERAL OTHELLO LED HIS TROOPS ON.  GREEN ALSO SYMBOLIZES THE MAIN THEME OF THE PLAY, JEALOUSY (ENVY).

The girls stop playing and were tidying up.  The shortest one called out, "I have to shut the lights."  When they approached, Z and I could see that they were about our age.  The middle-sized girl continued out and left.  The spokesman, (April, the short girl) said, "It's midnight, I have to lock-up."  We went down the steps with the taller girl as April fumbled with a huge keyring.

When she came down Z said, "We're going to Roark's. Wanna come?"  April gravitated toward him and said, "Me and Shelly have to stick around."  Shelly stood next to me and smiled, "Hang out with us, we don't have to drink to have fun."

At a picnic table, lit by a distant floodlight in the parking lot, our fun took the form of them teaching us the card game hearts. 

HEARTS IS A FOUR-PLAYER, "EVASIVE-TYPE," TRICK TAKING CARD GAME.  ALSO KNOWN AS; BLACK LADY, THE DIRTY, DARK LADY, SLIPPERY ANNE, CHASE THE LADY, CRUBS AND BLACK MARIA.  THE OBJECT IS AVOID TAKING IN POINTS, (ONE POINT FOR EACH HEART AND THIRTEEN POINTS FOR THE QUEEN OF SPADES).

During the festivities, we explained that we were using our friend's bungalow.  Both girls said that they knew our friend, his parents and his younger brother and sister.

During a lull, Shelly got my attention with an arousing game of footsie, (and I joined in).  At the same time, I could tell by the way Z and April were gaping at each other that a similar vibe was going on between them.

Suddenly Z said, "I'm in the mood for some Grand Marnier."

GRAND MARNIER LIQUEUR, SINCE 1880, IS A BLEND OF COGNAC BRANDY, DISTILLED ESSENCE OF BITTER ORANGE AND SUGAR.

Shelly butchered the name and said, "What's that?"  It was a good question because other knowing it was booze, I didn't know the particulars either.  Z explained but April got defensive, "How should we know, we're only seventeen."  When she saw our bulging eyes, she used her feminine wiles to change the subject, "I know, I can open up the casino...if we're quiet and leave the lights off, we can have plenty of privacy." 

Shelly held my hand and April locked arms with Z and gave him a squeeze after we entered the blackened woods.  Our love nest was in sight as I was thinking how the girls looked younger than us but I had assumed they were at least eighteen, (New York State's legal drinking age).  My conscious got the better of me so I barked, "Z, we gotta go."

Back home, a few days later, I got a phone call from Shelly.  She asked me if I wanted to see the "ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW."

THIS 1975 BRITISH/AMERICAN COLLABORATION WAS A HUMOROUS, MUSICAL TRIBUTE TO "B" HORROR FILMS.  IT STARRED, TIM CURRY, SUSAN SARANDON, BARRY BOSTWICK AND MEAT LOAF.  BY 1977, IT GAINED A CULT FOLLOWING AS A MIDNIGHT MOVIE WITH THE AUDIENCE PARTICIPATING IN THE ON-SCREEN ACTION.  STILL IN LIMITED RELEASE TODAY, IT HAS THE LONGEST CONTINUOUS RUN IN MOVIE HISTORY.  IT IS SO SPECIAL THAT IN 2005, THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS SELECTED IT FOR PRESERVATION BY DECLARING IT, CULTURALLY, HISTORICALLY OR AESTHETICALLY SIGNIFICANT.

I didn't want to get involved with jail bait.  But Shelly was persuasive, "Everyone says it's the coolest movie...ever!"  I was so uncool, I had never heard of it.  She continued, "It's only shown Saturday's at midnight, at the Waverly Theater in the Village (Greenwich)." 

In 1973, I had seen a midnight showing of, "THE EXORCIST," and thought it was the the greatest movie experience I ever had.  Plus I had seen classic oldies at midnight like, "FREAKS (1932)"and  "REEFER MADNESS (1936)" and more contemporary gems like, "PINK FLAMINGOS (1972)" and "FEMALE TROUBLE (1974)" and loved them all.

POPULAR ON UNIVERSITY CAMPUSES IN THE 1970's, THIS GRANDDADDY OF ALL MIDNIGHT MOVIES STARRED ACTUAL DEFORMED CARNIVAL PERFORMERS.  IT REMAINED NUMBER ONE IN THIS UNIQUE GENRE UNTIL THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW ASSERTED ITS DOMINANCE.

Still it gnawed at me that I was a college graduate and Shelly was going to be a high school senior.  But I wasn't seeing anyone and the more she pitched me, the weaker my resolve got.  I was rationalizing that she was mature for her age when she said, "I was seventeen and a half in May."  I thought; what could possibly happen on a first date?  Then I caved in and made the arrangements.

I was supposed to pick her up at 9:30 but got tied up with other things, so I had to hurry home.  Before jumping in the shower, I emptied my pockets and set everything on my TV. I saw that my Mets were already losing 5-0 and they only had one hit through six innings. I was pissed off when I switched off the TV, changed hurriedly and sped the fifteen minutes to Coney Island.

Shelly lived on the tenth floor of a high-rise apartment house.  In addition to being late, I hated the whole "meet the parents" ordeal while the girl (intentionally?) stalls in her room while her folks interrogate you.  I was especially unnerved because a five-year difference (even a four and half year difference) should be a colossal red flag to a concerned parent.

The tone of the evening was set when Shelly answered the door.  The only thing more enticing than her smile was that she was wearing a tight t-shirt and short-shorts.  When she hugged me, I was surprised that she wasn't wearing a bra.  My surprise turned to shock when she yelled back into the apartment, "Bye mom."  Then a distant hoarse voice rasped, "Don't come home after four or I'm double-locking the door!"

In the car, Shelly sat at a normal distance away from me.  But without impressing her with brilliant conversation, by the time I got on the Brooklyn Bridge, she was nuzzled up to me as if we were dating for some time.

THIS ARCHITECTURAL WONDER WAS COMPLETED IN 1883.  WITH TIME ON MY SIDE,  I RISKED HEAVY TRAFFIC FOR THE BEAUTIFUL VIEW (COMPLETE WITH THE TWIN TOWERS).  SO DON'T THINK  I WAS BEING THRIFTY WHEN I AVOIDED THE TOLL ON THE FASTER, UGLY DRIVE THROUGH THE BROOKLYN BATTERY TUNNEL.

I was enjoying Shelly's company.  She was sharper than I expected, funny and easy to talk to. My luck kept improving when we got to the Village.  Before passing the Waverly, I found an unheard of free parking spot, four blocks up from the theater. Then after some window shopping, along our way, we found a street magician performing on our destination's corner. 

MANHATTAN'S WAVERLY THEATER, (323 SIXTH AVENUE, AT WEST 3rd STREET), WAS BOARDED-UP IN 2001 AND LAID DORMANT FOR YEARS.  IT WAS FINALLY CONVERTED INTO AN ART MOVIE HOUSE AND TODAY IS CALLED, THE IFC CENTER (INDEPENDENT FILM CHANNEL). 

In the magic act's crowd, I stood behind Shelly.  After a while, I put my hands on her upper arms.  That's when she started to gently grind her back...into my front.  I was starting to peck her neck when the magician announced his grand finale.  When the big trick was done, he took off his big black hat, bowed and said, "Thanks for being such a great audience."  Then he placed the hat on the ground and said, "Now that the pick pocket has gone, those of you who still have money, please donate as much as you can."

Several people were stepping forward and dropped in a buck or two.  I reached for my wallet...and it was gone.  I advanced to the magician and blasted, "This pick pocket, do you know him?"  He said, "Pick pocket?  Can't you dig it? There ain't no pick pocket...that's just me being Hollywood."  I said, "I'm getting a cop!"  He said, "Go ahead but when I snap my fingers, I'm going to vanish."

I was bummed.  I had no money, ID or credit cards.  My mind was spinning about the aggravating three-hour wait at the DMV to replace my license, the hassle of getting other new ID and my irreplaceable photos. I was even more devastated when I thought about explaining to my folks how I already lost the Gucci wallet they gave me for graduating college. 

Shelly snapped me out of my funk and said, "Calling the cops is a waste of time.  C'mon, let's search all the garbage cans, maybe the asshole just took your cash and tossed everything else."

Like a dynamo, Shelly was a champ as she sifted through at least ten garbage cans on both sides of the theater.  I was blinded by my self-pity and too stupid to realize how supportive this wonderful girl was.  Then I made a real mope out of myself by saying, "I'll take you home now." 

We were walking back to my car, under the Waverly's marquee when she said, "You don't have to spend money on me, we can still do something."  I was shaking my head when I heard my name called.  It was a good friend GB and his girlfriend at the ticket booth.  I told him my situation and he spotted me a twenty.

I was temporarily revitalized as GB said, "The show doesn't start for a half hour."  Then he suggested that we go into the bar next door.  I was still so absorbed in my problems that it never crossed my mind that my date was underage. We went in. Shelly carried herself so well that my friends (and the bartender) never suspected that she was a minor. 

The two girls were sitting on stools next to each other and GB and I stood in front of them. My mind was a million miles away as I projected the sequence of my recovery mode...which would have to wait till Monday.

While my mind drifted, the three-way conversation between them, mainly about the movie, flowed nicely.  Even though they all never saw it, they seemed to know all the ins-and-outs.  I guess Shelly was feeling neglected as the affect of her second V-O and Ginger set in.  That's when she took my hand, tugged me closer and guided my fingers up the inside of her naked thigh.  I sprang to attention and said, "Let's go in and find seats."



"THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW," itself is pretty silly.  But the hardcore regular audience (some in costume and/or props) become an entertaining sideshow as they interject appropriate dialog while interacting with the movie.  Interestingly, I over heard a girl in a wedding gown brag that she had seen it every week since February.  In the end, the songs were so memorable that most Baby-Boomers, still know the lyrics.                                                                                                 

THE BEST SONG (AND DANCE)  PERFORMED (above),  IS "THE TIME WARP."  OTHER GREAT SONGS WERE; "SCIENCE FICTION/DOUBLE FEATURE," "DAMMIT JANET," "OVER AT THE FRANKENSTEIN PLACE" AND "SWEET TRANSVESTITE."

 CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO SEE THE 3:07 "TIME WARP" YOUTUBE VIDEO.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBHONx9vTtI

While many of the mostly hippie audience alternated between the film and necking, so did Shelly and I. In so doing, she thanked me for taking her in several ways. Abruptly, she ended a heavy make-out session and said, "Let's go get some candy."  I was getting myself in the mood for some Raisinets as we approached the exit to the lobby.  Just before the door Shelly said, "The candy I want, is up there." She took my hand and detoured us, up an unlit flight of steps that led to the projection booth.  To this day, I regret my blown opportunity. Because in that quiet nook, I don't know if it was her age, the shame of feeding her alcohol or my own modesty that made me stop her from making my life very good. 

GB seemed impressed by me when we returned to our seats without any candy. Later on the way out, he whispered to me, "She's great!"  I said, "Yeah but..."  He said, "But what?  You got a horny little vixen there."  I said, "No, this is all wrong, she's only seventeen."  GB punched my arm and smiled, "Cradle robber..."

Outside, the girls suggested we get a bite. Between the guilt and my depression, I turned them down.

The drive back to Brooklyn at first was quiet.  I had succeeded in being the ultimate buzz-kill and remained pre-occupied with my troubles.  At the highway exit to her neighborhood Shelly cooed, "It's too early to go home, let's go to the El Greco (diner).

I really wanted to go home but I realized that I was being a prick.  When I okayed the idea she hugged me and said, "All I want is fries and a coke." 

When Shelly ordered I told the waitress, "I'll have the same."  Our disjointed chat was going nowhere for ten minutes until she said, "You are coming upstairs, right?"  "Well yeah, I'll see you to the door."  When the waitress set down our order Shelly said, "Silly boy, you know that's not what I mean."  I was fumphering for words as she opened the ketchup but nothing came out.  Shelly beat on the bottom of bottle several times but still nothing.  She took a long French fry and said, "I know something about you..." 

She had my full attention when she seductively shoved the fry into the bottle's mouth. Shelly's tongue darted from one corner of her lips to the other as I said, "You know what about me?"  Slowly at first, she jabbed the fry in and back out of the bottle. The process gained speed.  Within a short time, she was frenzied as she repeatedly pounded it in and out.  

I squirmed in my seat as the ulterior motive of her hot demonstration became obvious.  Suddenly her maneuvering came to a climax as a blood-like gush, spewed all over her plate.  She looked up from her handiwork and sighed, "I know you're a first timer?"  I said, Heh?"  Shelly shrugged, "A virgin..." I gagged and croaked, "No."

On the ride elevator up, she was ready to go back down but I stopped her.  At her door I said, "Good night."  She said, "Aren't you coming in?"  "What about your mom?"  "Mom's so downed-out, we could have the Rocky Horror Show in her room and she'd never open an eye."  I said, "Nah.  But I'll call you."

Like a guy with a busted jaw wondering how he could have handled the situation better...I still sometimes fantasize how my life would have changed if I went in.

You might think it's impossible to screw up as badly as I did...but it gets worse.  When I got home, on the floor in front of TV...was my wallet.  The crowning achievement of my idiocy was...instead of phoning Shelly and making a big joke out of it, so we could start again...I never called...and neither did she.

If I needed to have my stupidity amplified more, I saw Shelly on Kings Highway (Brooklyn) about a year later.  It was like a time warp.  I started feeling warm and fuzzy inside as if our one date was successful...and the day before. She and (I'm guessing her mom) were having a loud argument about Shelly quitting a job.  I smiled at Shelly when she turned around. When she saw it was me, she grabbed her mom and hustled away. 

THE TWO, INDIAN VICTORS

Last week, a coworker came to a rolling stop next to me as my red light turned green.  Before I could get his attention to say hi, he zoomed off.  In that instant, I noticed that we had identical cars.  At work, I mentioned our brief encounter on the Black Horse Pike and that we had the same car.  Shockingly Mr. Fancy Pants said, "Dude, you drive a fucking darn 2005 silver Honda (Civic)."  After pretending to yawn he added, "How can you mistake my 2011 titanium BMW 32SXI for...that?"

I was hired as a craps dealer, at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget (August 1982) under the typical favoritism circumstances that everyone hates...unless it works in their favor.  Before that, I was doing the same job, at a dive up the street, (the Las Vegas Club).  One night after my shift, my wife and her girlfriend came downtown to meet me for drinks.  At about 5:AM, the three of us became separated.  I had chased a couple of Jack Daniels shots with several Heinekens as my staggering search for the girls led me through the nearby casinos.

Fate was on my side as I breezed through the Nugget. I saw my former Stardust coworker DaveF, working as the boxman, at the only open craps table.  There were two men playing (making small bets) as he and I reminisced about the old days.  I was still swilling beer when Dino (the floor supervisor) returned from his break, (he was another former Stardust buddy). 

ITALIAN-BORN DINO SOUNDED LIKE CHICO MARX BUT HE  LOOKED LIKE MOVIE, TV AND BROADWAY ACTOR, LOUIS JOURDAN (JUNE 19, 1921-PRESENT).

Dino asked me, "Where you workin'?"  I was still in my work clothes (coincidentally those "black and whites" are the official uniform for casino try-outs {auditions}). I showed him my dealer apron and moaned, "Vegas Club."  In his robust Sicilian accent he said, "Utza a matta wid you?  A guya likka you, shouldn'ta be workin' in such a toilet.  Why doan you comma work here?"  I said, "I've put in plenty of applications but I never even got an audition or..."  He interrupted me and called out to an old man leaning on the pit stand, "Hey Scotty, we gotta good man here looking for an audition."  Scotty (the painfully hung over pit boss)  called back, "It's a recession, tell him to try back in a few months."  The pale drunkard burped and then added, "You know we ain't hiring."  Dino went over to him.  I watched him wave his arms and make numerous hand gestures as the conference developed into an intense, whispered argument.

Suddenly, Dino turned around and said, "Dave, tell thisa good man to tappa into thord base."  I held up my Heineken bottle and said, "I'm a little messed up."  Dave said, "Look at this Mickey Mouse shit, don't worry about it."   I settled into the dealer station and saw that the two players only had one bet each.  The closer gambler had one red chip ($5.00) on the don't pass and his friend had three white chips ($3.00) also on the don't.

The first roll was a three (craps).  Both men won.  I paid the one red chip with a white and I paid the three whites with reds.  Dave the boxman laughed, "Look what you did."  I picked up the chips, crisscrossed my arms and fixed my mistake.  Impatiently Dino said to the dealer I replaced, "Okay, tappa him back out."  I was so unhappy with myself, in one roll, I screwed-up a great opportunity.  Dino didn't speak as he lead me to the pit stand.  When he got to his boss he pounded my back and exploded in enthusiasm, "You see-a that Scotty?  I told you me was a gooda man."  Scotty couldn't be bothered.  His ghostly white hand, dotted with liver spots scribbled a phone number down.  He said, "Call the office tomorrow during business hours." I did and started two days later.

IN 1982,  THE NUGGET WAS A LOW-CLASS GRIND JOINT BUT I DOUBLED MY TOKE (TIP) INCOME.  LUCK WAS REALLY ON MY SIDE BECAUSE SHORTLY AFTER I GOT HIRED, THEY RE-MODELED AND THIS CHEAP CLIP JOINT BECAME A MEGA, WORLDWIDE DESTINATION.

One of the first characters I met was a fellow dealer named Mark Staten.  This fat, loud-mouth was bullying two other Southern California craps dealers, (both named Carlos).  Thanks to Staten, these low-lifes...or as he called them "the evil twins," were immediately on my radar. I mentioned one of them in my short story, "NO HELP'S HALL," when the would-be thief opened my tip envelop and tried to steal twenty dollars from me.

In my first week, I also learned that Staten liked to pick on Victor Jasuri.  Jasuri (the first person I ever knew from India) was a prim and proper gentleman.  While I never found out what landed him in America's version of the Foreign Legion, his acumen, manners and friendliness made him stand-out from the rabble...which included myself.

THE LEGION WAS CREATED IN 1831 FOR FOREIGNERS TO SERVE THE FRENCH MILITARY'S MOST GOD FORSAKEN OUTPOSTS.  TODAY, HI-TECH BACKGROUND CHECKS ARE PERFORMED BUT IN THE OLD DAYS, THE LEGION (LIKE LAS VEGAS) SEEMED TO BE A REPOSITORY FOR THE SCUM OF THE EARTH, i.e. NE'ER-DO-WELLS LIKE CUT-THROATS, CROOKS, FUGITIVES AND THOSE ESCAPING FAILED ROMANCES.

Despite Staten's taunts, Jasuri maintained his dignity except when baited by one specific term.  I'm certain Staten wouldn't have picked on him this particular way if he was ignored.  But Jasuri was comical how he robotically responded to Staten's needling.  It was usually something simple like, "Hey 'Paki,' what time do you start on Saturday?"  I wouldn't put it past Staten if he was taking bets on Jasuri because every time, the rebuttal, in a refined English accent was, "My name is not Paki.  My name is Victor.  I am from a privileged family in Bombay.  I am not like the rest of you....I'm an educated man (sometimes he'd name drop that his school was Eton).  Therefore, please don't insult me by implying that I am from Pakistan."  Staten would wait until Jasuri's triumphant sigh of conquest before saying, "Sorry...Paki."

The other thorn in Victor Jasuri's side was Mark Staten's running mate, Victor Jimenez, (he used the American pronunciation Jim-in-ez rather than the Spanish, Him-MEN-ez).  Victor (the first Native American I personally knew) was a brash, drunken, braggart who playfully referred to himself as; a full blooded Apache, that was half Sioux...with a dead-beat loser Tex-Mex father.

Most of the Nugget craps dealers liked Jimenez and his colorful stories but he was such a loose-cannon that nobody wanted to work with him.  Most notably, he tried to play the customers money.  By taking control of a beginner's betting, he could siphon (steal) his own tokes.  This ploy was highly unnecessary and dangerous because the tokes were pooled with the entire shift rather than the four craps dealers AND, this form of hustling was a firable offense.  The situation was made worse due to the potential for collateral damage, getting the innocent coworkers fired...who didn't stop him.

A modern day odd couple, meticulous Victor Jasuri was outraged whenever he was confused with such a slob like Victor Jimenez, (or as Jasuri called him, an unwashed guttersnipe). Jasuri was a spiritual pacifist who was perfectly groomed each day with a freshly cleaned and pressed dealer shirt.  His black oxford dress shoes were polished to a high gloss and each day, he came to work ready to serve.

Jimenez was a brawler and a hard knocks realist who looked like he slept in his uniform.  He reeked of booze, marijuana and tobacco, and had a bipolar surliness mixed into a funny personality.  Still, it pissed him off to be mistaken for the sophisticated Jasuri.

When Jasuri was over-the-top subservient to the players, Jimenez called him "Ma-Hat-Ma-Coat."  Jimenez on the other hand spent most of his time on duty trying to rid his table of undesirable customers. To do this, Jimenez used, "the Apache, ceremonial seven-out dance," a (pretend) superstitious ritual that was particularly unprofessional, This rite included authentic looking footwork, a muttering of stereotypical tribal chants between his dice calls and the pumping, (up and down) and chopping motion (like a tomahawk), of the craps stick.

If that didn't work, he liked to pull aside his hair and show a bullet hole scar above his ear.  He claimed he was shot by a white man when he tried to get a drink in a "cowboy" bar in Flagstaff Arizona.  If he didn't get any sympathy at that point he'd add, "It's inoperable...the slug has to stay in...if it ever gets jarred from that exact spot, I will die immediately!"

Three months into my tenure at the Nugget, management announced that our flea-bitten, sawdust joint was going to be converted into the classiest casino, not only downtown but in all of Las Vegas.  Soon, the owner chaired mandatory meetings in an empty restaurant to explain the new mindset we needed to go forward.  He backed up his assertions by promising raises, bonuses and doubling (dealer) toke income within six months.

The concept seemed far-fetched so in my group there was a lot of snickering going on. Mark Staten and Victor Jimenez were especially vocal about the absurdity of shining up this downtown piece of shit and calling it a diamond. Victor Jasuri shushed them and called for their support.  Staten said, "Shut up Paki."

Jasuri controlled himself till the pep rally was over. Out in the corridor he blasted Staten and Jasuri, "How can anyone ever win if backwards thinkers such as yourselves take joy in everyone losing."  Staten said, "Now Paki..."  Jimenez cut him off and said, "Lookey here shit-for-brains....casinos are hell disguised as heaven...either side of the table...is a fucking dead end..."

By November 1982, the company absorbed the little casino on the corner (The Friendly Club) and bought city-owned land behind the Nugget.  Soon the metamorphosis was in full force.  Walls were torn down and the property expanded in every direction. The hotel rooms were all refurbished and high-end shops and restaurants mystically appeared.  During the re-modeling, the casino area was covered in clear plastic drop-cloths as the action never slowed down in the omnipresent hammering, sawing and drilling.

Like the Phoenix rising from its own ashes, the casino's ceiling was raised, the dark western decor vanished and was replaced with a bright, beige and white Victorian motif.  The equipment was also updated...most notably the checks (chips).  The wafer-thin, worn-out checks with their disgusting, gummy black crudberries were replaced.  Plus, higher denominations like thousand dollar and five-thousand dollar beauties were stocked on most tables. Then like magic...the table minimums went up and a higher class of clientele pushed out the budget-minded players.

The Golden Nugget became the toast of the town.  The promises made to the staff came true.  We got raises, a stock bonus and the bustling influx of high-rollers more than doubled our toke income, (in less than six months).  But these boon times had a serious, negative side effect.  The Nugget had become such a cherry job that managers found it profitable to broker jobs either in the name of cronyism or as straight bribes.  But in order to bring in their people...there needed to be openings.

A "reign of terror" swept through the Nugget as mostly dealers (in groups) were fired.  I feared I would lose my job because of the "last hired, first fired rule." The feeling was made worse because of this nonsense called "juice." But deep down, I understood that favoritism was the only reason I got the job to begin with.

One night the casino manager visited graveyard.  He stood in the middle of the casino and said to the shift boss, "Everyone to my left is fired."  On day shift, a newly installed Asian tile game called Pai Gow lost two-hundred thousand dollars on its fourth day of operation, so everyone associated with dealing or supervising the game from all three shifts were fired (the game was removed too).  In addition to other chunks of employees getting axed, individuals were getting fired every day.  The drunks like Mark Staten, the druggies like the "Evil Twins", the chronic call-outs, the lazy incompetents and personality problems were weeded out.

Every day seemed to require all of us to tip-toe through a virtual mind field to keep our jobs. Soon, DaveF, Dino and Scotty were all out on the street.  Yet somehow, obvious guillotine candidate Victor Jimenez remained unscathed.

THE GUILLOTINE WAS MOST NOTABLE DURING THE FRENCH REVOLUTION BUT THIS DEVICE DESIGNED FOR CARRYING OUT EXECUTIONS (DECAPITATIONS) REMAINED IN OFFICIAL FRENCH USE UNTIL 1977.

Jimenez even kept his position after a non-tipping player complained that he said, "You shudda toked when you still had money...you'd still be a loser but at least you would have the dealers respect."

One night at around 3:30AM, in the midst of the Nugget's turmoil, two of the three craps tables were standing dead.  I was on the table that was working as the pit boss decided to close one dead table and use those dealers (who were on duty till 6:AM) to send home the dealers from the other dead table.  In the exchange, the two Victors had a brief argument as out-going Jimenez accused incoming Jusari of setting up his friend Mark Staten to be fired.  Jusari said it was preposterous and Jimenez exploded.  He socked Jasuri a couple of times before the supervisors squelched the tiff.

Jusari's game remained dead until after my crew left at 4:00AM.  When it opened, the brown, plastic-coated dice bowl was lifted off the chip bank and placed in front of the stick man.  At some point, Jasuri noticed that the bowl wasn't laying flush to table.  When he looked under the bowl, a stray, old, one-hundred dollar chip (full of sticky crudberries) had attached itself to the under side. 

MOST SAVVY GAMBLERS ARE FAMILIAR WITH THE BLACK GUMMY DOTS THAT FORM ON CASINO CHECKS, (STRANGE, I COULDN'T FIND A PHOTO OF ONE ON THE INTERNET).  THESE STICKIES ARE FORMED WHEN LIQUOR COMBINED WITH PERSPIRATION COMES IN CONTACT WITH FILTH AND DRIES.

In seconds, the boxman discovered a "missing tooth" in the chip bank and set the would-be escapee back in its proper place.  With all the money fully accounted for, the boxman shared the innocent mishap with the floor supervisor.  The shaky floorman was afraid of getting jackpotted during these uncertain times.  Stupidly to cover his ass, he informed the pit boss.  The ominous chain-reaction continued as the pit boss, to be on the safe side, included this non-incident in a written report to his superior.

Two days later, the four dealers on the out-going crew from that table, the four incoming dealers, three boxmen, two floormen and the pit boss were "suspended pending an investigation."  The casino was going to fire them all but they wanted to practice the new corporate policy of "escalating discipline" that going into effect the following week.  Therefore, the power brokers thought it prudent, for the sake of appearances, to document the whole rigmarole to justify their ultimate actions.  This bullshit was the centerpiece of my short story, "A GUMMY CONSPIRACY."

To legitimize firing all thirteen men, the casino wasted time, energy and money by interviewing each imaginable/imaginary "perpetrator."  When none of them implicated them self or anyone else, a professional lie detecting company was hired to conduct polygraph tests.  The casino could not unmask the single culprit or unearth a conspiracy because they already knew that nothing was taken and that this high risk, low reward mode of thievery had never been tried before.  So to cover their true aim, (creating job openings for their friends), they announced that after their indepth scrutiny failed to detect any hard evidence, to be on the safe side, they were compelled to let everyone go.

Like my current coworker who wanted me to understand that his titanium BMW and my silver Honda were not the same, the two Victors, who hated being associated together will be forever linked as losers in, "THE GUMMY CONSPIRACY."