Monthly Archives: October 2017

Halloween Board Meeting

How do you like your mummy, over easy or hard-boiled?

Here it was a month before Halloween and all hell was about to break loose.
Not that a little hell was unexpected in the realm of the impish ghouls who relished ruling the last night of October. In the last hundred years or so they discovered eating candy stolen from the little humans was much more delightful than eating the little buggers themselves who nowadays tended to be a bit on the spoiled rotten side. No, it was much uglier than that. It was a pure grab for power. The leader of the wolf pack challenged the royalty of darkness for the chair at the head of the table.
“It’s time for fresh blood!” the werewolf growled.
“You all know it ain’t fittin’ for nobody but a descendant of Dracula himself to rule the roost on Halloween night,” Dracula the Third drawled.
The latest top vampire was from southern Transylvania which many gossipy gargoyles attributed as cause of the latest political shenanigans. Werewolves, contrary to popular belief, are fussy about diction, which begged the issue of how can one mispronounce a midnight howl at the moon?
The top Halloween honcho decided to call the meeting at everyone’s favorite restaurant Frankenstein’s Beanery. The wait staff, who were stitched together at the last minute to ensure proper service, had not quite perfected the art of placing bowls of hot bean soup on the table, so the meal ended in the laps of the wolves which made them even more crotchety.
Also, Dracula’s darling placed zombies in charge of the registration table. How can anyone be expected to fill out a ballot properly after the zombies have drooled on it? Third Dracula looked like Top Dog. The sexy hexy witch crowd blew on the smoldering cauldron which held the Frankenstein bean soup and cried fowl.
“It’s not my fault they didn’t have chicken noodle on the menu tonight!” Dracula’s kin hissed.
“And it didn’t have enough bay leaves in it!” Wolfie snarled.
“We’re not talking about the damn soup,” the sexy hexy witch crowd cackled. “It’s time to look for an alternative Halloween leader. Someone compassionate and soothing. We want our Mummy!”
The vampire waved aside their protests. “The mail monster delivered a letter this afternoon from Cairo. The Mummy is all wrapped up in other problems and won’t be here for Halloween.”
“Not so fast, fang face!”
Every goblin in the room turned to look at the door, where stood the Mummy, dripping in sands from the Sahara. The buzzards buzzed. The crows cawed. The black cats hissed.
“All my babies are upset!” the Egyptian cried out. “It’s time for good old-fashioned Addams family values! That’s why Mummy’s back in town!”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Three

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A very young Prince of Wales

Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, was foiled in taking the Archbishop of Canterbury hostage and exchanging for an anarchist during the Great War by a mysterious man in black.

The Prince of Wales was bored. It was one of those de riguere dinners with the family at Windsor Castle, not one of his favorite royal residences: too drafty, too remote, and too filled of the pomposity that was his father. He thought his brothers and his sister would have to stand forever until the parents royale entered the dark dining hall lit by tall, elegant flickering candles.
Finally George V and Queen Mary appeared in the door and dramatically approached their seats. Servants pulled back the chairs. As they sat, the servants standing behind the princes and princess seated them with smooth precision.
Attendants, in unison, approached each royal personage on the left with the soup course. No one dared to lift a spoon until King George took his utensil and swiped it through the consommé.
“We are honored by the presence of the Prince of Wales,” he announced while a few droplets fell through his whiskers. “What? Couldn’t find a strumpet to occupy your weekend?”
Ignoring his father’s question, the prince returned with his own inquiry. “Is your sciatica acting up, Papa? There’s some rain in the forecast. It has been a year since you fell off your horse while reviewing the troops in France.”
“Most inappropriate,” Queen Mary intoned.
David sipped a bit of consommé and smiled. “At least I don’t dribble my soup.”
“At least I visited the front,” his father huffed. “You haven’t made it out of headquarters.”
“A few times. I have seen the wounded. The piles of discarded arms and legs.”
“David!” Mary’s voice raised above her usual respectful murmur. “That’s quite enough!”
That was what they called him. David. He did not know why, though he did rather like it. The name David did not reek of proper putrefaction like George, Edward or Henry. The next eldest son was called Bertie. How refreshing. Then came their sister Mary and brothers George and Henry. Boring. Again boring. Oh, how David hated to be bored.
“You missed all the excitement last week,” George V continued, evidently choosing to ignore his son’s remarks on dismembered body parts. “The archbishop almost missed our monthly prayer breakfast at Buckingham. It seemed these rotters from Scotland had plans to spirit him away.”
“”George! Language!” the queen protested.
“But one way or another someone in secret service caught wind of the plan. The bloody little blighters wanted to exchange the archbishop for one of those horrid anarchists we have imprisoned. I can’t quite remember his name….”
David smiled to himself. The man’s name is Jack Smith. He is from Glasgow. He leads a group protesting the war. Well, let Papa glory in his ignorance. At least I know the truth.
Yes, the truth, which could not be shared with the royal family nor could it be comprehended by them. George and Mary and the siblings had never understood David, because he was not like any other Prince of Wales in history.
He retreated unto himself as his father continued to ramble. The prince concentrated on his beefsteak—medium rare per his personal preference. The oozing red juices both excited and soothed him. He remembered when that particular fascination came over him.
He was twelve years old when he entered the Royal Naval Academy in Osborne. It was his first time to live away from home. No servants waited on him, ready to cater to his every caprice. David was noticeable shorter than the other boys and slight of build. His voice had not yet mellowed into a respectable baritone.
Frankly, David was surprised to find out anyone considered his countenance anything less than regal and elegant. He was shocked to discover the others did not immediately acknowledge his natural superiority. Within a few weeks of his arrival David began to restrict his diet and began a vigorous exercise regimen which went beyond the demands of the required training of the other boys.
He interrupted his thoughts to pull out and light a cigarette. He was only vaguely aware of his mother’s remonstrations. He ignored her rules about smoking at the dining table. What was she going to do, ban him from being crowned King of the British Empire? Take away his title of Prince of Wales? What a relief that would be.
Retreating back into his memories, David went to the day a group of his fellow students grabbed him in the showers. The gang leader was several inches taller than the average boy and seemed overly endowed with hormonal secretions. His claim to higher class entitlement came from his father who owned the largest automobile dealership of imported continental luxury motor cars. A few moments passed as David tried to remember the boy’s name. Nope. Couldn’t remember it. Thank God. Absolutely hated the little bastard.
On the day of the incident in the shower the car dealer’s son told the other cadets to hold David down. He poured an entire bottle of red ink on his head.
“I hereby crown you Queen Mary!”
After they left him, David washed it out the best he could and then carefully shaved the rest of the red hairs off. He was quite pleased with his skill at creating a new distinctive coiffure.
The car dealer’s son was not pleased. Within a few weeks the same cadre of cadets pulled David from his bed at midnight, stuck his head out of a window and let it go. As the window frame crashed down on his neck, he heard the motor car boy shout, “Long live the King!”
Of course, David did not let a whimper escape his lips nor did a tear fall down his cheek. Secretly he wished his neck would have snapped and he would die. At least he would be spared listening to his father’s ramblings. Neither did he report the incident to the academy commandant. The royal family always handled its problems its own private way. He stayed within his circle of friends and avoided situations where he might be alone with the bullies.
Apparently the guillotine gang leader was content that he had broken the spirit of the future king of England. What he did not know was that David was quietly observing his every move. He knew the bully’s routine, when he was alone and left unprotected by his gang. Only David knew the car dealer’s son went to the gymnasium each morning at the same time David went on his early jogs around the campus.
One morning as he ran past the gymnasium he slipped in the back door and found motor car boy on his back on the weight bench struggling with one of the heavier bar bells. Without any ado David walked over, forcefully lowered the bar down on the bully’s throat and held it there until the boy’s eyes bulged, his face turned a deep purple and saliva drippled from his lips.

A Seance in Blackness

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Arthur Conan Doyle

Halloween of 1890 surprised Arthur Conan Doyle with a mixture of happiness and mysticism.
He was the guest of honor at a party hosted by Ward Locke, the publisher of his first Sherlock Holmes book, A Study in Scarlett. Ladies, all of them in black evening gowns highlighted with orange flowers or brooches and necklaces, were particularly attentive, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles on his dinner jacket.
“What are you going to do, Mr. Doyle,” Ward Locke’s wife cooed, “when you become the most famous in London? You won’t have a moment’s peace.” Her eyes, an uneventful shade of brown, fluttered without producing their intended purpose of luring the single gentleman with her non-existent wiles.
“I am certain I shall find a suitable safe harbor in the storm of public attention.”
Mrs. Locke practically swooned over the more sensual meanings of Doyles’ metaphor.
“Among my many new-found friends and acquaintances, such as your husband and yourself, indeed all the fine people who are here tonight.”
“Oh. Of course.” She stood erect in the middle of her collapse into the romance of her thoughts. Recovering, she smiled respectfully. “And I’m sure your friends from the hospital will be a great comfort to you.”
A woman wearing too much rouge made good use of her ample hips to force Mrs. Locke from the inner sphere of Doyle’s immediate company. “You mustn’t ignore your other guests, dear. I shall entertain our wonderful young gentlemen for now. I am Mrs. Wickham, a dear friend of the Lockes. They tell me you are a doctor.” She paused a moment to admire his physical appearance. “My, you must have an impressive bedside manner.”
At that moment Doyle caught the gaze of his publisher and turned the corners of his lips into a smile that expressed mild desperation. Locke smiled in return, lifted his glass and clinked it with a dessert spoon.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in a toast to the man of the hour, Arthur Conan Doyle!” Locke announced. After an appropriate pause for all the guests to murmur their acquiescence, he continued, “We wish him continued success so suddenly found at the young age of thirty-one.”
“Oh, yes. I remember being thirty-one,” a voice boomed from the shadows. “Great expectations can wither on the vine as time passes, leaving you with sad dreams of what might have been.”
Holiday chatter died as all heads turned to watch a tall, swarthy man step toward Doyle, who suspected the man to be in his middle forties and under the influence of liquid spirits. A shrill giggle shattered the silence.
“You must forgive my friend, Mr. Doyle,” Mrs. Wickham said with forced cheer as she left his side to join the darksome stranger and grab the man’s arm, pulling him back. “His attempts at humor are an acquired taste. He’s my neighbor at the Nickleby Arms Hotels, Nathan Ladderly. The dear man has no family so I thought—“
“Mrs. Wickham finds me attractive and creates excuses to be in my company,” Ladderly interjected.
“Oh, Nathan, you’re so wicked,” Mrs. Wickham said with a laugh.
A second giggle erupted, this time from Mrs. Locke. “Ward, darling, what is a Halloween party without parlor games appropriate for this evening of ghouls and goblins?” She pushed her way through the crowd holding a small square table on which was a mysterious wooden board. “This game has just been invented. They call it a Ouija board. It’s a way to communicate with the dead,” Mrs. Locke chirped. “Mr. Ladderly, Mr. Doyle, Mrs. Wickham, please pull up chairs, and we shall see what spirits we may conjure.”
“This will be droll,” Ladderly muttered as he sat at the table.
“I am open to spiritualism, though I am not completely convinced,” Doyle announced with a tight smile. He sat opposite Ladderly.
Tittering, the two women filled in the gaps and Mrs. Locke placed a wooden disk on three small balls in the middle of the board. On one side was a pointer and in the middle a hole.
“Ward, darling, lower the gas lamps,” she said. “We must have the proper atmosphere. Now, everyone place your fingertips lightly on this little wooden pointer. It’s called a planchette.”
As the lights dimmed, Ladderly leaned his head, almost touching his cheek to the board. “Ouija, Ouija, Ouija, is anyone there?”
All the guests gathered around the table gasped as the planchette moved suddenly to Yes.
Ladderly pulled his hands away. “This is ridiculous. I want nothing to do with it.”
The planchette jerked over to No.
“Please, Nathan, dear,” Mrs. Wickham pleaded. “Open your mind. Participate. For my sake.”
“Why should I do anything for your sake?” Ladderly’s tone bordered on insolence.
Doyle leaned forward. “You seem nervous, Mr. Ladderly. Do you have anything to fear?”
“Of course not,” he replied in a huff. Reluctantly he placed his fingers back on the wooden pointer.
“I’m so flustered,” Mrs. Lock admitted. “I don’t know what to ask.”
“Are you trying to communicate with a specific person?” Doyle asked.
The planchette moved to Yes.
“Is it me?”
Again Yes.
“Why?” Doyle continued.
The wooden disk quickly moved around the board stopping to reveal specific letters in the hole. It spelled murder.
“Oh, Mr. Doyle,” Ladderly sneered. “How obvious. I insult you, and you accuse me of murder.”
“My fingers are barely on this device. Those standing over my shoulder can attest that. And why do you assume the board is speaking specifically about you out of all the people in this room?”
The pointer again moved to Yes.
“Oh, this is impossible!” Ladderly said with a hiss. “I refuse to continue with this charade.”
“No, I think we should continue,” Locke announced as many of his male guests moved to stand around Ladderly’s chair.
Again the planchette floated over the letters. I am Dickens.
Gasps and twitters spread through the room.
Someone murdered Drood.
“How foolish,” Ladderly said. “That was a work of fiction.”
Real.
“Then who did kill Edwin Drood?” Doyle asked.
Neville Landless.
“He was the young man from India who was enthralled with Drood’s fiancé Rosa Bud,” Doyle clarified. “Dickens was writing the novel and publishing each chapter in the newspaper as he finished it. Before he could complete his work, he died. Literary circles still discuss who the murderer might have been.”
“Everyone knows Drood’s uncle did it,” Ladderly added nervously.
The pointer moved to No.
“Is Neville Landless in this room?” Doyle asked, staring at Ladderly.
Yes.
“N.L. Neville Landless. N.L. Nathan Ladderly,” Mrs. Wickham said slowly as though the entire plot had been revealed to her.
“These parlor games have gone too far!” Ladderly tried to stand, but several hands pushed him back down.
“Put your fingers back on the planchette, Mr. Ladderly,” Mrs. Locke said in a flat tone. “Perhaps you can handle your destiny.”
“Is Nathan Ladderly actually Neville Landless?” Doyle asked.
Yes.
“So he killed Edwin Drood?”
Yes. The disk’s hole highlighted other letters. Me too.
“No!” Ladderly screamed.
“Mr. Dickens, did Mr. Ladderly know you were about to incriminate him?” Doyle said.
Yes.
“Nonsense! Why didn’t he go directly to Scotland Yard?” Ladderly demanded. “Why write it as a novel?”
“Obviously he had no evidence that would hold up in court. Once he published his novel, the public outcry would be deafening. Of course, he had to change names,” Doyle explained. “Nathan Ladderly became Neville Landless. Edwin Drood… Anyone remember the disappearance of a man with the initials E.D. around the time of Dickens’ death? No matter. Scotland Yard will know.”
Yes, the Ouija board responded.
“Elementary.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Twenty-Eight

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Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting. Then he told Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats. Lincoln’s secretaries realize something is wrong but are afraid to say anything. Janitor Gabby Zook, caught in the basement room with the Lincolns, begins to think he is president.

They ate silently for a few minutes, with Gabby feeling quite proud that he was practicing his diplomacy well enough to keep Mrs. Lincoln from yelling at him. Maybe he was president, after all.
“Mr. Gabby,” Mrs. Lincoln said, “may I be so bold as to ask what happened?”
“When?”
“At West Point.”
“Oh.”
“Something happened for you to be the way you are now.”
“Yes, something happened.” He pushed his plate away.
“Oh dear. I’ve upset you again. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Oh no.” Gabby shook his head. “I ate all my eggs. They were good.”
“Was it absolutely dreadful?” Mrs. Lincoln asked. “What happened at West Point?”
In all these years, no one had asked him what happened that day. Many had, in a scolding tone, asked what was wrong with him, but no one put the question exactly that way. Cordie never said one thing or the other about why he came back to New York with the vacant look in his eyes. She just hugged him and took care of him, no questions at all. It was a relief for someone finally to ask.
“It was our second year there, Joe and me,” Gabby began.
“And Joe was…”
“My best friend.”
“Go on.”
“This colonel—he had a beard and was cranky like Mr. Stanton—he told me to drive his carriage out to the field so he could watch artillery practice. I told him I was a city boy from New York City, and had never driven a team of horses before. But he said I was in the army now, and if he told me to drive a carriage, I was to drive a carriage, no questions asked. So I asked him a question. I asked if my friend Joe could go with us, ride with me up front and help me, and he said fine. So Joe and I got on the carriage seat and the colonel got in the back, and we were off.
“I used to think all men with beards were cranky, until I met Mr. Lincoln.” Gabby’s eyes wandered over to the corner, where Lincoln sat on the bed, eating his pear and reading a book.
“What happened, Mr. Gabby?” Mrs. Lincoln asked.
“Well, we were doing just fine,” Gabby continued. “The colonel yelled up at us to go faster, so I did something—I don’t remember what—to make the horses go faster. Then all of a sudden Joe yelled, ‘There’s a snake in the road!’ I didn’t know what to do, and the horses reared up, causing a big ruckus, and the next thing I knew, the carriage had turned over, and the colonel and I had blood coming out of our heads.”
“And Joe?”
“He was under the carriage, ma’am,” Gabby said. “He was dead.”
“How dreadful.”
Adam unlocked the door and entered with the newspaper. “Mr. President?”
Gabby sat up and was about to answer when Lincoln came through his curtain.
“Good. I wanted to check the congressional elections.” The president smiled and reached out his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Adam looked around at Gabby and Mrs. Lincoln. “Are you finished with your breakfast dishes?”
“Yes, thank you,” Mrs. Lincoln said as she gathered the cups, saucers, and plates. “Bring me that pear stem, Father,” she called out. “I won’t have ants swarming around the room looking for your leftovers.”
“Yes, Mother,” he replied, plopping the pear stem on the tray.
“Anything else?” Adam’s voice was vacant-sounding.
“No. That’ll be all,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Adam took the tray from the billiards table, bowed, and walked to the door.
“Oh, Private Christy,” Mrs. Lincoln added.
He turned. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Adam said.
Gabby noticed that a moment passed before Adam’s eyes registered the first word of appreciation from Mrs. Lincoln. He saw, rising from the corners of the private’s mouth, a smile forced its way onto his face, but in the end Adam lost the battle to the melancholy so apparently in control of his eyes. He left and locked the door.

James Brown’s Favorite Uncle The Hal Neely Story Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Don Pierce, the boss at Starday Records

Previously in the book: Nebraskan Hal Neely began his career touring with big bands and worked his way into Syd Nathan’s King records, producing rock and country songs. Along the way he worked with James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, who referred to Neely as his favorite uncle.

After the burial of Syd Nathan on March 7 at Judah Torah Cemetery in Cincinnati, maneuverings began for control of King Records. “Many prospective buyers have been trying to purchase King,” Billboard Magazine reported in its obituary for Nathan, “and it is known that bidders are still anxious for the property. The Nathan family intends to keep King functioning.”1
“Hal Neely still held an option,” Jim Wilson said, “from his previous association with King, on a certain amount of stock. We decided that this would be a great thing for Starday if we could buy the King operation. It was kinda logical, since we pressed our records there. Both Hal and I had worked with Don (Pierce) who had worked with Syd professionally and known him for a long time. We probably knew more about the company than anybody else and the people involved in it. So through a series of negotiations with Syd’s estate and so forth a deal was consummated whereby Starday acquired King Records. And then, in turn, negotiations had been set up whereby Lin Broadcasting, which was a Nashville-based conglomerate, bought Starday-King.”2
Pierce had owned Starday since leaving another country music company in 1953. “I’m originally from Seattle,” Pierce said. “I don’t play any instrument or have any real knowledge of music. But when I got out of the Army in 1946 … I needed to find something to do, and I answered an ad in the newspaper that said something about 4 Star Records,” which hired him in sales.
Pierce remembered the King transaction in his book “The Starday Story.” Pierce and the current operators of the King plant went to Marathon in the Florida Keys to discuss the possibility of Starday buying King. “I wasn’t so sure I would get along with Mr. Brown,” Pierce said, “and I realized that I knew very little about pressing plants, plating plants, label printing, or taking care of 30 branch offices. So, I decided I did not want to own King Records.”3
Henry Glover, who had worked for King Records before the payola scandal, theorized that Neely and Wilson “insisted, to a certain extent, on Pierce’s purchasing King. At the particular time, the interest on their part, and, of course, mine, was to reactivate and continue the running of the company, especially in the area of rhythm and blues, because James Brown was on the label and, at the time, very big.”4
Later Pierce met Fred Gregg, owner of Lin Broadcasting, which was interested in buying Starday Records. Pierce mentioned that King Records Company was also on the market. “We told him of the importance of King and, because Hal Neely had been formerly one of the chief operators of King Records, he could operate both Starday and King on behalf of Lin Broadcasting Company.” Gregg paid $2 million for Starday, and Pierce sent Neely to Cincinnati with a cashier’s check for $100,000 of Starday money as earnest money to purchase King for $2.5 million.5
In the Nov. 23, 1968 issue of Billboard Magazine, the amount of the deal was put at $5 million. Gregg was quoted as saying, “This will mean a great expansion program. It will mean an additional $6 million to $8 million in gross income to the Nashville music economy.” The Billboard story said the corporate structure included Pierce as president, Neely, vice-president; Wilson, marketing vice-president; Johnny Miller, in charge of the Cincinnati office; and Henry Glover, manager of the New York office.
Trade and local newspapers in the fall of 1968 offered conflicting versions about the sale of King Records, but Neely said, “It was all very simple. It was a personal option, so I had to buy the company but I needed $1,750,000 cash.”6 What Neely did not reveal publicly was that his first attempt to raise the money was with the Mafia in New York City with whom he already had a working relationship because of his sale of overrun records.
Neely went to an office on the corner of 142nd Street and Broadway where he met with an organized crime boss who lived on Staten Island. Neely’s request was simple: please loan me the money to buy the record company. The man opened a huge safe filled with cash but cautioned Neely, “You don’t want to do this because if anything goes wrong, the organization doesn’t play very nice.” He added that for the rest of his life he would be manipulated by mob. “Why don’t you find another way?”7
Neely reconsidered and opted out.
Instead he went to Nashville and Don Pierce of Starday who “loaned me the money. In turn, I agreed to merge King with Starday to form the Tennessee Recording Corporation which we then sold to Lin Broadcasting in late October.”8
“Tennessee Recording Corporation was the official, legal name I believe,” Wilson said. “Call it Starday-King Records.” Lin stood for Louisville, Indianapolis and Nashville, Wilson explained. Among the company’s assets were radio and television stations, and advertising media buyer, a chain of national art galleries, a telephone answering and radio paging service, several direct marketing companies, and the Miss Teenage America Pageant.
Wilson believed the deal “gave an opportunity for Don Pierce, who wanted to cash in his chips. He was getting a little disillusioned with all the changes that were going on in the music business. He wanted out, so Don cashed in his part. He sold the Starday part of Starday-King, and in turn he retired from the business.9
Pierce told Billboard Magazine, as reported in an Aug. 8, 1970, article, “I have no plans at the present other than an extended vacation.” He called his departure from Starday “the end of an era. I am an executive casualty and this happens all the time.” The magazine added, “Despite his obvious displeasure at the turn of events, Pierce said he would continue calling on Starday to offer advice and assistance whenever possible.”
James Brown had his own interpretation of the events in his autobiography. “After Mr. Nathan died, Mr. Neely exercised his option to buy King Records and turned it into Starday-King. In late 1968 he sold it to Lin Broadcasting as a wholly owned subsidiary with headquarters in Nashville. He took me with him into Lin. I was still under a personal services contract to Mr. Neely that had six or seven years to run, but he didn’t like the arrangement with Lin. A lot of their radio stations wouldn’t even play my records. I don’t know if they were worried about a conflict of interest or what, but it was frustrating and something was going to have to give.”
While Wilson said that James Brown was one of the greatest living performers of all time, he was also very demanding. “You find, sometimes, in such a position, where an artist is dominating the label roster, that the work and interest in developing along the other artists is diminished, because of the demands to keep this other thing rolling. These are some of the things that happened with a small record label, and particularly one with an artist who is very aggressive and demanding.”10
Brown did, indeed, produce several profitable singles for the new record label, including “Sex Machine” and “Super Bad” –both recorded at the Starday Sound Studios in Nashville.
But Brown’s influence at Starday-King didn’t stop there. Some sources believed the reason Pierce painted the front of Starday Studio brown from its original white was to accede to the demands of the rhythm and blues star.11

1 King of the Queen City, 182-183.
2 Wilson Interview.
3 The Starday Story, 15.
4 Henry Glover Interview with Country Music Association, February 1983.
5 The Starday Story, 161-162.
6 Brian Powers.
7 Hanneman Interview.
8 Brian Powers.
9 Wilson Interview.
10 Ibid.
11 The Starday Story, 164.

Meeting Maude

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On our wedding day and me with presents up to my chin.

The first time I met my future mother-in-law was about 7 p.m. on the night I picked Janet up for our first date. We went to a double feature. One movie had Mick Jagger playing Australian outlaw Ned Kelly. The other movie starred Joseph Cotton and a woman in a gold lame jumpsuit. There was a flying lion in it too, I think.
None of them matched what I saw when Janet’s mother walked out of her bedroom to say hello. Maude—by the way that was her name–was already in her nightgown and was applying gobs of cleansing cream to her face. Thank God she didn’t offer to shake hands. Janet’s father was already in bed so I didn’t meet him which is just as well as I later learned he slept in his underwear.
It seemed her father liked to wake up at 4:30 a.m. so he could leisurely take his shower, shave, dress and eat breakfast before arriving at work an hour earlier than everyone else. That way when they walked in the door coffee was brewing and he was halfway through his day’s work. I presumed he thought it was a nice gesture to intimidate his fellow employees that he was more on the ball than they were. Maude slept in until 6 but she still liked to go to bed at the same time her husband did.
Through the years I realized this was the first clue that life with her family was not going to be normal. This is not to say my family was normal. We were all Looney Tunes but I was born into that den of dodo birds. I didn’t have any choice. But there were plenty of warning signs about entering this new circus.
Wouldn’t you think Maude, at least, could have postponed her nightly beauty regimen until after her daughter’s date picked her up and left the house? Was she being totally clueless or was she being a master of passive aggressive behavior? Perhaps she wanted me to know that while her daughter was excited to go out with the new guy in town, she was not impressed at all.
I must say that when I continued showing up at the house, Maude did go out of her way to make a nice meal, although the meat course tended to be burnt on one side. She liked to talk on the phone while she cooked and if the gossip got extra juicy she’d forget to flip the meat in the frying pan.
And after I proposed to Janet only three months later Maude didn’t protest. She couldn’t really. She was sixteen when she eloped. The next morning she informed her mother by handing her the marriage certificate as she walked back out the door.
Maude made up for the good behavior during the courtship by her antics on the wedding day. First thing she did was to load me up with all the presents that had been brought to the wedding ceremony. So when we walked out of the church you saw the radiant bride and a groom with boxes piled up over his face. Then some lovely child thought it would be fun to stick her foot out to trip me and cause all the boxes to fall down and go boom, including some old lady’s porcelain pickle plate which smashed into a million pieces. For years Maude lamented how I broke that cherished bric-a-brac. She forgot the part about how I was tripped.
I thought I had photographic evidence of what happened but recently I examined the wedding pictures to find them lacking. In the picture with the girl’s leg stuck out I had only one box in my hand, obviously taken after the fall. And another picture showed the presents only went up to my chin and not over my face. The fact remained I still had to carry them out the church door. Maude defended herself.
“Well, they had to get back to the house some way.”
After we drove the one block from the church to their home, I waited for Janet to change into her smart white traveling suit. Maude walked up and smiled sweetly.
“You know her doctor said Janet was very small ‘down there’ so you might not want to have sex.”
That’s always the first thing you want to hear after saying I do.
Finally, before we walked out the door, she looked into Janet’s eyes and said, “You know that if it doesn’t work out you can always come back home.”
Wow, wasn’t that a great set-up. Insert an important doubt in my head and give Janet clearance to land back in mama’s arms. She must have been upset when the marriage plane didn’t crash and burn.
The flags were huge and waving red, but I didn’t care. I chose this circus, these monkeys and these clowns, but only because I adored Janet so much.

Close Encounter

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The entire family gathered for its evening meal around a circle deep in the forest, its heart interminably tangled in underbrush and vines.
“Hey, Ma,” Junior piped up with his mouth full of berries and nuts, “Buggums and me want to go out human hunting tonight. That’s okay, ain’t it?”
Ma almost spit out her food. “What did you say?”
All the boys my age go out human hunting at night. It’s fun. I ain’t never seen one. All my buddies say they’re real funny lookin’.”
“Gruff, did you just hear what your son said? He wants to go human hunting!” Ma lifted her chin and crinkled her nose in disgust.
“What the hell is going on here?” Gruff looked up as he wiped his paw across his mouth.
“All the boys have seen one, except for Buggums and me. We kinda feel left out,” Junior whined.
“Well, you’ll feel left out forever if one of those hairless bastards points his magic stick at you and blows your brains out!” Ma’s eyes fluttered.
“Oh, Ma, I hear the humans are so dumb they hardly ever shoot no one,” Junior replied.
“You ain’t never seen one of our kind, spread out on the ground, his face staring up at the night skies with this blank look in his eyes, have you?”
Junior hung his head. “No, Pa.”
“I’ve seen way too many dead folks. And they’re not all just youngin’s. I’ve had a couple of close buddies killed. And some nice ladies too. How would you like to come across your ma’s body with blood oozing out of it?”
“Nobody’s told me about that.” Junior paused. “In fact, none of the boys have seen dead bodies. I think you’re trying to scare us like when you told us about the boogeymen.”
“Those damn hairless bastards done scared all the boogeymen away,” Gruff snapped. “You know why you’ve never seen any dead folks? ‘Cause me and all the other men roam the forest at night, find them and give them a proper burial, that’s why. I’ve been tellin’ ‘em we ought to send for you kids to help us buried the dead. That’d shut the whole bunch of you up. But, no, the women start cryin’ boo hoo hoo about how they don’t want their babies to see anything bad.”

“Well, I’ve never seen a dead body, and I don’t think I want to.” Ma sniffed. “That’s way our people have done things and I don’t see no reason to change it. After the old ones die, the men hurry up and bury them on the other side of the forest and then we don’t talk about them anymore.”
“You mean Grandma and Grandpa didn’t go live with their cousins in the Himalayas?” Junior’s eyes widened.
“Naw, they’re ten feet under right over that ridge” Gruff said.
“I don’t know,” Ma offered softly. “I like the idea of thinking Auntie Poopoo was vacationing in the Everglades. She always did like the water.”
“Maybe the humans just get scared and shoot to protect themselves.” Junior was running out of ideas to defend his trip through the woods.
“No, they’re mean bastards,” Gruff shouted. “Mean, ignorant bastards who like to shoot their magic sticks just to see one of us die. Now, if they dragged the body off and skinned it to get the good parts out for supper, well, I could understand that. Everybody’s got a right to eat, but they just leave it to rot. You know what those bastards call us?”
“Beautiful creatures of the forest?” Junior whispered with hope that he was right.
“Hell, no! They call us Big Foot! Now ain’t that smart? Big Foot!” Gruff lifted up his leg to point it at Junior. It must have been twenty-four inches long. “I don’t think this foot is so big!”
“I don’t know. It looks pretty big to me,” Junior replied meekly.
“Don’t worry, Baby.” Ma patted his leg. “You’re just a boy. You’ll have bigger feet than that by the time you grow up.”
“Oh hell no!’ Junior jerked away from his mother.
“And what’s wrong with big feet?” Gruff demanded. “You know what they say, big feet, big—“
“Gruff!” Ma interrupted. “Enough of that.” She turned to Junior. “You understand now why you can’t going looking for the humans, don’t you dear?”
“All the other boys—“
“All the other damn boys are lying!” Gruff bellowed again, half-masticated food flying from his mouth.
“I can take care of myself,” Junior replied, feeling defensive.
Gruff put his food down and walked to Junior, pointing his large hairy index finger at Junior’s temple. “What are you going to do when a hairless bastard rams his magic stick up to your head and it goes boom? Your brains will be all over the ground. The wolves will come up and chomp down on your brains, smacking their lips. But you won’t be see it because you’ll be dead! No more romps in the moonlight with your friends. No more splashing in the mountain streams. No more hugs from your Ma. Because I’ll have to sling your fat-assed body over my shoulder and carry you over the ridge and dig a hole so deep to bury so deep that no other creature will dig you up!”
“Gruff! That’s quite enough! You’re making the baby cry!”
Pa hugged Junior tight to his hairy chest. “Don’t cry, boy. Grow up. Trust me. You don’t ever want to meet one of those hairless bastards. I don’t know what I’d do if….” Gruff’s voice trailed off as he tried not to cry.
As he shuffled back to his dinner, Junior wiped the tears from his eyes with his paw. “If the humans are so bad, Pa, why don’t you and the others just kill ‘em all?”
Gruff laughed as he plopped on the ground. “You can’t even imagine how many of those hairless bastards are out there. Why, most of them don’t even believe we exist. It’s gotta stay that way. If I got mad and killed one of them, then all hell would break loose and every last one of us would be killed.”
“I wouldn’t be too scared to fight ‘em.” Junior tried to find his voice.
“I know you’re brave, Junior.” Gruff smiled and struck his big hairy chest. “I’m brave too. But what good will that do us when all the hairless bastards come after us with those magic sticks?”
“Don’t think your pa is a coward,” Ma interjected. “But he’s also very smart. Running and hiding don’t sit well with him, but he knows if he’s gonna protect us he’s got to do it.”
Junior smiled. “I’m sorry, Pa. I didn’t understand. I promise never to go looking for humans again.” He laughed. “I never realized it. My pa is a real hero.”
“Aw.” Gruff waved his big paw in the cool night air. “Pass me one of those rabbits before it stops bleeding.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Gabby hunched his shoulders and wished he had kept his presidential opinions to himself. His hand shook as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Now, Molly, Mr. Gabby’s trying to make the best of the situation,” Lincoln said. “You should, too.”
“He’s out of his mind! It’s plain as the mottled nose on his pitiful face that he’s addled! And you’re no better!”
“Let me know when the newspaper arrives.” Lincoln looked at Gabby, shook his head, and retreated behind his curtain to his cot.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Gabby turned to escape into his own corner.
“You’re just like Cousin Fitzhugh on Mother’s side of the family,” Mrs. Lincoln began, her voice edged with faint contrition. “He wasn’t a Todd. Heavens, no. I don’t think he ever stepped a foot inside a Todd household. He wasn’t even of Granddaddy’s family. I don’t even remember his surname. No one really wanted to claim him, and I only met him on sad occasions when one of Mother’s elderly kin passed on. He was always there at the wake and the funeral. I just shuddered every time he walked into the laying-out room.”
“We laid Papa out in the parlor,” Gabby said. “We didn’t have a special room for that. Our apartment wasn’t that big, and we didn’t have people die that often, so we didn’t see any need for a special laying-out room.”
“The parlor,” Mrs. Lincoln said, sighing deeply, and nervously rattling her cup against the saucer, “was the laying out room.”
“Oh.”
“As I was saying, I just shuddered when Cousin Fitzhugh arrived. I’ve a naturally pleasant turn of mouth, which makes me look friendlier than I often wish to be, and he thought I wanted him to approach me and tell me all sorts of nonsensical things. Rambled, that’s all he did. Rambled.” Pausing to sip her coffee, Mrs. Lincoln wrinkled her nose. “Tepid. Just as I thought it would be.” Her eyes darted to Gabby. “Just like you.”
“I’m tepid?”
“Oh no.” She giggled, and her eyes twinkled, creating for a split second the image that Gabby surmised was what her husband had fallen in love with many years ago. “No, ramble. You ramble just like Cousin Fitzhugh.”
“Oh.”
“Mama always said there was no reason to be afraid of Cousin Fitzhugh. He was gentle as a lamb.” Mrs. Lincoln smiled and nodded to the chair across the billiards table from her. “Please have your breakfast out here. We may as well learn to be sociable. We’re going to be here for a while, it seems.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Gabby sat in the chair and put his plate on the green top of the billiards table. After taking a bite of egg from the plate, which now sat uncomfortably near his chin, he looked over at her.
“I don’t like that Mr. Stanton.”
“You’re certainly correct about that, Mr. Gabby.”
Part of his presidential skills was being diplomatic. That was another class in which he excelled, diplomacy. He prided himself for finding ground for common interests.
“I sure miss my sister Cordie.”
“I imagine you do.” She paused. “She takes care of you, doesn’t she?”
Gabby nodded.
“I miss my little boy,” Mrs. Lincoln whispered.
“Of course, a mama would miss her child.”
“People don’t understand Tad.” Mrs. Lincoln clasped her hands in front of her and looked off, as though in confession. “I know that they think he’s wild and undisciplined, but he has a problem. His palate is malformed. Do you know what the palate is?”
“It’s right here.” Gabby nodded and pointed to his open mouth.
“Yes, Mr. Gabby.” Mrs. Lincoln momentarily closed her eyes because Gabby still had semi-masticated egg on his tongue. “That’s right.” She smiled at him. “You’re smarter than most people give you credit for.”
“I went to West Point,” he offered.
“Taddie is smarter than people think too. He speaks haltingly and baby-like sometimes, and that makes people think he’s stupid. But he’s not stupid.” She chuckled. “The things that boy can think to say. You can’t be stupid and come up with things like that to say.”