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"Gone and Also ... A Work in Progress" |
Claude Hall
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"Snake & the Spider Lady" Chapter 12 of a novel by Claude Hall He put King in a taxi back to the real world. If Harlem, a mistake of God, could be called real. A fine mist had come up from the ocean in the late afternoon part of the day and a cloud now sat on its rump on this part of Manhattan. The mist was slowly soaking everything as if it had actually rained. Snake felt the dampness, felt the growing chill in his bones. His heart seemed just as cold. For a while, he stood on a corner not too far from the dock. Very few people paid attention to him. Those that did actually notice him stepped slightly to the right or left in order to pass further away from him as they went by. He admitted to himself that he didn't look very presentable. Although his blue jeans were new, this morning's battle had taken their toll; a knee was smeared with grease. Evidently, a flying piece of glass had cut a neat little hold in the left leg of his jeans. He pulled up his trouser. The glass had also made a neat hole in his leg. The blood had dried long ago. Strange, but he hadn't known until now. A mild form of shock had prevented him from even feeling the wound. Now that he knew the wound was there, it began to hurt. Not a lot. Just enough to slightly irritate him. The thing that irritate him more than slightly was his confusion. He stood here on the sidewalk because he had absolutely no idea of which way to go, what to do next. His mind was a total blank. If he knew where Mary Sue, the Spider Lady, was, he could go and solve his problem. He would do it now: use the vial of odorless spray. To hell with all of that male chauvinistic crap about protecting the female species! Kill her! It was a mute point; he hadn't the slightest idea of where she lived, what her last name was, anything else about her. Perhaps even her first two names were counterfeit–Mary Sue. Didn't matter much. She was becoming literally as famous–or infamous–as himself and everyone called her Spider Lady. His inability to make a decision–in reality the utter lack of any decision to make–threw him into a state of intense misery. The growing chill and dampness only made things worse. If he only had someone to fight, someone on which to pitch his enormous strength. This morning up in Harlem had been intense fun! Everything had happened in slow motion to him, but he had acted with blazing speed. It reminded him of the days when he played football and the guy trying to tackle him would just fade away as he moved past, virtually unstoppable. This morning in Harlem! It was a pity that he couldn't prolong that kind of exalted high. It was over much too quickly. And now, nothing. He didn't know what else to do. He stood there simply motionless, letting people drift by. Eventually, he began to walk in no particular direction and after a while he found himself heading toward the former offices of Allied Global Destination Ltd. Perhaps if he repeated his steps something might turn up, perhaps something he'd failed to notice, maybe something new. Snake hopped on a bus going across town. He transferred on Eighth Avenue to another bus and in a few minutes was virtually on the corner near the office building that housed the former offices of Allied Global Destination Ltd. Still in a state of indecision, he almost didn't go inside. First, he walked up the street and around the corner and found the deli where he'd confronted the Spider Lady one afternoon a million years ago. He ordered a cup of coffee. It had that taste of staleness when a coffee pot has been sitting on a hot plate too long. "We're about to close," the clerk apologized. Snake took his cup of coffee and walked back down to the corner. He stood there, sipping at his coffee, watching nothing in particular. He almost missed the man. He was quite tall and in spite of his short coat, you could tell he had muscles he probably hadn't got around to using in several years. His shoulders bulged as if he were wearing football pads, but he wasn't. The coat, like his trousers, probably had been tailored to fit; his legs looked like tree trunks that had taken a notion for a stroll. And he wore a slight sneer like it was glued on. Obviously, this was the man who'd hit Wekser. Wekser had said he was a bad one. Now Snake knew why. This, then, was the playmate that the Spider Lady had promised. At the same time Snake noticed the man, the man noticed him. He walked over to where Snake was standing near the corner. "You Snake?" "Yes." "You want to take a ride with me upstairs?" Snake thought about the invitation for a moment. The man was a huge giant. Truly, a formidable opponent. It would be an interesting battle when it happened. But Snake realized that he, himself, was not in top form at the moment. True, he knew a few combat techniques that could help him up close. But this was one battle that could wait a day. "Not at the moment," Snake said. The giant wasn't used to being told no. Either that, or he had expected a different answer. "We've got a lot to discuss," he said. "Yes, we do. You hit a friend of mine the other day. I want to talk to you about that," said Snake. "But, I'm not in the mood right now for a conversation." "You heard about me? That why?" the giant asked. "No. Not really. The Spider Lady warned me, I guess, that you'd be along. She was probably talking about you. Said she was sending me another playmate." "I'm not sure that I appreciate being referred to as a playmate," said the giant. "I can see the disadvantage of something like that," said Snake. "What do you wish to be called?" "They call me the Elephant." "A fitting name," said Snake. "I'm really a renegade elephant, if you know what I mean." "Probably even more fitting," Snake said. "I could take you right now," said Elephant. "No. No, you couldn't," said Snake. "The major reason is that I'm in a contemplative mood at the moment." "I wouldn't want to spoil your mood?" said Elephant in a questioning tone. "The simple truth is that I might get angry. I don't enjoy killing, per se. This morning, I got in a hurry and accidentally killed a man. His death is on my conscious. You might say that I'm in mourning." "And you think you might get in a hurry and accidentally kill me?" "No question about it," answered Snake. "You do the damage up in Harlem? Was that you?" "I'm afraid so." "I heard about it. Took on three men." "A bit more than that," said Snake. "Was it just one of them you killed? I heard two bought it." "I had nothing to do with one of them. His friends shot him by accident, I think." "And you killed the other with your bare hands?" "It was an accident. As I said, I got in a hurry." "Good," said Elephant. "I presume, then," said Snake, "that he was not a friend of yours." "I, too, fancy hand-to-hand combat. Guns are for little people. I use a gun now and then. Don't misunderstand. But I'd rather use my hands. I especially enjoy getting my hands around a neck and squeezing until I hear those little bones pop and crack." "That does sound like a certain amount of fun," said Snake. "I shall have great fun breaking your neck, Snake. I'm almost tempted to do it now." His hands clenched and unclenched at his side. They were big hands. The size of books. For a moment, Snake thought the man was going to lunge at him. Without moving even an eyelid, Snake prepared himself. He didn't want to fight. He was, in fact, still emotionally drained from the morning's gloriously extravagant combat in Harlem. And, as he'd mentioned to Elephant, the death of one of the men there still hung heavy in his mind. But life sometimes limited the alternatives. If Elephant attacked, he would have to defend himself. His right hand had found the small metal vial in his side jacket pocket and closed around it. He was prepared to use it. Sprayed on the open skin, it took a while for the victim to die and it always looked like a heart attack. Sprayed directly in the victim's face, it was a different story. In Tehran, he'd found himself in a rather difficult situation. He had been caught and thrown in a room with two guards, each sporting AK-47s, and two other guards outside the door. Although, he'd been searched rather extensively, the vial looked like a small ball-point pen, which it actually was. To save time–once again he'd been in a hurry–he'd used the vial directly in the faces of the two guards with him in the room. Their deaths occurred quickly, but had been very grotesque. The two guards outside the door were probably still alive somewhere in that weird country...if their leader had not executed them in front of a firing squad. He had knocked both unconscious with the butt of an AK-47. In those days, he had not been so reluctant to use a gun. In fact, he used one rather well. He had splattered the hallway with a hail of bullets, sending everyone fleeing for cover. The actual capture of the general had been relatively easy after that. He had not used the vial since. And he did not want to use it now. "Well?" "I guess I can wait," said Elephant, slowly relaxing. "Good decision, Elephant." "Could we, perhaps, make an appointment?" "Day after tomorrow. About 1 p.m. Central Park. Just north and a bit west of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. There's a little glade with a tree." "Why not tomorrow? Let's get it done." "No," said Snake. "I have something to do tomorrow. Something important." "What could possibly be as important as your funeral?" "Good point, Elephant. But you shall have to wait anyway. I've made up my mind." "You're exasperating, Snake. Totally exasperating. I shall enjoy killing you." "We shall see," said Snake. "Invite friends, if you wish." "An audience, perhaps," said Elephant. "But I won't need any help." "Yes, I can see that a person like you needs an audience," said Snake. "But there's something you should remember, Elephant. I'm not a little old Jewish store keeper. I fight back." "I shall kill him, too," said Elephant. "But only after you kill me, Elephant," said Snake. "Is that understood between us?" Elephant finally nodded. His eyes shone. He was wide eyed at the moment but because his face was so large, his eyes seemed tiny. They glinted like bits of broken glass. "Okay," said Elephant after a while. "It's understood." "Now, you run along while I visit the remains of Allied Global." "I was just going up there," said Elephant. "Not now," said Snake. "It's after closing time, you know." Elephant took a deep breath and held it for a long moment before letting it out in a tremendous sigh. "I don't know why I'm doing this. But, okay. Day after tomorrow at noon." "It's likely to be a grand and glorious battle," said Snake. "Not if I have anything to say about it," said Elephant and he turned and walked quickly away. The building was empty. Not even a guard on duty. Snake got off at the floor occupied once by Allied Global Destination Ltd. and now? There was no one around. Once again, he made a random search of the offices, searching for any kind of a clue that would tell him something–anything–about Mary Sue, otherwise known as the Spider Lady. There was nothing. Except he thought he caught a faint odor of perfume. He sat there at the desk of the receptionist for a long time, hoping that something would happen, that the phone would ring. But nothing happened. After an hour, he took the elevator down and took a taxi to Kennedy and caught the first plane heading toward Enid, OK. The idea–born out of his desperation–had occurred to him just a moment before Elephant had walked into view. He needed more information. And several years ago, somewhere along the way, Susman had mentioned being from Enid, OK. Snake got as far as Oklahoma City. There, he spent the rest of the night in the airport, sleeping fitfully in a padded chair in one of the lounge areas, and rented a car in the morning. It was difficult to rent a car without a credit card. Several of the major rental agencies turned him down even though he was willing to pay cash up front. The car he subsequently rented was far from new, but seemed good enough to get him where he was going and back. However, few people in Oklahoma City could give him directions to get to Enid...at least not directions he could understand. He finally found I-35 and drove north and somewhere between Oklahoma City and the Kansas state line, he got off the interstate and drove west. Less than an hour later, he was in Enid. Susman had described the town in glowing terms, as most people would talk about their home town. To Snake, it was the armpit of the universe. The university was easy to spot; you saw the tall tower of the seminary building as you made the bend of the highway into the town. Susman had talked about living somewhere off University Boulevard, a street that ran by Phillips University. But Snake, in order to waste a little time before calling on Mr. and Mrs. Susman, drove on into downtown. Along the way, he passed Government Spring. Here, according to Susman, old-time cattlemen stopped to water the herd before driving their steers on up the old Chishom Trail toward Abilene. As the story goes, the sign on the dine tent flipped upside down and everyone began calling the town that soon sprang up after the sign on the tent. Susman hadn't known if the story was true or not and said no one else in Enid knew either, but it was as good a reason to name a town as any other. Kingfisher, just a bit south, he said, had been named after an outlaw named King Fisher and it was the site of a small museum with a two-room log cabin out back that had a sign posted: "Home of Mrs. Dalton. Out of seven children, four turned out quite well." Enid, however, was less historic and certainly less glamorous. A filling station attendant tried to cheat Snake out of a dollar when he stopped to fill up with gasoline. The guy at the station didn't know any Susman. He seemed irritated that Snake would even think he knew people like that. Breakfast turned out to be even more unpleasant. The eggs were greasy and almost as cold as the stare of the waitress. She said, "I don't know," to everything that Snake asked except the price of the meal and she charged about twice what the same food would have cost in Oklahoma City. Snake drove up the main street of the town and turned right on University. A mile and a half later, he turned left and parked a block and a half later. The house was a wooden frame structure that seemed built too low to the ground if the owner wanted a sod house and this was the best that he could do. In the old days–was that only a week ago?–Snake would have made a phone call to the room and the girl at the computer terminal would have found out everything he wanted to know. Last night, however, Snake has realized that such a phone call could have signed the death certificates of both Mr. and Mrs. Susman. "I'm a friend of your son, Billy," Snake explained when a lady came to the door after he knocked. Her hands flew to her face. "He's dead!" "No," Snake said. "At least, I hope not. But he has been kidnapped and I'm trying to find him." Susman's mother had not heard from her son in a month, which was strange, she said, because he usually called once a week unless he was on a mission. She did not know that he had a girl friend, but seemed pleased about it. "A nice girl?" "Her name is Neva Sanchez. She's very bright. Works for a friend of Sussie." "Sussie? That's what other students in high school called him, too." "Did he have any close friends with whom he might have stayed in touch?" "No. He loved chemistry and he loved politics, but he had no really close friends. He was the class punching bag. You know what I mean?" "Always apologizing." "Yes." "And he never mentioned friends of his such as Williams or Edwards." "Williams? Yes. From the army." "That's me. Your son gave me my nick name. Snake." "He mentioned you in his letters. Since the army, nothing." "That's because we sort of drifted apart. Hadn't seen him in years." "As for Edwards, no." "Nothing at all." "His phone calls were always brief. After apologizing for not calling more often, he never had much to say." "Did he tell you about his work?" "He was a bookkeeper for a couple of businesses. He enjoyed doing that sort of thing because he didn't have to meet people and it gave him a lot of free time." "Did he say anything about earning something like $17,000 from a job? Something special. A one-time thing?" "No, he didn't. That's an awful lot of money." "Yes," said Snake. "What could Sussie have done worth that much money?" "I haven't the slightest idea. It wouldn't have been something dishonest. Sussie's a nice boy. Always sending me money." "Regularly?" "Five hundred a month. Like clockwork. A check came just yesterday. No, it was the day before. I really didn't need all that much, but he insisted I have it. Please let me know when you find him. Have him call me immediately." "Yes, ma'am," Snake said. It seemed that Susman's father was dead a year or more. His mother lived alone. She worked as a volunteer at the university a couple of days a week, but she didn't say what she did. It didn't matter. Snake didn't have the courage to mention it, but he now thought that her only boy was also dead. He left as soon as possible before she could see his fears in his face. In a few minutes, he was heading back toward Oklahoma City, glad to be rid of the dry stench of Enid. If King thought Harlem was a problem area, he should try Enid for a couple of weeks. Just for the heck of it, so the entire trip to Enid wouldn't be a total waste of time and effort, Snake drove through Kingfisher and visited the former home of Mrs. Dalton. He barely caught the plane out of Oklahoma City back to New York, back to tomorrow's fight with Elephant, back to the Spider Lady. (continued next week) e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary Introduction Some of the greatest promotions on this planet have taken place in radio and were created and carried forth by radio men. Chuck Blore was a master of promotion. Without peer in radio. Without question. Jack McCoy created "The Last Contest" that literally blew other stations in a given market where it was executed off the ratings map. I have had the great pleasure of knowing a lot of good promotion people in radio, from these and Gordon McLendon and Bill Stewart to Dick Starr. I wish I'd had opportunity to know P.T. Barnum. He would have been great in radio. P.T. Barnum Without question, Phineas Taylor Barnum--born in Bethel, CT, on July 5, 1810--is the prototype for all showmen and most of the men and women who've practiced promotion since he rose to prominence promoting the 161-year-old so-called nurse of George Washington. It's fascinating to compare his own versions of his promotional events with the versions described by the late writer Irving Wallace, who was not gifted in promotion, but certainly capable of promoting himself rather well as a writer in spite of mediocre talent. For example, Wallace was not beyond writing about himself, i.e., "The Writing of One Novel." Barnum, of course, wrote not only his own biography, but later rewrote it to fit his then-improved image of himself, indicative of the probability that he not only had few peers in promotive genius and certainly none in outright egotism. Wallace gives Barnum his due: "...against all odds, he fought to make entertainment and amusement respectable." (45) He also credits him with wanting fame more than money and "The means he used to accomplish his end were often questionable. "Frequently, he was one part Merlin, one part Psalmanazar, one part John Law. Perhaps the elaborate fake, the complicated trick, the exaggerated advertisement were used to enrich him and keep him in the limelight. "Certainly, many accused him of being unscrupulous. But the hoaxes were always harmless, and they reflected his attachment to Yankee tomfoolery. And sometimes, possibly, they were necessary in another way–the weapons required by one man in a long fight to make amusement recognized in a relatively cheerless world." (45) But of curiosity and wonder and sensation there was little until that early August morning in 1835 when New Yorkers awakened to read in press advertisements, on street posters, in pamphlets hawked at six cents a copy, that a colored woman 161 years of age, who had been President George Washington's nurse and nanny, was being placed on public exhibit in Niblo's Garden. The ancient's name was Joice Heth, the name of her sponsor Phineas T. Barnum. (Wallace, 4) At the time when he promoted Joice Heth, Barnum was only 25, a Connecticut Yankee six foot two inches in height, a bundle of massive energy, with curly, receding hair above wide ingenuous blue eyes, a bulbous nose, a full, amused mouth, a cleft chin, and a high-pitched voice. (Wallace, 5) Later, of course, he was to admit the hoax, but claim he was also duped. This was not his first such episode. As a youth of around 15 years of age, he used a lottery to dispose of unsalable goods at a store in Glassy Plain near Bethel, CT, where he was a clerk. (21-22) "The American Museum was the ladder by which I rose to fortune," said Barnum, and later added: "The Jenny Lind enterprise was more audacious, more immediately remunerative, and I remember it with a pride which I do not attempt to conceal; but instinctively I often go back and live over again the old days of my struggles and triumphs in the American Museum." (120) The Brick Promotion "I thoroughly understood the art of advertising, not merely by means of printer's ink, which I have always used freely, and to which I confess myself so much indebted for my success, but by turning every possible circumstance to my account," Barnum said. "It was my monomania to make the museum the town wonder and town talk. I often seized upon an opportunity by instinct, even before I had a very definite conception as to how it should be used, and it seemed, somehow, to mature itself and serve my purpose. "As an illustration, one morning a stout, hearty-looking man came into my ticket-office and begged some money. I asked him why he did not work and earn his living? He replied that he could get nothing to do and that he would be glad of any job at a dollar a day. "I handed him a quarter of a dollar, told him to go and get his breakfast and return, and I would employ him at light labor at a dollar and a half a day. "When he returned I gave him five common bricks. "'Now', said I, 'go and lay a brick on the sidewalk at the corner of Broadway and Ann Street; another close by the Museum; a third diagonally across the way at the corner of Broadway and Vesey Street, by the Astor House; put down the fourth on the sidewalk in front of St. Paul's Church, opposite; then, with the fifth brick in hand, take up a rapid march from one point to the other, making the circuit, exchanging your brick at every point and say nothing to any one'. "'What is the object of this'? inquired the man. "'No matter', I replied; 'all you need to know is that it brings you fifteen cents wages per hour. It is a bit of my fun, and to assist me properly you must seem to be as deaf as a post, wear a serious countenance; answer no questions; pay no attention to any one; but attend faithfully to the work and at the end of every hour by St. Paul's clock show this ticket at the museum door. Enter, walking solemnly though every hall in the building; pass out, and resume your work'. "With the remark that it was 'all one to him, so long as he could earn his living', the man placed his bricks and began his round. Half an hour afterwards, at least 500 people were watching his mysterious movements. "He had assumed a military step and bearing, and looking as sober as a judge, he made no response whatever to the constant inquiries as to the object of his singular conduct. "At the end of the first hour, the sidewalks in the vicinity were packed with people all anxious to solve the mystery. The man, as directed, then went into the museum, devoting 15 minutes to a solemn survey of the halls, and afterwards returning to his round. "This was repeated every hour till sundown, and whenever the man went into the museum a dozen or more persons would buy tickets and follow him, hoping to gratify their curiosity in regard to the purpose of his movements. "This was continued for several days the curious people who followed the man into the museum considerably more than paying his wages till finally the policeman to whom I had imparted my object, complained that the obstruction to the sidewalk by crowds had become so serious that I must call in my 'brick man'. "This trivial incident excited considerable talk and amusement; it advertised me; and it materially advanced my purpose of making a lively corner near the museum." (102-103) Jenny Lind Barnum gained even greater wealth and fame from Gen. Tom Thumb. Fame? A command performance for the queen of England. Jenny Lind, however, brought him prestige. Her promotion was not easy. Barnum, shortly after signing her, asked a conductor what he thought about Jenny Lind appearing in the United States. "Jenny Lind?" asked the conductor. "Is she a dancer?" (Wallace, 124) You should be aware that she had already taken Europe by storm; Chopin said of her: "Her singing is pure and true; the charm of her soft passages is beyond description." (Wallace, 128) Without question, Barnum made her famous in the United States through promotional techniques. "The reception of Jenny Lind on her first appearance, in point of enthusiasm, was probably never before equaled in the world," said Barnum (207). "As a manager, I worked by setting others to work. Biographies of the Swedish Nightingale were largely circulated; 'Foreign Correspondence' glorified her talents and triumphs by narratives of her benevolence; and 'printer's ink' was invoked in every possible form, to put and keep Jenny Lind before the people." (210) Barnum released statements (the forerunner of the news release, perhaps). One stated: "In her engagement with me (which includes Havana), she expressly reserves the right to give charitable concerts whenever she thinks proper." (Wallace, 130) He said she'd given to the poor in England more than he'd promised to pay her. Barnum had a famous artist paint a romanticized picture of her and distributed copies nationwide. He hired an English journalist to grind out weekly news stories stressing her chastity, charity, and European triumphs. These were released under a London dateline in the United States. Biographies in book form were published at Barnum's encouragement. There was a contest for lyrics to be used as a finale at Jenny Lind's debut. The winner was Bayard Tayler, later to write travel books, teach German at Cornell, and serve as American Minister to Germany. "In all, the volume of publicity accorded Jenny Lind was awesome, and it made her name magical and wondrous," writes Wallace. (131) President Fillmore called at their Washington hotel when they toured there; they visited him; he attended both concerts with his entire cabinet. (215-216). To a great extent, the Wallace book is more entertaining and, perhaps, even more enlightening. For example, you find this scene, fictionalized or not: "He released her hand and they exchanged the formal amenities. At last she wanted to know where and when he had heard her sing. "'I never had the pleasure of seeing you before in my life'," said Barnum. "Jenny Lind was taken aback. 'How is it possible you dared risk so much money on a person whom you never heard sing?' "'I risked it', Barnum said simply, 'on your reputation, which in musical matters I would much rather trust than my own judgment'." (Wallace, 133) They did not part as friends; she fell in love with her pianist; the baritone on the concert was also in love with her. She was told that Barnum was robbing her. He offered finally to release her from the contract on the eve of her 93rd concert. She agreed. She had earned $176,675 and he had netted $535,486. (Wallace, 144-145) She continued her American tour. Without Barnum's showmanship, her appeal decreased. On Feb. 5, 1852, she became Madame Otto Godschmidt and so billed herself. Her farewell appearance was in Castle Garden, New York, four months later to less than half the receipts of her Barnum-promoted appearance there earlier. (Wallace, 145) Barnum, of course, went on to other concert promotions -Paderewski, Caruso, Kreisler, and Schumann-Heink, among others. Barnum continued promotions and shows until his death. His home Iranistan and other homes featured such guests as Col. George A. Custer, Matthew Arnold, Horace Greeley, and Mark Twain. At one point, he had tremendous financial difficulties due to investing in the Jerome Clock Company (Wallace, 181); when the company failed, it took him down with it. His old nemesis newspaper publisher James Gordon Bennett leaped on him with a barrage of negative stories. A lot of so-called friends leaped away from him. Iranistan burned down. He paid all of his personal debts; still owed half a million dollars on notes for the clock company that bore his signature. In June 1856, 1,000 prominent New Yorkers offered to help with benefits, etc. He declined. But also offering to help was Gen. Tom Thumb, who was on his own at this time. In 1857, Barnum took Thumb's show and 9-year-old Cordelia Howard (child star in "Uncle Tom's Cabin" e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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on
a European tour. (Wallace, 198-199)
Barnum was offered help by William Makepeace
Thackeray, author of "Vanity Fair" then appearing in
Punch.
Turned it down. Instead, Barnum bombarded the press
with publicity, inundated the city with provocative
posters and handbills. Success!
He took the show with Thumb and Howard to Paris,
Strasbourg, Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, Frankfurt,
Amsterdam, Rotterdam. Later, he toured Scotland and
Wales with Tom Thumb.
In London, Barnum presented a series of lectures on
"The Art of Money-Getting." (Wallace, 201) Three
thousand showed up for the debut lecture on Dec. 29,
1858.
On March 24, 1860, Barnum took back over the
management of the American Museum in New York. He
advertised that he would appear between acts of a play
and talk about his adventures as a clockmaker.
Instead, he showed up before the morality play and was
met with an ovation greater than any he had ever
experienced. He stood facing the deafening applause,
tears streaming down his cheeks. He told them that
every debt associated with the clocks had been paid
off. There was thunderous applause.
"Only fifty years of age--'scarcely old enough to be
embalmed and put in a glass case in the museum', he
stated--Barnum was out to prove to the world that he
was better than ever," said Wallace. (203)
His major venture as a circus man was yet to come and
that, as they say, is history.
Barnum suffered "an acute congestion of the brain" in
November 1890; this eventually caused his death on
April 7, 1891. His last words were a request to know
what the circus receipts had been during the day at
Madison Square Garden in New York. (Barnum;
postscript, 452)
A Brief List of Promotions by P.T. Barnum
Bottle lottery--1825
Joice Heth--August 1835-February 1836
Signor (Antonio) Vivalla--January 1836-May 1837
Circus tour--Summer 1836-1837
(Vivalla performed with the circus; one night, when
negro singer James Sandford left the circus suddenly,
Barnum went out in blackface and did his show.)
John Diamond (dancer)--1839
Mary Taylor, others--1840
(variety show, New York's Vauxhall saloon; later
toured)
Promoted bibles--1841
Promoted show, New York--1841
Advertising writer, Bowery Amphitheatre--1841-1865
Purchased the American Museum, New York--December 1841
(paid it off out of the profits in one year [Wallace
said 18 months]; exhibits during the day, features
shows at night; located at Broadway and Ann Street;
featured everything from flea circuses to albinos to
dioramas; here was presented plays such as "The
Drunkard" and "Uncle Tom's Cabin"; here was the birth
of Dan Rice, perhaps America's first clown; here was
presented a "mermaid"