Oh, with his feelings being hurt
And his nerves being raw,
He fractures his right on his
Colleague’s jaw.
Then coming up with as sweet a left jab
As has ever been beheld
He really proceeds
To give him holy hell
Yelling, Here’s one for your maw,
One for your paw,
And one for your great-grandmammy
Down in Arkansaw!
But then, since the doc he hit turns out to be a native of Little Rock, his last punch damn near ruins him.
“‘What the hell was that for?’ he hears his victim yell and sees him standing blinking after thinking he had fell. And then this iron-jawed Arkansawan proceeds to attack little Doc’s snout, break a gold-inlayed bicuspid, straighten his hair, and send him reeling backwards, flopping like a fish and gasping for air.
“Then, as he lies on the floor, little Doc explains with tears streaming from his eyes that he acted in the name of his stepped-on bunion, his aggravated gout, and his deep desire to serve humanity. But while it might have been false, or it might have been true—and even convincing to a colleague or two—in the end it was for conduct unbecoming of a professional that they kicked him out.
“Then, when the crowd sees what’s been done to the little champion, they start breaking up furniture and ripping up the rug. Some are even about to risk seven years’ bad luck by smashing the mirrors on the walls when the sight of all those false faces glaring back distracts them. So now they’re pushing and shoving as they yell, ‘Who the hell is you?’ and ‘Where the hell is me?’ and keep at it until they hear two physicians feuding over how they’d split the fee. And when all this new who-shot-john interrupts their colleagues’ concentration the results is something truly unexpected.
“Halting in the midst of their complex consultation, six physicians swell up in righteous indignation and proceed to give the two the Hippocratic boot for discussing loot and indulging in a crime they denounce as downright filthy. And then with the offending twosome looking like egg-sucking dogs caught dead in the act, ole Doc Pugh hits them over the head with a few of those golden, giltedge precepts for which he was so famous.
“Pointing at the two with a rubber-gloved finger he really lays it on ‘em, saying:
“‘Let me give you miserable sinners some good advice on how money relates to saving human life: Never, never name a price or discuss a fee, for it can only dull the temper of a surgeon’s knife, and lead to practicing medicine for charity!
“‘This above all, to our profession be true—including all its time-honored tricks, strategies, and improvisations—and you’ll never be conned by any patient!
“‘Be generous of ear but spare of tongue, short of description, but long on prescription. Appear warm but yet cold, be diffident but bold. And when a patient starts to complain about his hungry brats and his weak financial state, just drop him a hint about your own dear loving mate, who has to have her Cadillacs, her diamonds, and her sheets of satin! Then smile at him kindly and hide your aggravation—after which you send the clown a bill all itemized in Latin!
“‘Dot every i and cross every t, and for his belated education include only the rarest of medical terms for his aching misery so as to impress him with its magnitude and your awesome mystery.
“‘Observe these rules of conduct and I’ll guarantee that he’ll either have a low-grade nervous breakdown trying to save his sanity, or he’ll come across, forthwith, with your rightful do-re-me!
“‘Bear these few precepts in thy memory and be ye neither discussers of fees nor idle chatterers, and thus not only shall ye prosper in the noble profession which God gaveth thee, but as ye heal the sore ungrateful sick ye shall also instruct and redeem their heathen characters!’
“Like I say, Ole Doc really whacks ‘em. And with his younger colleagues left bug-eyed, rededicated, and rebaptized, he stands there smiling and winking his eyes. He’s forgotten that the crowd has been out there listening, but they have; and now with the hero moaning and groaning in a minor key they don’t like his sermon worth a damn. In fact, the only reason they let it pass is because Doc himself is so old and so generous that most of them owe him money.
“So now, while they grumble and speculate over what they’ve been hearing, five fine, reinspired physicians, good men and true, dive into the hero’s blood and bowels to see what they can do—when, lo and behold, here comes an undertaker, wrestling through the crowd with a big long basket!
“‘Gangway! Please step aside,’ he shouts, and goes on to explain that he has the sad but solemn duty of transporting the fallen hero basket-wise to where his handsome casket lies. He speaks politely and with professional pride, but the crowd’s reaction is most unfriendly. They tell him that he’s way, way too previous, but out of respect for his swallowtail coat and derby hat, his unctuous manners and weird perfume they let him through. But for all his self-assertion and bold business enterprise he’s picked the wrong time, the wrong place, and much too constricted a maneuvering space—not to mention that he sadly underestimates his opposition.
“When he waltzes that basket into where the action is, a big, freckle-faced doc standing six-feet-four in white silk socks looks up in shock, and right away this bold mortician’s butt is in great danger. Because when doc does a double-take his freckles begin to dance, his eyes begin to glaze, his hands begin to tremble, and he goes into a rage. Then, as he grabs a firm hold to the first thing handy, we hear him yell, ‘I hate what I’m doing but I can’t stand a fool,’ and he’s raining blows on that undertaker’s derby with a white iron stool. Then looking down at all that heavy hurt he’s laid against the poor man’s beat-up head he curls his upper lip and asks him real stern, ‘When will you eager-beaver bastards learn to wait your rightful turn?’ But right away his own luck goes bad.
“Because just as he turns to help dump the mortician into his own six-foot basket, Doc backs into a syringe-load of pure morphine. And even before his colleagues can ease the needle out he’s kicking the gong like Minnie the Moocher and a hie-de-ho.
“So now four determined physicians turn back to the job, calling for jugs of whiskey and cans of chloroform, which Jack BooBoo Beaujack supplies them on the double. But in spite of Jack’s eager assistance the dedicated docs are still in trouble. Because when one of them spies a bottle of twenty-five-year-old hundred-proof bonded bourbon he undergoes a sober moment of naked truth. First he looks at the hero, then he looks at the booze, and he knows in his heart that he has to choose. So, taking a swig from the bottle that leaves it either semi-empty or half full, he bows to the crowd and goes on a zoom. For this sad failure of nerve his colleagues complain, but mostly for the benefit of the anxious crowd. Because at last they’re down to a comfortable three, a trinity; leaving one to stop the bleeding, one to stop the pain, and one to stitch the hero back together again. But it’s then that an unforeseen complication of a very serious nature hits them in the eyes. For when they probe into the hero’s machinery they discover that a most important piece is missing. And what’s more, it’s probably back in the alley lying in that bed of horror where the hero lost his head and started screaming. So now in face of this undeniable natural fact, and the art of surgery being what it was in those pioneer days, three physicians, good men and true, roll up their sleeves to see what they can do.
“But after the star surgeon makes three brave passes with his needle and thread, what’s happened to the hero hits him with such bone-rattling shivers that he snatches off his rubber gloves and begins to shake and cry. And even to this day he’s famous for wearing metal jockstraps and being scalpel-shy.
“It wasn’t his fault that his nerves went bad, but by now folks in the crowd are losing their patience. They’re soreheaded as bears and drunk as fish from swigging liquor while breathing chloroform and ether fumes. So now it has them in a rare, disgusted frame of mind. They’re cussing and complaining that they’re
fast losing patience with the weather, with doctors and their medical science. And with them all being products of democracy on the darker side—and mostly from way down South—they’re making it known by signifying and o-rating on the state of things—and I mean loud!
“Pressed against the wall as tight as a tick to a cow’s tit there’s this drunk who’s supposed to be impersonating no less than that famous badman, Stackalee. But not knowing how Stack actually looked he settled for a minstrel man’s mask and some blue-lensed horn-rimmed glasses. And he’s also wearing some dry-cleaned overalls complete with a jumper that has a gold watch chain dangling from its lapel. He has the collar of his white shirt pinned up high around his neck, but instead of a tie he’s sporting a phony diamond stickpin that’s flashing like it has a little lightbulb behind it. And to top off his costume he’s wearing a beat-up Stetson hat which he claims to be exactly like Stackalee’s. So now with them pressing him even tighter he upgrades the contention by banging his head against the wall behind him and yelling, ‘What’s happening here is a dirty ‘bomination and a bloody shame! It’s a snare and delusion and a damn disgrace! Thass right! And y’all wanna know why? It’s ‘cause not a single one of these damn M.D.s has what it takes to renovate and save this pruned man’s life! So now I’m giving y’all fair warning—and it’s based on some unfailing signs which I’ve seen in the stars and the moon—that if we don’t rise up and take command we gonna lose that man, and I mean soon! Therefore I say we better use some sense and go get Charlie!’
“To which another drunk juts out his mouth and says, ‘Charlie? Which damn Charlie are you talking about? Three-fourths of the sonsabitches in this here town is named Charlie, so do you mean Poppa Charlie?’ And this makes the drunk against the wall get fighting mad.
“‘Hell, naw,’ he yells, ‘I’m not talking about no Papa Charlie—Choc-drinking Charlie’s the one I mean! Choc Charlie, the Choc-drinking tailor! So I’m repeating what I already said: We better git Charlie or this man is DEAD!’
“But the very idea leaves a nearby drunk outraged.
[CHOCCHOL]
“‘THIS CHUMP IS INSANE,’ he yells. ‘Let’s throw his butt downstairs!’
“‘Yeah! I’m for that,’ another drunk yells, ‘and then let’s get Doc Chisum!’
“‘Now you gon’ to talking sense,’ another drunk throws in, ‘and so the world will know I’m wid you, you can say it again….’
“‘Like hell I will,’ the Chisum champion says, ‘because I done sang my song and ain’t gon’ sing no more. But let’s git Doc Chisum anyhow.’
“‘Hell, y’all,’ a leading blackjack hustler breaks in and says, ‘Chisum is chicken, as everybody knows, so for the steel nerves and iron constitution this kinda job requires we can forget that bird!’ Then he crows like a bantam rooster trying to wake up the dead—which raises a hue and cry for their favorite physicians.
“‘Get Tanenbaum! Get Davis! Get Haywood Gaylord James! Get Bullard! Git Lampkin, Whitby, Bunn, and Butler! Git Stammler—’were some of the docs they call for. But when someone yells get Fatty-Come-with-Fleas one of them stamps his foot and says, ‘Hell, man, Fatty is neither doctor, dentist, or garbageman, so how’s he gon’ cut the mustard?’
“‘Maybe he can’t and maybe he can,’ the other said, ‘but afterwards he’ll tell some lies that’ll outdo even Lazarus being raised up from the dead.’
“Then a fat man wearing a shark’s-head mask breaks in. ‘To hell with all that,’ he says, ‘because the doc we need is young Doc Heminsteen! He’s new to the scene but already his way with broken bones, bullet wounds, brain concussions, stabbings, and the bleeding piles makes him the leading expert in his trade!’
“‘Which might be true,’ a drunk made up like an Egyptian mummy says, ‘but he ain’t nowhere when it comes to things like razor scrapes, Charleston pistol scalds, and amputations done with axes, ‘cause they don’t teach such medicine in the place he went to school. And besides, what the hell’s he gonna do about that poor man’s missing parts?’
“‘At last somebody’s talking sense,’ a woman in a Martha Washington outfit and a red silk turban slaps her hands and says. ‘At a time like this we got to think about the fundamentals! And what’s more, this case is so serious that it makes even the very best we can get only a little better than the rest. So after giving it my best consideration I’d say that this man’s condition calls for a combination of the Mayo brothers, Doc Fraizer, Doc Harrison, Doc Elwood S. McArdie, and that well-known spiritual advisor, Snake Mary!’ And she ticked off the names on her white-gloved fingers.
“‘ “Snake Mary,” ‘ the Chisum champion cries. ‘All she’ll do is pray over the poor man’s hard-earned cash and then work some mumbo-jumbo with some kind of hoo-doo root—which sho in hell ain’t the kind he’s missing! What he needs is nothing less than some quick’ning resurrecting, and I mean quick!!’
“‘Well, how about that ole Native, Love,’ the woman in the red silk turban says. ‘The one who goes by the State name of New?’
“Then Miss Tommy, who’s Miss Brilliantine’s twin sister, throws back her head and bellows, ‘Ole Love New will never do, because after just one look he’d shoot the poor man in the head like he’s no more than a horse with a broken leg! Are you forgetting that Love looks down on folks like us? Hell, if it was up to him that Delilah-minded bitch who ruined this sweet man’s life would do the same damn thing to every mother’s son of you! So whether he calls himself Love, New, or Nicko-the-dog-assed-demus I say screw him!’
“But then a big pockmarked drunk who’s wearing a headpiece of buffalo horns and a necklace of wildcat teeth, and who has his face and chest striped red, white, and blue with war paint, comes alive with a speech complete with gestures.
“Raising his arm in the air like an Indian chief he says, ‘How! My brave brothers and beautiful sister squaws, to you I say How!’ Which is so unexpected that everybody stares at one another like he’s put them in the dozens. Then somebody yells, ‘How some hell!’ And with that they proceed to give him their undivided attention, yelling things like, ‘How who?’ ‘Who’s How?’ ‘How’s your mammy and your mammy’s mammy?’ ‘How, now, if it ain’t Chief Hooking Cow!’ ‘How funky did your armpit smell when it crawled across your nose?’
“Oh, they’re really picking on him now and he knows it, but his liquor and that getup he’s wearing is casting so strong a spell that he just waves his hand in the air and keeps on going. And in the process he keeps getting his homemade Indian talk mixed up with snatches from the Bible.
“‘Hear me, my powerful braves and beautiful squaws! Hear now my urgent appeal! Let us cease our bickering and palaver together….’
And when Miss Tommy yells, ‘Who the hell let this how-minded fool in here?’ he comes back with a variation. ‘Hear me, my people, hear now my plea that we pay the advice of this brave who stands with his back against the wall some heed! To him, I say, let us listen!
“‘A short time ago, as we swayed treetop high in the noon of the night, bad times did smite us hip and thigh—aye! For it was then, in the bright peak of darkness, that a ruthless knife did slash at the vital root of our hero’s life! From ambush it struck, it slashed, it mangled, and to a good man did a terrible damage. And not only to him, but to ourselves and to all the future members of his tribe. Even to them it did great damage!
“‘So now our ranks are broken and in our despair we wander. We track false trails! We hunt downwind! We zig and zag as we stampede! Like spooked cattle we stampede in circles, and in our panic we caterwaul and bellow! Our hopes grow dim, our vision falters—that’s how it is. But wait! Hold on! For if we would but pause and read the signs which our walled-in brave calls to our attention we could get our bearings, close ranks, and help heal our injured hero! So now you ask, what are these signs of which I speak, and they are these:
“‘First: The great black dog of Pulliham howled the howl of warning which his wild canine fathers howled, “Aaaarooo, Arrro
oooo!” but, alas, he was ignored.
“‘Second: Then high above we heard the sweet-voiced fat boy paint upon the nighttime air that lovely, ideal scene wherein Papa loves Mama and Mama loves Papa, with everything randy and sweet as can be—ah, yes!—and to which serene domestic scene we said a loud ah-men! Aye, but as we gloried in his sweet glad tidings did we not also hear, but again ignore, the trumpet and trombone as they replied with that vast gut-bucket blast of nasty mockery? We did indeed! And while we ignored their concerted brassy nastiness, that heartless camera took it in and kept on grinding!
“‘And then the night was torn by screams, the air was filled with the stench of panic, and the beat of frantic footsteps made a tom-tom of the street as fresh blood splashed our well-worn trails, our sidewalks, curbs, and gutters. And then, as we knocked the prying camera from our path to track our hero’s red-hot trail, his life’s blood spills upon the steps and risers of the stairs! These are the ignored signs of which I speak! Aye! And the heroic brave who bled and bleeds lies where my pointing finger indicates: He’s there, being fumbled and poked upon that blood-soaked table!
“‘First it was that bitch-in-the-manger’s malicious blade, and now the fumbling fingers! So here, now, while our frustrated voices snap and snarl and the firewater burns and howls like flaming blackjacks in our bowels, the precious life of our brave brother brave lies swinging in the balance. Aye! In the balance his life lies swinging! So I repeat: It was to this blood-chilling fact that the signs were pointing, and it is in the name of these same sad signs that our drunken brave has spoken. To heel, he cries, to heel!
“‘Therefore I say let us heed his warning. To him pay heed, I pray you! For it is through him that these sad signs speak to us as from that wall where once in ancient times fair Minnie Haha tickled the soaring seraphim by rattling the scales of the infidel snake! Therefore let our voices rise up in thunder while as one we read the signs and say, ‘Mene, mene take him, we’re for him!’ And then again as one let us say, ‘Whether many take him or don’t take him, we’re still for him! And that as one is what we all say!
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 141
