SOMETIMES A WORD OR TWO SAYS IT ALL. 

BY STEVE ESKEW



PUBLISHED BY ERMA BOMBECK WRITERS' WORKSHOP WEBSITE

I recently returned to my hometown of Grand Island Nebraska. In due time, I headed for a nightclub on the edge of town that has been in business for over 50 years, affectionately known as the Snake Pit. Back in my youth, when running water was a novelty, I worked after-school busing tables in that joint. The owner and I have been pen pals all these years. 

During intense introspection that only a narcissist could appreciate, I came to realize that the Snake Pit housed many personalities that I’ve conceived both consciously and subconsciously as models for many of the characters in my writings. One guy in particular.

Positioned like a wine cellar down under a 4-story country hotel, the Snake Pit has actually changed very little in 50 years. Still clean. Still fun.

The proprietor and my longtime pen pal is a gal named Myrtle. She’s 86 now and she reminds me of TV-star Betty White. Sharp, loaded with energy and funny. After I entered the joint on the first night of my hometown visit, I introduced myself to the host/bouncer and asked if Myrtle was around. As he swaggered off to fetch her I gazed at the diners, mostly a crowd of 60-somethings. Some were dancing to the band’s 1940s music. 

Someone behind me said:“BOING!”

Grinning, I turned around and looked into Myrtle’s mischievous eyes. Whenever we wrote to each other, our greeting would begin with the word: “BOING!” That had been the signature sound emitted most nights in the early 1960s from a six-foot-five, 350-pound slot machine addict named Mortimer O’Malley. 

Whereas most the Snake Pit’s patrons came clad in casual dress up, Mortimer consistently showed up in clean blue-jean overalls and a red baseball cap. He would come roaring into the rear of the hotel parking lot every night on a dilapidated orange tractor. His driver’s license had been permanently revoked but, most nights, he could successfully (thus, legally) pilot the tractor down the county dirt-roads.

When Mortimer uttered a complete sentence he would stutter, so he pretty much preferred to express himself with one syllable words like “BOING!” As he played the one-armed bandits, the drunker he became, the louder the “BOING!” As the night moved onward ever onward and Mortimer grew woozier ever woozier, he  would variate his loud “BOING!” to a lighter “BONG!” and his last utterance before he would stagger out and plant his enormously fat fanny on his tractor was a high-pitched “BING!”.

One night, he brought Myrtle a load of fresh farm eggs , dropped them on the floor, slid across the room in the slick mess, screaming “BOING!” But before he could say “BONG!” or “BING,” he fell hard, racking his head on the dance floor. He died instantly. No blood. We speculated that his heart had stooped beating right after he said his final: “BOING!.” 

After his body was removed, no easy task I grant you, I had the chore of cleaning up the broken-egg mess. I’m ashamed to admit it but all I could think of as I scooped up the broken eggs was: “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.” 

Most people liked Mortimer but no one really mourned his death. His Irish family held his wake at the Snake Pit. His wake was a joyous affair. At one point, Myrtle’s husband  Maynard and I stepped outside of the nightclub to sneak a smoke. We noticed crows perched on the trees above. In a giddy mood from celebrating our man Mortimer’s life, I yelled at the crows “CAW!” Maynard repeated the word: “CAW! 

We got the giggles. 

Eventually, it became our salutation to each other. Throughout the years, whenever  Myrtle and I talk on the phone, Maynard takes the phone out of her hand, says “CAW!” I answer “CAW!” and that is the extent of our conversation. 

And, wouldn’t ya know, as I was standing there reminiscing with Myrtle the night of my recent visit to the Snake Pit, I heard a loud “CAW!” It was the now-88-year-old Maynard. I countered with “CAW!” He grinned and walked away.

Smiling at Myrtle. I said “BOING!” She said “BOING!” and I walked out.

And people say I’m gabby. Sheesh!

_________Steve Eskew

Thank God Liberal Arts courses are so easy. Even retired businessman Steve Eskew received a pair of master’s degrees in both dramatic arts and communication studies from the University of Nebraska at Omaha after he turned 50. When asked to take over a professor’s theater column at The Daily Nonpareil in Council Bluffs, Iowa, Steve began a career as a quasi-journalist. Narrowly by the luck of the Irish, this led to numerous publications including theater and book reviews, profiles and Steve’s favorite genre, humor writing. Check out his contributions to Erma Bombeck Workshop: http://humorwriters.org/ sometimes a word or two says it all