In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [59]
Well, it went like that for about twenty minutes. Ben is telling them the story. Of course, one thing about a family Joke Teller—it’s downhill all the way. It rarely is uphill, because these guys, being notably non-talented, do not know how to pace themselves. They usually pad their stories too much, and often tell the punch line before they get to the end of the story.
He’s struggling away with his act. What happens with a Joke Teller is that when they don’t get a big laugh, they immediately leap in with a longer story, instead of a shorter one. They pour it on with a longer one. And then they try their dialects. This is always the last resort of a scoundrel, using the Jewish and the Irish dialect in a story. This is almost invariably the stamp of the non-talented but desperate Joke Teller.
Uncle Ben is pouring it out. I’m listening to the stories—the Jokes. And soaking them up like a two-dollar sponge. Remember, I’m seven, and my knowledge of the Seven Deadly Sins was somewhat hazy. In the ensuing years this has cleared up somewhat, but not much.
About four days later I’m out in the backyard with good old Casmir. Casmir came from a very good, basic, wonderful, totally antiseptic Polish Catholic family. I mean the kind that had drapes on top of their drapes. Every third or fourth day his mother would wash down the whole neighborhood, on her hands and knees, wearing a shawl over her head. Go all the way down the street, wash the sidewalks, sweep up the curb, hose down the fences, and brush off all the kids. She was that sort of a Polish lady. She spoke no English at all, discernible. This was Casmir’s family. His father wore round black hats and black suits, and for some reason always buttoned his white shirts clear to the top, but wore no tie. Except on Sundays.
Casmir and I are playing by the fence. We are fooling around and hitting things, and just messing around, when I suddenly remember Uncle Ben’s great joke. Which I proceed to tell to Casmir, including all the words I could remember, and the Irish dialect that the bartender had.
I had only a vague inkling of what it was about. All of these words meant nothing to me. In fact, I thought one of them had something to do with Hockey.
So I told Casmir the joke, and Casmir laughed because he knew it was supposed to be a funny joke. Both of us are laughing up a storm, and hitting each other on the back, and cackling lasciviously. We mess around some more, and it is time now to go home. It is about four in the afternoon.
The following traumatic experience slowly began to unfold. About five in the afternoon, my mother is out on the back porch, and she rarely spent much time on the back porch. She is talking to Mrs. Wocznowski. They rarely talked much together because Casmir’s mother spoke no English, discernible, and my mother spoke no Polish. But the two of them are jabbering away out there. I am paying no attention, because I am inside listening to the radio.
Suddenly my mother comes whamming through the back screen door, and let me tell you, there was blood in her eye. Blood! I mean BLOOD! There was smoke coming out of her ears.
“I want to talk to you.”
I knew it! You know when there’s disaster.
“What?”
“I want to talk to you. Come into the bedroom. I don’t want your brother to hear this.”
Uh oh. This is the big one. You know when the jig is up—
“I don’t want your brother.…”
We have both been sitting there listening to Steve Canyon or something, and the instant this fatal line came out, it goes off inside of me. I start to break up. I’m crying and hollering like mad.
She drags me into the bedroom and closes the door. There was a silence that went on for, I’d say, about a year and a half. I didn’t know anything then about what is commonly known as a “pregnant pause.” I wouldn’t have known what that word meant, but this silence is really hanging there, like big ripe grapes. Containing seeds. Finally:
“Were you just out with Casmir? By the fence?”
“Yah