Read Online The Nine Pound Hammer by John Claude Bemis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Claude Bemis
Ads: Link
means, while others—barefoot or in little more than rags—couldn’t have come with a penny in their pockets or to their names.
Nel ended the breakdown with a wild flourish of his hand, pointing to the three musicians on the stage. “The Everett Family String Band!” he announced as the audience applauded. Mister Everett alone stood, bowed as the representative of the band, and then gestured to Nel.
“Our illustrious pitchman, Mister Carter. Take it away,” Mister Everett announced.
Having been introduced to the crowd as the pitchman, Nel began. Ray recognized that, although ceremonial, this gesture by Mister Everett was intended to legitimize Nel to an audience that might not otherwise accept the Negro pitchman. The effects and sentiments of the War—although it had been twenty-five years since Appomattox—still lingered strongly in these rural towns.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Cornelius T. Carter’s Mystifying Medicine Show and Tabernacle of Tachycardial Talent. Today you will be astounded, amazed, abased, and abducted by our arousingacts. I hope you enjoy our perplexing and prodigious performances, but we are here today not only to de light the senses but also to bolster the body and soothe the soul.
“How many of you felicitous folks have come here today on sore feet? Are you suffering from corns, blisters, busted toenails? Shoes squeezing your toes together like too many sardines in a can?”
As Peg Leg Nel went into his spiel about various foot and knee ailments, Ray felt he immediately understood a large portion of the logic underlying the medicine show. Ray saw various people toward the front of the stage, from hobble-backed old men to small pink-cheeked girls, twisting and squirming in their shoes. Ray felt even his own feet become particularly sore and swollen with each sentence of Nel’s pitch.
“Apply amply before going to bed each night and you are guaranteed to be remedied within a week,” Nel concluded before striking the band back into a song. “Allow me to introduce our first performance of the afternoon. Kidnapped by Bedouin slave traders as his family crossed the Sahara … he was sold to a Turkish sultan, who passed on his people’s ancient art of combat and swordplay. … ” The pitchman directed the audience’s attention to the stage on the left, where a pair of tall candles were sitting in golden candelabras. “The dexterous, the dynamic, the deadly … Prince Ottmon of Arabia.”
Dressed in a Turkish caftan and turban, Seth strode outonto the side stage with a rectangular case about the size of a guitar. He set the case down on a stool between the candelabras and opened it, allowing each latch to click dramatically. First he took out a wide scimitar, turning it back and forth to sparkle in the candlelight. Then he removed a smaller cutlass, the blade intricately etched with Arabian designs.
With a shout, Seth flipped forward, over his sword case on the stool, to the front of the stage, startling the audience. Then he leaped away, swinging the scimitar over and over at the thick burning candles. The sword went through the candles each time, but left them seemingly intact. Then stopping between the candelabras, he swung the swords out wide and tapped the candles with the blades. The candles toppled and rolled to the floor of the stage like diced sausages.
Seth speared the stage floor with his cutlass and, making a flip, landed with his hands on the hilt of the sword, balancing himself upside down as the crowd roared with applause. Somersaulting off, he kicked the sword into a whirl. Catching the tip on his upturned finger, Seth suspended the cutlass as if it were held up by a string. Ray looked closely, but the sparkling blade did not draw a single drop of blood.
For his finale he slid a long, slender sword from his belt into his mouth, nearly to the hilt. His head tilted back and his arms outstretched so that he no longer held the sword.The audience
Nel ended the breakdown with a wild flourish of his hand, pointing to the three musicians on the stage. “The Everett Family String Band!” he announced as the audience applauded. Mister Everett alone stood, bowed as the representative of the band, and then gestured to Nel.
“Our illustrious pitchman, Mister Carter. Take it away,” Mister Everett announced.
Having been introduced to the crowd as the pitchman, Nel began. Ray recognized that, although ceremonial, this gesture by Mister Everett was intended to legitimize Nel to an audience that might not otherwise accept the Negro pitchman. The effects and sentiments of the War—although it had been twenty-five years since Appomattox—still lingered strongly in these rural towns.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Cornelius T. Carter’s Mystifying Medicine Show and Tabernacle of Tachycardial Talent. Today you will be astounded, amazed, abased, and abducted by our arousingacts. I hope you enjoy our perplexing and prodigious performances, but we are here today not only to de light the senses but also to bolster the body and soothe the soul.
“How many of you felicitous folks have come here today on sore feet? Are you suffering from corns, blisters, busted toenails? Shoes squeezing your toes together like too many sardines in a can?”
As Peg Leg Nel went into his spiel about various foot and knee ailments, Ray felt he immediately understood a large portion of the logic underlying the medicine show. Ray saw various people toward the front of the stage, from hobble-backed old men to small pink-cheeked girls, twisting and squirming in their shoes. Ray felt even his own feet become particularly sore and swollen with each sentence of Nel’s pitch.
“Apply amply before going to bed each night and you are guaranteed to be remedied within a week,” Nel concluded before striking the band back into a song. “Allow me to introduce our first performance of the afternoon. Kidnapped by Bedouin slave traders as his family crossed the Sahara … he was sold to a Turkish sultan, who passed on his people’s ancient art of combat and swordplay. … ” The pitchman directed the audience’s attention to the stage on the left, where a pair of tall candles were sitting in golden candelabras. “The dexterous, the dynamic, the deadly … Prince Ottmon of Arabia.”
Dressed in a Turkish caftan and turban, Seth strode outonto the side stage with a rectangular case about the size of a guitar. He set the case down on a stool between the candelabras and opened it, allowing each latch to click dramatically. First he took out a wide scimitar, turning it back and forth to sparkle in the candlelight. Then he removed a smaller cutlass, the blade intricately etched with Arabian designs.
With a shout, Seth flipped forward, over his sword case on the stool, to the front of the stage, startling the audience. Then he leaped away, swinging the scimitar over and over at the thick burning candles. The sword went through the candles each time, but left them seemingly intact. Then stopping between the candelabras, he swung the swords out wide and tapped the candles with the blades. The candles toppled and rolled to the floor of the stage like diced sausages.
Seth speared the stage floor with his cutlass and, making a flip, landed with his hands on the hilt of the sword, balancing himself upside down as the crowd roared with applause. Somersaulting off, he kicked the sword into a whirl. Catching the tip on his upturned finger, Seth suspended the cutlass as if it were held up by a string. Ray looked closely, but the sparkling blade did not draw a single drop of blood.
For his finale he slid a long, slender sword from his belt into his mouth, nearly to the hilt. His head tilted back and his arms outstretched so that he no longer held the sword.The audience
Similar Books
