Perverted Proverbs

by Marsh Cassady

  The situation was tense, no doubt about it. Dexter thought of escaping to the powder room, but realized that would be cowardly. And after all, it was his life and he hadn't really done anything wrong. He hadn't told either man that it was an exclusive arrangement. He hadn't—

  Well, he thought, he'd just have to make a clean breast of it. He took both men by the arm and led them to a table in the corner where he sat them down, one on either side, he directly in the middle.

  "Okay," he said. "I did a stupid thing." He swallowed hard. "I met you both within a few days of each other. And both of you turned me on. But it was more than that. Far more." He glanced from one stony face to the other. He was really screwing things up. From the quandary of having to decide which man to finally choose, he'd probably not have any choice at all. Both would likely ditch him. "I loved you," he continued. "Love you both." It was a relief to say it, to get it out in the open. The dread of their meeting, the suspense was ended. And he'd have to accept the consequences.

  "I understand," Modred said, "of course, I do. And you're right. I have no claim on you."

  "Nor I," Maxwell said. "Even though this all sounds like an episode from some silly sitcom,' I suppose I can understand it too."

  Dexter could hardly believe what he heard. He looked from one man's face to the other, trying to see anger, hurt, replaying the words, trying to hear sarcasm. But he didn't. What he'd seen and heard, he realized, was complete honesty.

  "But," Maxwell said, "you simply can't go on like this. It's one of us or the other."

  "I heartily agree," Modred said. "One or the other." He turned to Maxwell. "What do you say? Shall we give him a time limit on making up his mind?"

  "A day or two?"

  "Perhaps a week."

  "Yes, of course. He'd need that long."

  They turned toward Dexter. "In a week," Maxwell said, "we'll meet back here ..."

  " ... and you'll let us know your decision," Modred continued.

  "In the meantime," Maxwell said. "I suggest you spend some time with each of us alone."

  "That way you can better decide once and for all," Modred continued.

  "Call us," both men said and stood up. Together they left the bar.

  Stunned, Dexter sat there unmoving.

  The next week was perhaps the worst, at least the most anxious and stress-producing of his life. For he knew that his future happiness was at stake. How could he decide?

  He went to restaurants with each man, spent quiet hours with each. He weighed one against the other and found they came out nearly equal. Maxwell's generosity against Modred's thoughtfulness, for both seemed to anticipate Dexter's every wish.

  Who should he choose? Perhaps Modred since he was so selfless in giving of his talents to the poor. And certainly Dexter could help financially since the store had always done well. Or should he choose Maxwell, who cared so desperately about his students. With him, obviously, there would be no question of needing money. In fact, rather than giving financially to the relationship, Dexter would take from it. And that would be nice, he thought, never to have money worries again. But none of these things could weight one man more favorably than the other.

  Dexter also enjoyed the physical side of the relationships with both men. And it was finally this that decided him. Although both relationships in this respect were highly satisfactory, the best of his life, in fact, Maxwell seemed to have a slight edge.

  So it was when the three men met again that Dexter was forced to break the news. And though he tried to lead up to it gently, so as not to bruise egos or hurt feelings, he finally came right out and said what was needed, the moral, in fact, which is:

  Moral: A teacher is the best experience.

  SUCH FOOLISHNESS

  Once upon a time in merry old England lived a young actor who was judged the handsomest man ever to tread the boards. Blond and fair, with the melancholy look of a Hamlet, the oratorical voice of a Marcus Antonius, and the youth of Valentino, he, in essence, had all the necessary equipment to play the best of Shakespearean heroes.

  Yet like the Prince of Denmark whom he had portrayed countless times both in England and the Colonies, he was out of sorts, suffering the doldrums. Now Stanton Browning, for such was our hero's name, had a lover named Brad, who was as fine a director as Stan was an actor.

  Nobody could match Brad's direction and Stan's acting in any of the heroic roles created by the pen of Will Shakespeare. Yet, such was Stan's discontent that never could he bask in the adulation of his audiences.

  He had a wish; a strange desire to play one particular role—the Fool in Lear. Yet, no one would cast him in this part.

  "It's stupid, Stan," Brad told him. "Any other actor would give his left gonad to be in your position. You're the toast of Merry Olde England, as well as the Great White Way. From the view of the audience, you can do no wrong."

  "It doesn't mean crap," Stan said. "What would mean something would be to play the part of my heart's desire."

  "Now that's what's crap," Brad said. "You stick with what you can do, what your fans expect, or you'll risk your reputation."

  "The hell with that," Stan said. "I know what I want, what I can do. If you give me the chance, I'll be the best Fool anyone ever dreamed of."

  "You're a fool all right."

  "Damn it, Brad, if you won't let me play the role, instead of playing stupid Edgar—what kind of name is that anyway for a heroic character—I'll search far and wide till I find someone who will cast me."

  "Then that's what you'll have to do."

  Stan was so angry that he slept that night on the sofa. The very next morning he started his search from England to Wales, from Ireland to Boston.

  "That's ridiculous, Mr. Browning," he was told. "You're too young for the part. I can't believe you're serious."

  "But I am serious. Deadly serious. It's my lifetime ambition."

  "But why?"

  "I'm tired of being typecast as a young romantic. I want to be an old fart for a change. A smart old fart."

  "Sorry."

  And so it went. In the meantime, Stan and Brad made up, though the truce was an uneasy one. Stan continued to star in younger roles. But he was frustrated and blamed Brad for not giving him a chance.

  Then Brad was asked by a little theatre in an obscure village in Oklahoma to direct a production of Lear. Normally, he would have turned it down since he received dozens of offers every week. But this time he decided once and for all to end his lover's complaints. He'd cast him as Lear out in the sticks where no one would see him fall on his face, where the miserable failure he was bound to be would go unnoticed.

  Yet Brad quickly saw how wrong he'd been. His lover was brilliant, bringing new depth and perception to the role of the Fool. It gave Brad goosebumps just to see Stan walk onstage in the role.

  Soon, news of the interpretation leaked out. On opening night the audience was filled with important critics from around the world. The ovation at play's end went on and on and on, not, as one might suspect, for Lear or his daughters, but for Stan as the Fool.

  The production was a huge success, so that soon the theatre was incapable of holding even a small portion of those seeking tickets—people coming from as far away as Siberia and Paraguay.

  Offers poured in from producers who'd give thousands of dollars for Stan to play the Fool in New York, Paris, London, Moscow—all the major cities of the world.

  Brad admitted he was wrong, and agreed to tour the world with the production. And Stan was now no longer melancholy. He'd proved beyond any doubt that he was perhaps the finest actor of his time or any time. He didn't just play the Fool; he actually became the Fool.

  He received uncountable riches. Before long he was the wealthiest man in all the world. And, of course, he shared his wealth with Brad, who had finally given him the chance to play the part. The two of them lived foolishly ever after.

  Moral: A Fool and his part are soon monied.

  HOW HE BEGGED TO DIFFERr />
  Many years ago in a faraway time and place lived a beggar. Like the other beggars of the land, he took great pride in his work, arriving at his assigned post precisely at 6:59 a.m., to catch early morning commuters, and leaving precisely at 5:48 p.m., when the last worker straggled off the last commuter train.

  Now Jarvis often had a young charge assigned to him by the Spare a Dime Society, the union to which all beggars belonged and which offered apprenticeships to those wishing to enter the trade.

  Because he'd worked long and hard, following all the rules, rising rung by rung on the ladder of beggary, Jarvis was one of the few in Jersey City to have received the title and privilege of Master Beggar ... uh, yes, that is Master Beggar. As such, he was entitled to train young and promising hopefuls.

  In his late thirties, Jarvis had risen more rapidly than any other beggar in Jersey City and faster than most in the whole vast land. Most Master Beggars received their promotions near the end of long careers, when they were in the late fifties or early sixties, after years of pleading and kowtowing.

  Because Jarvis was so successful, he was deluged with requests from young men who hoped to be selected to study with this most masterful of all Master Beggars, written up time after time as an example to the youth of the land, a man whose photo had appeared not once but four times on the cover of the Spare a Dime Society Newsletter.

  One evening Jarvis was poring over photos and resumes. Sure, the photos were optional and weren't ever to be used in making final choices, but what the hell, Jarvis felt he deserved to have the rules bent. Wasn't his bank account in the millions, all as a result of his own hard work?

  Nearly ready to make a random choice, Jarvis suddenly came upon that one photo that stirred up his feelings. It showed a handsome lad, standing with proud parents in front of a New York brownstone. But Jarvis barely noticed the parents; he barely noticed the brownstone. His eyes were drawn to the face of the boy, whom the resume revealed as Thompkins Betterton, eighteen years old, fresh out of university. Obviously he was an intelligent young man, though in all probability not matching the intelligence of Jarvis himself, who had an I.Q. of 192 and finished his doctorate in Almsmanship at the age of twenty. But the thing that most drew Jarvis' attention was the young man's looks—his wishful eyes, his lithe body, his sculpted face.

  With no further thought, Jarvis summoned his butler to ring Betterton's residence. Assured that the young man was on the line, Jarvis took the receiver. "Thompkins Betterton?" he enunciated, his voice clipped, precise.

  "Yes, sir," the voice answered, every bit as cultured as his own, and obviously polite and deferential, traits Jarvis liked.

  "This is Jarvis," he said, deigning to give his last name, which he considered superfluous in light of his renown. "I do believe you submitted a request to take post-graduate training under my guidance."

  Jarvis heard a sharp intake of breath. "Yes, sir, I did. I mean, I want more than anything to work with the best beg—"

  Jarvis cut him off. "Yes, yes, of course. But I want to make certain you're willing to live with me, study diligently with me, learn the practicalities."

  "Of course, sir. I'd consider it a great honor."

  "Tomorrow morning then. Six-thirty sharp. We'll meet in front of the bus station. You know where it is?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right then. You have your uniform, I presume." Apprentices wore apparel similar to fully recognized beggars, except for the placement of the holes, which were slightly different so patrons and Guild members alike could know who was more worthy of receiving alms.

  "I do, sir, and thank you very much."

  The following morning Jarvis was certain he'd made the right decision. The lad was even more handsome and more intelligent than his photo and resume showed. He was the most gorgeous hunk Jarvis had seen in many a year. He knew they'd get along, certainly during the training hours ... and he hoped after-hours as well. For he had fallen in love, completely, helplessly in love.

  The boy, a fast learner, already had memorized all the kneeling positions, the stretching-out-of-arms-palms-up maneuvers. He simply needed the chance to put them into practice.

  He was immediately successful. Jarvis had no reason to doubt that when the time came for verbalization, Thompkins would be every bit as good.

  But the best result was that Thompkins seemed as much attracted to Jarvis as he was to the boy. At first, Thompkins was merely in awe, but as the day went along, Jarvis noticed the boy's covetous glances. Because Jarvis was supreme master of the physical side of begging, he was well able to read body language and behavior, and Thompkins’ was pretty obvious from the licking of lips to the quickness of breath when their eyes met.

  And so it was that as soon as they went to Jarvis' mansion where the boy would stay for the duration of his apprenticeship, they were in each other's arms. The lovemaking was the most passionate Jarvis could remember.

  In fact, he cautioned himself, he'd have to take care to judge the boy fairly and objectively, which might be difficult in light of their developing relationship.

  Yet, he needn't have any worry. The boy was a quick study. Jarvis was certain that like himself Thommy would go far and advance quickly to the rank of Master Beggar.

  It was only after the young man had been with him three months that he was permitted to begin the verbalization half of the begging process. Jarvis could hardly wait to see the results, since already, on the basis of his body language, he'd collected more alms in a day than most full beggars did.

  Yet Jarvis was in for a great disappointment. Oh, it wasn't that the boy didn't master the art of pleading. He did, perhaps too well. He became cocky, overly sure of himself, so that he began trying to tell Jarvis how he should conduct himself.

  "First off, Jarv," Thompkins said, "what's with this 6:59 to 5:48 routine? I mean, let's get it all done and have the rest of the day to go to the beach, you know what I'm saying?"

  Jarvis felt hurt and somehow betrayed. "No, I guess I don't know what you're saying. You'll have to enlighten me."

  "Oh, it's not that I don't think you're good. You are, Jarvis, and I love you for it. But—"

  Maybe he could straighten things out, Jarvis thought. Persuade the boy that he was wrong. Show him the error of his thinking. "Maybe it's because you're so intelligent," he said, "such a fast learner that you're impatient. I don't know. But you have to stay with what is workable, both for yourself and society."

  "Screw society!" Thompkins shouted.

  "I can't believe you said that. It's society that pays your bills, feeds you, gives you the extras."

  "You're saying I should be grateful or what?"

  "No. Yes. I don't know. It's just the way the system works. There are corporate presidents and opera singers and waiters—" He felt himself becoming flustered, his self-assurance deserting him for the first time in years. "What I'm saying is that they all have accepted occupations; they each have to follow the rules of those occupations. Sure, there can be allowance for individuality. But nevertheless, a painter has to stay within a canvas, a writer within a story's framework, a beggar—"

  "You of all people to say such a thing. You, a great innovator. One who's led change."

  "Change within the system, don't you see? Change for the better."

  "That's what I'm advocating, as well. Change for the better."

  "All right," Jarvis said. "Maybe you should explain."

  "I realize, Jarv, that most people have to put in a full day. Most punch a clock to pull in their wages. But not us, don't you see?"

  Jarvis felt depressed; this young man had been so promising. Their relationship had meant so much. "I'm afraid I don't."

  "Five minutes, man, that's all it takes. Maybe less."

  "For what?" Jarvis heard the discouragement in his own voice. "I don't understand. I'm not sure I want to understand."

  "Maybe that's the problem. For all your talk of innovation, you're of the old school. Afraid to go out on your own."<
br />
  He felt hurt, betrayed. "Thanks, Thommy. I appreciate—"

  "Oh, grow up, will you?" Thompkins frowned, his face somehow not handsome anymore. Jarvis wondered how he'd ever viewed it as handsome. Maybe he should just get up and walk away. "What I'm saying is that if we intensify the beggary, if we give it our best shot, but just one shot, the pigeons will be happy. Happy to have us off their backs. Happy not to see us around all day long."

  "Pigeons?" Jarvis could hardly believe the crudity of referring to clients as pigeons. Why some of these people he'd known for years, some more intimately, he was sure, than their very own spouses. They'd trusted him with their hopes, their goals, their ambitions.

  "All right, clients, for God's sake. They're sick of seeing us all day long."

  "No!" Jarvis felt deep shock. "We depend on each other. We need each other."

  "I don't need anyone, man, you know what I mean?"

  "I'm afraid ... maybe I do."

  "Come on, Jarv, I didn't mean you. I need you. I care about you. What we have together is pretty terrific—"

  The voice sounded insincere. "Do you?"

  "What? Do I what?"

  "Need me, care about me."

  "For God's sake, Jarvis, this is business."

  "All right then, finish." Jarvis just wanted it over with. He wanted to crawl into his bed, pull the sheet up to his chin, block out the rest of the world.

  "As I started to explain, we go into this intense act. We plead and beg and beseech and implore, you know?" He looked toward Jarvis and grinned. "And that's it. Two minutes, three minutes, five minutes, and we're done for the day. The pigeons are so impressed they empty their pockets, and we hit the road."

  "No, no, no."

  "Oh, yeah? Why not?"

  "First of all, it's unheard of. Second, sure our heaviest crowd comes in the morning. We don't get much in the evening. The clients have already given on their way to work. But we're there for assurance. That the world goes on, that everything stays the same. It's a security for them. And for us too. A certainty in our lives." He paused and angrily brushed away tears that formed in his eyes. "And the shoppers and the old people—the men and the women with nowhere really to go, nothing to look forward to."