Bridgetown Boy Scout Troop #158, “Let’s see what old man Thorpe [a local news dealer] has for us in this pile of stuff,” and upon discovering therein a discarded trove of coverless Spicy Detective pulp magazines illustrated with line drawings of naked women in erotic peril, “On second thought, let’s cop a couple of these for later,” and having done so, “On third thought, to hell with the war effort: Let’s go work on our Jack-Off merit badges.” Whereupon, as the Nazis overran Europe, shipped its Jews off to extermination camps, invaded the Soviet Union, and poised to invade Great Britain, and as Imperial Japan, having surpriseattacked Pearl Harbor, extended its military dominion in the Pacific, Ned Prosper and George Newett practiced masturbation in the afore-described attic of 213 Water Street, the empty former woodshed of 210, and other secluded venues. It was his friend’s “third thoughts,” G.I.N. noticed early, that the pair most often acted upon.
And finally (regarding things Third and Last), Retired O.F.F.-Prof Newett is reminded of his Prosper-pal’s predilection, even back then, for remarking Last Things, a habit that by his undergraduate years would become a virtual obsession:
“Last time you’re gonna see me in these stupid corduroy knickers and kneesocks! Long pants from now on, or bare-assed!”
“Last ride on our dumb old junior bikes: Race you to the bridge, Gee!”
“Last day of Miz Brinsley’s fifth grade. Boo-hoo! Whoopee!”
“Last week of vacation; better make the most of it!”
“Last year of President Roosevelt’s second term!”
“Last day of the 1930s!”
“Last birthday before we’re teenagers. Let’s do Stupid Kid Stuff!”
“Better get some sledding done while we can: Last day of winter coming soon!”
Indeed. And almost seventy years later, as Senators Hillary Clinton of New York and Barack Obama of Illinois campaigned exhaustingly against each other to be either the first female or the first African-American presidential nominee, the winter of C.E. 2007/08 ran its unhurried, inexorable course, and at least two dwellers on Planet Earth began to wonder, vis-à-vis G. I. Newett’s narrative- in-utero , “Just what the fuck is this, pray tell?”
Thus asked one of them, Poet/Professor A. Todd, of the other, her palms-up husband, who, as he not infrequently did,
had requested that his mate please take a look at the paperclipped pages that she now tossed back into his lap. Responded he, “That’s what I hoped you’d help me figure out.”
“Well, for starters, is it meant to be a novel or a memoir or what? How much of this silly stuff really happened?”
“Don’t ask me; I just work here.” Shrug. “Shit happens. And now I remember that I forgot to include a certain memorable First among all those Lasts.” Namely, that it was on the afore-noted Last Day of fifth grade in Bridgetown Elementary that Yours Fictively George Irving Newett made his literary debut, in the form of a naughty poem about their stern, fat, and busty teacher. Scribbled in #2 Dixon Ticonderoga pencil on a torn-out sheet of blue-ruled composition-book paper as Miss Brinsley, standing before a large wall map, held forth on global time-differentials and the inversion of seasons between Northern and Southern Hemispheres, and meant to be passed surreptitiously over to Ned P. but noticed and pounced upon by its eagle-eyed subject before its recipient could finish reading it, Gee’s aabb quatrain was spun off from an anonymous one considered funny by male Bridgetown fifth- and sixth-graders when shared orally at recess-time. The original:
Old Henry went to the burlesque show.
He sat right down on the very front row.
And when the girls began to dance,
POP! went the buttons on Henry’s pants.
In Gee’s longhand version:
Miss Brinsley sneaked into the burlesque show.
She sat way back on the very last row,
And when the boys began to cheer,
POP! went the snaps on her
And finally (regarding things Third and Last), Retired O.F.F.-Prof Newett is reminded of his Prosper-pal’s predilection, even back then, for remarking Last Things, a habit that by his undergraduate years would become a virtual obsession:
“Last time you’re gonna see me in these stupid corduroy knickers and kneesocks! Long pants from now on, or bare-assed!”
“Last ride on our dumb old junior bikes: Race you to the bridge, Gee!”
“Last day of Miz Brinsley’s fifth grade. Boo-hoo! Whoopee!”
“Last week of vacation; better make the most of it!”
“Last year of President Roosevelt’s second term!”
“Last day of the 1930s!”
“Last birthday before we’re teenagers. Let’s do Stupid Kid Stuff!”
“Better get some sledding done while we can: Last day of winter coming soon!”
Indeed. And almost seventy years later, as Senators Hillary Clinton of New York and Barack Obama of Illinois campaigned exhaustingly against each other to be either the first female or the first African-American presidential nominee, the winter of C.E. 2007/08 ran its unhurried, inexorable course, and at least two dwellers on Planet Earth began to wonder, vis-à-vis G. I. Newett’s narrative- in-utero , “Just what the fuck is this, pray tell?”
Thus asked one of them, Poet/Professor A. Todd, of the other, her palms-up husband, who, as he not infrequently did,
had requested that his mate please take a look at the paperclipped pages that she now tossed back into his lap. Responded he, “That’s what I hoped you’d help me figure out.”
“Well, for starters, is it meant to be a novel or a memoir or what? How much of this silly stuff really happened?”
“Don’t ask me; I just work here.” Shrug. “Shit happens. And now I remember that I forgot to include a certain memorable First among all those Lasts.” Namely, that it was on the afore-noted Last Day of fifth grade in Bridgetown Elementary that Yours Fictively George Irving Newett made his literary debut, in the form of a naughty poem about their stern, fat, and busty teacher. Scribbled in #2 Dixon Ticonderoga pencil on a torn-out sheet of blue-ruled composition-book paper as Miss Brinsley, standing before a large wall map, held forth on global time-differentials and the inversion of seasons between Northern and Southern Hemispheres, and meant to be passed surreptitiously over to Ned P. but noticed and pounced upon by its eagle-eyed subject before its recipient could finish reading it, Gee’s aabb quatrain was spun off from an anonymous one considered funny by male Bridgetown fifth- and sixth-graders when shared orally at recess-time. The original:
Old Henry went to the burlesque show.
He sat right down on the very front row.
And when the girls began to dance,
POP! went the buttons on Henry’s pants.
In Gee’s longhand version:
Miss Brinsley sneaked into the burlesque show.
She sat way back on the very last row,
And when the boys began to cheer,
POP! went the snaps on her
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