CHAPTER 1:
Dreinfahren! (aber auf und abwogend)1
Now that the reader has completed her "remedial education" the time has come for Jack F. Klutz to assume his rightful place as the Real Hero of this SocioCultural WakeupCall disguised in the artistic trappings (pun intended) of a Literary Masterpiece further concealed behind the dustjacket of what appears to be just another Bestselling Nonfiction Novel
UNTIL THE 14TH OF JUNE, 1971, when he celebrated his eighth birthday, there was nothing much to distinguish Jack Klutz from the other urchins and urchinettes of his generation. Like—and with—them he roamed Moronville's streets and backalleys from dawn to well past dusk playing pranks on its residents and/or the odd tourist and generally "raising the kind of ruckus" (vandalizing graveyards, defiling religious and secular shrines, desecrating the flag, boobytrapping public toilets, etc.) their elders viewed as "just part of the normal process we all went through on our way to becoming mature Morons." [See Appendix Y for pictorial rendition of these activities] During the dogdays of July and August, when life in the "big city got to be a godawful bore"—and under the mistaken impression Mark Twain was Moronia's greatest writer— this little band of urban guerrillas (unlike the vast swarms of infantile outcasts plaguing Buenos Aires, Port-au-Prince and Calcutta, Moronville's urchin population seldom exceeds 10 or 12) emulated their literary "rolemodels," Huck Finn, Becky Thatcher, Hoss Williams, Joe Harper, Amy Lawrence and, of course, Tom, Mary & Sid Sawyer by rafting on the Main Stream, fishing for "cat," skinnydipping and searching its banks for the pirate treasures everyone knew were buried there.
When such tranquil pastimes failed to quench their thirst for adventures of a more bellicose nature they would play Robbers & Cops, Indians & Cowboys or Jews & Nazis (like adult Morons, in addition to being congenitally handicapped vis-a-vis which comes first horse&cartwise, urchins are born with an empathy for all underdogs). By midafternoon, if the quantity of "cat" they caught was insufficient to replenish the calories expended in these energetic activities, they would turn themselves into Robin Hoods, Friar Tucks, Will Scarletts, Little Johns, Maid Marians and Alan-A-Dales, hide in the bushes alongside the River Road leading to Moronville—hoping to ambush some hapless Country Bumpkin trucking his turnips to market. If this enterprise was successful they retreated to one of their secret hiding places and roasted the "spoils of war" they had "justifiably confiscated" from one of Moronia's "bloated aristocrats"—usually some poor turnip farmer only a meal or 2 away from starvation himself who, nevertheless, tolerates such "shenanigans" with a stoicism like that displayed by a devout (and similarly undernourished) Hindu toward his country's sacred cows.
Unlike the open ended nature of the average American's infancy—which in all too many cases lasts an entire lifetime— a Moron's urchinhood is strictly limited to the first 8 years of his or her existence. Following the combination BirthdayParty &SacredInitiationRite (which young Jack is about to undergo and whose astounding results establish this chapter's claim to Climactic Fame) every urchin enters that developmental phase known as "JayDeedom"—when, for the next 5 years the letters J.D. (for Juvenile Delinquent; although we Americans frequently mistake them to mean Doctor of Jurisprudence which, given the idiotic state of our judicial system as recently illustrated by California's Harvey Milk, McMartin PreSchool, Rodney King and O. J. Simpson fiascoes—not to mention those precedentsetting U. S. Supreme Court travesties, Estate of Emerson v. Dred Scott, Plessey v. Ferguson and Roe v. Wade—is understandable) are affixed to his or her baptismal "handle" (ie., John Fitzgerald Klutz, J.D.). In its turn, JayDeedom ends for all 13yearolds when they enter Moronville's Central High and their J.D.s are replaced by the (anything but serendipitous) acronym, SLUGARD. (Stopped Learning Until Graduation And Resulting Diploma). Along with their highschool diplomas the graduating Slugards are assigned what for most of them will be the last of these stereotypifying initials. Not surprisingly the vast majority are awarded an M A (for Average Moron) while a few receive either an M.S. (Superior Moron—which is actually nothing to brag about ignoranceisblisswise) or the prestigious MBA (Below Average Moron). With the most highlyprized of all these cognominal suffixations being BS (Supersubnormal Brainlessness).
[Not so paradoxically, PhD—which means the same (Doctor of Philosophy) to the Morons as it does to most Americans, who (grudgingly) concede it to be "a mark of intellectual excellence"—stigmatizes those few who've earned such a distinction as occupying the absolute bottom of Moronia's topsyturvy (by our self righteous standards) sociocultural scheme. For those readers who make a point of cataloguing such minutiæ: The designations LLB (LowerLowBrow), MLB (MiddleLowBrow), UMB (UpperMiddleBrow), etc. used earlier in this book are considered "scholarly" terms and therefore "avoided like the plague" by all dyedinthe wool Morons whose ignorance might be brought into question if they revealed any knowledge of such "Weisenheimerisms." While some of my more intimate Moronic acquaintances have described themselves to me as a UMB (Upper MiddleBrow)—or even an MHB (Middle HighBrow)—during one of our postforeplay conversations, they've done so only after making certain their remarks couldn't be overheard by some Tattletale, Snitch or Busybody and used to lodge a complaint with the FIB under those provisions of the One Moron One Vote Act stating: "It is a First Class Felony to advocate, espouse, propagate, foster, encourage, insinuate, imply, infer, suggest or by any other means, manner or modus operandi create the treasonous impression 99.9% of all Morons have not (give or take a point or 2 here and there StanfordBinetwise) been created equally unintelligent."]
For those few who may have forgotten the pledge I made some pages ago when we were delving into the lesser of the only 2 significant events in Jack's childhood—the socalled "Handraising Episode" or "First Klutz Affair"—this excerpt from Chapter 3 of Book Two should refresh your memory:
"The most important of these 2 juvenile turning points must remain a secret [in accordance with Klutz's own Admonitions On Subordinating One's Didactic Designs—No Matter How Noble They Might Be—To The TimeTested Rules Of Plain & Simple Storytelling] until it is revealed to you during the climactic chapters of this book when, believe me, your continued faith in my mastery of novelistic foreplay will be richly rewarded."
Well, my dear reader, believe it or not; the time has now come for me to deliver on that solemn promise!
SINCE IT WAS PARTIALLY DESTROYED during the Workers & Peasants Uprising of 1937, Moronville's once proud Vanderphd Mansion became known among that town's prepubescent residents as—incongruously— both the "Haunted" House and that "one where the Mean Old Man lives with his Mean Old Wife." In addition to having what little remained of its former architectural glories—the formal gardens, fountains, pools, gazebos, neoclassical statues, chapel, tennis courts, stables and family mausoleum—routinely vandalized, desecrated, trashed, defaced, ransacked and defiled, the mansion itself served as the formal setting where the Sacred Rites for those 8yearolds passing from Urchinhood to Jaydeedom underwent their initiations. Pursuant to the rules for these ceremonial occasions in effect at the time (1971) of Jack's 8th birthday urchins seeking admission to The Noble & Elevated Order of Juvenile Delinquency were required to:
(a) Crawl through the forest of overgrown weeds, vines, bushes, brambles and bracken that stretched—for what to a terrified initiate seemed like the longest of stonethrows but was actually less than spittingdistance— between the sidewalk on First Avenue and the steps leading to the porch of the Haunted House, whereupon;
(b) Having climbed said steps & crossed said porch—which, given the darkness and treacherous state of disrepair into what was once the "most impressive of Moronia's residential thresholds" had fallen, was by no means a foregone conclusion, creakingplanks- and/or unseenholeswise—the front door was to be knocked on exactly 5 times and loud enough for the Induction Committee to hear, following which;
(c) A full 10 seconds—or "Hannibal Missouris"—had to elapse before said doorknocker could;
(d) Hightail it back to First Avenue for the oathtaking that officially signified the successful passage from Urchinhood to JayDeedom.
Assuming, of course, the Mean Old Man and/or His Mean Old Wife didn't open the door before those 10 seconds expired and drag their hapless victim into the first of 20 or 30 Horror Chambers—through each of whose increasingly diabolical tortures captive urchins were forced to pass before they were finally "put out of their misery" BY BEING EATEN ALIVE!!!
In which worst case scenario;
(e) Said hapless victim would never be seen again, or;
(f) If he/she were, it would only be as one of those permanently traumatized Zombies that Meanest of Mean Old Couples let go now and then "as an example of what happens to urchins who think they can annoy Senior Citizens like us with impunity."
[While there is no evidence supporting these tales told by JayDees about "Zombified urchins spending the rest of their eternally tormented lives in certain unmarked and escapeproof—by virtue of their armorplated lining—graves whose exact location is known only by the Vampire, Banshee, Ghoul, Werewolf, Incubus & Zombie Disposal Experts who secretly bury them in the Pauper's section of Moronville's National Cemetery during the Turnip Tournament Festivities when everyone is watching the parade;" that doesn't stop their listeners from believing they might be true. Especially on some Autumn evenings when "howling sounds" can be heard coming from the cemetery's direction. My research into these "supernatural" occurrences, however, proved they result from meteorological conditions similar to those producing the Sicilian Sirocco and Southern California's Santa Ana winds—borne upon whose eerier gusts (especially in the neighborhood of Hollywood & Vine) some native Angelinos swear they can hear the ghostly groans of Jean Harlow, Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield. Not to mention the wailing of anonymous wannabees whose aspirations for stardom were ground into just so much more hamburgermeat by what they learned the hard way has always been, despite the moviemaking establishment's (occasional) Ars Gratia Artis pretensions, nothing more than an industrial enterprise pandering to mainstream America's insatiable demand for cinematic junkfood.]
THUS IT HAPPENED THAT, at the last stroking of midnight on the eve of his 8th birthday, with knocking knees, a pounding heart and fingers tightly crossed, Jack F. Klutz set off on the adventure which would change not only his life but the future course of all human history. Although on that historic night, of course, Jack's biographical horizons were limited to those next 10 or 15 minutes during which his survival as just a garden variety urchin (to whom the idea anyone, let alone a Moron, could singlehandedly save the civilized world was unthinkable) rather than providing another human breakfast for the cannibals inhabiting the Haunted House—or worse yet, an eternity spent buried alive in a Zombie's escape proof grave—hung in the balance! However, after crawling for what seemed like an eternity through the aforementioned "forest," he arrived safely (except for some minor cuts, scrapes and scratches) at the porch steps of the Haunted House. And without making any sound that might warn the Mean Old Man and/or his Mean Old Wife of his plans for disturbing their peace. [A vital concern on his part but one which in reality was wholly unwarranted because: While midnight was chosen as "the spookiest of hours for initiating an urchin," the JayDees failed to take into account the fact that every one of Moronville's fogies, coots and codgers were sound asleep by 9 or, at the latest—on Saturdays most of them remained (more or less) awake to watch the Lawrence Welk Show reruns—10 o'clock. Consequently, even if Jack's advance toward their Haunted House hadn't been virtually (give or take the snapping of a few twigs and odd "ouch" or 2) noiseless, it's doubtful the Mean Old Couple would have noticed his presence. More relevant still to an astute—if such a contradictory term can be applied—urchin's initiation anxieties (notwanting tobecomeaZombieinsteadofaJayDeewise): During those 10 "terrifying" seconds they had to linger on the porch after knocking on the front door it was most unlikely, if not impossible, for the spryest of nona-, octa- septua- or even sextagenarians to awaken and fully gather their senile wits (let alone leave a comfortable bed to run downstairs and catch some juvenile Moron in an act whose purpose would be thwarted by simply ignoring it) before a full 10 minutes had elapsed.]
When, having rapped on the front door 5 times and said the first nine of his 10 "Hannibal Missouris" to himself, he saw no lights had been turned on and heard not a single sound coming from inside the Haunted House, Jack allowed himself the luxury of breathing a relieved sigh before saying that tenth and last "Hannibal Mis—"
As that dash indicates, however, the same Grand Design by which my writing (and your reading) of this most Biblical of nonfiction bestsellers was divinely ordained manifested itself in mid"Missouri" when the front door suddenly opened, a pair of ghoulish arms reached out to seize the scruff of poor Jack's neck with their hideous clawlike hands and pulled him through that most dreaded of portals!
"Don't be afraid little boy," the Mean Old Man's wife told him, as she shut the door and switched on the hall light with one hand while clutching his wrist firmly with the other. "Can't you see by the kindly expression on my face I wouldn't dream of hurting you."
† † †
[While the tempo—von hier an vorwärts schneller und schneller mit noch stärker werden bis Höhe punkt ("From here on we go faster and faster with everincreasing volume until the final crescendo is reached")—at which our story is now rapidly proceeding toward its dramatic conclusion compels me to focus on only the most pertinent matters advancingtheplotwise, my literary bones (and what should be your instinctive curiosity) tell me some light should be shed on the identity of these 2 mysterious characters known so far as only the Mean Old Man & His Mean Old Wife. A pair of loose expository ends which can, I think, be neatly tied up within the confines of these square brackets I've been using (in case you haven't noticed) to circumvent the "final footnote" pledge I made (rather impetuously!) at the outset of this chapter.
The woman trying to convince Jack she meant him no harm wasn't the Mean Old Man's Mean Old Wife but his unmarried sister, Cordelia Vanderphd. And although they might supply the stuff from which Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë or George Eliot could have spun several Great English Potboilers—the reasons for Miss Vanderphd's lifelong spinsterhood are, strictlyspeaking, neither worthy of, nor relevant to, this book's loftier purpose. Which however, like all those other "seemingly superfluous" threads woven into what is (despite an overlywrought sentence or 2—such as this one?) a tapestry whose picture of EverydayHappinessForTheSocio CulturallyDeprivedFemale (if not a universal state of NeoEgalitarian Bliss) can be (at least partially) recognized by even a less than average housewife literary masterpiecereadinghabitswise) doesn't mean the simple fact she never married wasn't of crucial importance in setting our stage for the historymaking events about to unfold. Events whose miraculous consequences would never have come about if—since 1937!—Cyrus Vanderphd (aka the Mean Old Man) hadn't been pampered by his sister while he waited in the wings to play what will soon be (not that either of them ever knew it) the Pivotal Role of turning young Jack's otherwise aimless life into that of The Massiah who would one day lead millions of romance- (and/or post modernreasonforbeing)starved women like you, my dear reader, toward the Promised Land of Born Again Klutzian Salvation.
Nevertheless, and notwithstanding your curiosity over what those longawaited "miraculous" and "history making events" might be, since the issue of her spinsterhood has been raised (no matter how unavoidably— and not just by me but via the false impression of her grotesque appearance you've received through Jack's understandably panicstricken eyes) it is my duty as an author and a gentleman to state for the record that: Cordelia Vanderphd was by no means an unattractive woman. And, while her late arrival on the scene of (what will shortly be) the culmination of this super protracted exercise in metaphysical foreplay shouldn't minimize the contribution she makes in bringing us to that most pregnant of preclimactic points, as a practical matter we must limit her limelight time to less than that "enjoyed" by such other unsung heroines as Penelope (The Odyssey), Liù (Turandot) and Molly Bloom (Ulysses) when Homer, Puccini and Joyce allowed them to briefly bathe in the reflected glory of the leadingmen whose stardom was gained at their expense.
All of which, dear reader, boils down to this: Only the sketchiest portrait of Cordelia Vanderphd as she was circa 1972 can be painted by describing her as a cross between Vivian Liegh's Blanch Dubois in Street car Named Desire and Shirley Booth's Lola Delaney in Come Back, Little Sheba. With perhaps an additional stroke or 2 of that frenetic "I don't want to end up as an oldmaid schoolteacher" look in Ros Russell's eyes when playing Picnic's Rosemary Sydney. And, since we're drawing cinematic comparisons, you might just as well picture Cordelia's relationship with Cyrus not unlike that tempestuous one between Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn in The Gin Game.
Having tied the last of these loose literary ends we can now resume the von hier an vorwärts schneller und schneller mit noch stärker werden bis Höhepunkt tempo which—trust me!—will proceed without any further interruptions, delays, postponements, caesuras,G digressions, detours, fermatas,G cadenzas,G ritenutosG or even rallentandosG until we reach that Grandest Of All Finales superpotracted(novelwriting/ reading)foreplaywise. (At which climactericd moment, paradoxically, your fondest hopes, most urgent prayers and fervid wishes will be for me to elongate a rapture that passes by so swiftly one can't appreciate even a fraction of its carnal flagrance; let alone that infinitude of finer, metaphysical, points from whose nuances the greatest loveaffairs-and literature-are made.)
But enough of this bushbeating! Let the show go on!]
Book 9 Chapter 2 Return to Index
Footnotes
1 German musical terms meaning: "To plunge forward! (while surging & ebbing)" Since nothing must impede our progress as we do in fact plunge toward the consummation of your climactic expectations, this will be my final footnote. From now on, dear reader, you are on your own!
Glossary
caesura also cesura noun plural caesuras or caesurae 1. A pause in a line of verse dictated by sense or natural speech rhythm rather than by metrics. 2. A pause or an interruption, as in conversation: After another weighty caesura the senator resumed speaking. 3. In Latin and Greek prosody, a break in a line caused by the ending of a word within a foot, especially when this coincides with a sense division. 4. Music. A pause or breathing at a point of rhythmic division in a melody. [Latin caesœra, a cutting, from caesus, past participle of caedere, to cut off.] - caesural or caesuric adjective
fermata noun Music. 1. The prolongation of a tone, chord, or rest beyond its indicated time value. 2. The sign indicating this prolongation. [Italian, from feminine past participle of fermare, to stop, from Latin firmare, to make firm, from firmus, firm.]
cadenza noun Music. 1. An elaborate, ornamental melodic flourish interpolated into an aria or other vocal piece. 2. An extended virtuosic section for the soloist near the end of a movement of a concerto. [Italian, from Old Italian, cadence. See CADENCE.]
ritenuto "Held back," i.e., slower (immediately, not gradually as with ritardando and rallentando.)
rallentando Music. adverb & adjective Abbr. rall. Gradually slackening in tempo; ritardando. Used chiefly as a direction. noun plural rallentandos A rallentando passage or movement. [Italian, present participle of rallentare, to slow down : re-, intensive pref. (from Latin). See RE- + allentare, to slow down (from Late Latin allentare : Latin ad-, ad- + Latin lentus, slow).]