London, England
December 24, 1843
Screenplay
INT. MUSIC HALL – BAR - NIGHT 46 Garibaldi stands at the bar, an empty tankard in his hand. His top hat is rim down on the bar. He signals the BARMAN (20s) for a refill, who obliges. A voice rises above the chattering, behind Garibaldi.
MALE VOICE (O/C) Y,y,you’re the Ma,ma,magician aren’t ya. Mister G,Garibaldi?
Garibaldi turns around to see two young couples sitting at a table. A young lady SYLVIE (19) tries to deter the smiling young man LEWIS (23) beside her.
SYLVIE You shouldn’t bother im Lewis. Let the man enjoy is pint.
LEWIS E, d,d,don’t mind S,Sylvie.
Garibaldi, I d,d,don’t mind S,Syvlie.
Lewis’ smile vanishes. LEWIS Owe dya d,d,d,do it? How
d,d,did ya pull the t,t,tree from yer at? D’ya ave a trap
d,d,door in the s,s,stage?
Sylvie nudges Lewis. Their friends giggle and watch
closely as Garibaldi responds.
Zachariah 14: Drunks
Straightening his body, pushing the small of his back inward and his shoulders outward, looking about a moment, “Barkeep!” Spotting who he was looking for, “Barkeep!” he called down the length of the bar.
“Aye, Sir?”
“Ah, my good man...” he called “...another gin and bitters for me and…” glancing to the right, where another man stood with his foot on the brass rail and his head in his hands. Poking the man in the ribs with his elbow “...one more for my friend here.” Garibaldi ordered.
“Eh, whazzat?” Jostled by the elbow, lifting his head while attempting to focus his eyes, “Whazzat?” he repeated.
“Matthew, my good friend!” ‘Urpp’! belching loudly, “Me thinks you might be getting thirsty, standing here, doing all that hard labor.”
“Aye, I am that, Eric, I am that!” shaking his head, trying to clear some of the cobwebs. “Tis hard work holding this bar down...” making a fluttering motion with his hands “...to keep it from just floooating away.”
At the far end of the bar, the bartender poured a generous amount of the clear liquor into a short, heavy glass, added a dash of bitters and,“Aye, Sir!” he called as he sent the glass slithering down the length of the highly polished, oak bar.
At the far end of the bar, plucking the glass from the slick surface, Garibaldi brought it to his mouth in one fluid motion.
Following the first, the second slithering glass was caught as neatly as the one before by ‘Matthew Flizzer’, whom, looking at the bartender, nodding his head, held two fingers upward.
“So, Eric...” downing half his drink “...you been following the articles in the ‘Chronicle’ by that new chap? Uh, what’s it called? “
Turning the now empty glass on the slick surface making moist circles. “Whats what called? Oh, yes! ‘Sketches by Boz.’”
“Aye, Sir!” The Bartender called.
Catching the slithering drink, Garibaldi took a swallow and, turning his head, looked at his longtime friend and drinking companion — Matthew Flizzer of ‘Flizzer & Flizzer, Acrobatic Jugglers Extraordinary — Yes. Matt, I been reading them.”
Silent for the four moments it took for Flizzer’s glas to come slipping along and picked up.
Slapping the now empty glass on the bar. “A flash in the pan.” Garibaldi again held his hand up, two fingers extended.
“ ‘Flash in the pan’?” Downing half the contents in the squat glass. “What’s ‘A flash in the pan’?”
“ Uh? Oh, yes… That new writer chap, uh? What’s his name?”
Contemplating, Garibaldi looked at the ceiling, while at the same time instinctively catching the flying drink. “Ah, yes! ‘Dickens’! ‘Charles Dickens’.”
“I don’t know…” Matthew said.
A few moments passed.
Puzzled. Putting his empty glass down, Garibaldi looked at his friend whom, with glass to mouth was sipping his drink. “What don’t you know, Matt?”
Turning his head. Putting his glass on the bar while signaling for two more. “I don’t know, uh…” Flizzer giggled. “What do I don’t know, Eric.” Looking at him vaguely. “What the devil we were speaking of?”
“ ‘What we devil ‘were’ speaking of’? Damned if I know.”
Garibaldi began to laugh. Stopped, thought and then,
“Oh, Yes! That new writer on the Chronicle, uh…?”
Coming to Flizzrer in a drunken flash: “ ‘Dickens’!”
“Dickens?” Garibaldi snickered into his hand. “Who the dickens Dickens?”
“Yeah!” replied Flizzer. “I say to dickens with Dickens!”
“Yeah!” Garibaldi began to laugh again, “The dickens with Dickens!”
Flizzer joined in and the two drunken comrades put their arms about each other’s shoulders and, as drunks often do, laughed, if for no other reason than to laugh.
They stood, the magician and juggler drunkenly leaning into each other in front of the highly polished bar of the ‘Boar’s Tooth Pub’ directly across the road from the theater.
Feeling a gentle tug on his sleeve, Garibaldi turned.
Standing closely by his side, dressed in the rough clothing of a laborer, was a tall, gangling, friendly-faced youth of about nineteen years of age.
Jerking his sleeve from the young man’s fingers, “ ‘Yes’?” Garibaldi asked harshly.
Smiling at Garibaldi, the young man glanced over his right shoulder, to three people sitting at a nearby table. Bringing his attention back to Garibaldi, “Ya b-be G-G-G… the m-m-magician from the th-th-th-theatre?” he stuttered.
“Yes...” Garibaldi looked at him, at Flizzer, and back at the young man “...I be G-G-G the m-m-magician,” mimicking the youth.
Becoming red with embarrassment, the young man’s face contorted with the effort to speak. “Me an’ m-me f-f-friends,” motioning over his shoulder with his head, “saw your sh-sh-sh-show t-today.”
Turning from the man, Garibaldi looked at a table about ten feet from the bar where— all poorly dressed, another young man and two young women, mugs of ale on the table before them, sat watching them.
Noting Garibaldi looking at them, smiling, one of the women raised her mug in friendly acknowledgment.
Garibaldi lifted his glass, too, and with a false, frozen smile, making an exaggerated motion, waved back.
So, w-w-what can I do f-f-for you?” he teasingly asked the young man.
Both couples had seen and enjoyed the magician’s act and, trying to impress his friends, and most especially his girlfriend, the young man had summoned all of his courage and made—what was to him—a supreme effort by getting up and going forward to complement Garibaldi.
Now realizing the magician was making fun of him, becoming angry, his friendly smile fading, the young man belligerently leaning towards the older man; “M-m-me ‘n m-m-me f-friends thinks ya b-be n-n-nothin’ b-but a f-f-f-fake!”
Momentarily taken back by the young man’s change from friendly to antagonistic, immediately recovering his drunken composure the older man moved back a step. “What, pray tell is your name?” Garibaldi demanded.
His head jutting forward, “L-Lewis!” he answered.
“Well, ‘L-Lewis’, would you believe…” looking away, Garibaldi motioned for the bartender to send another round of drinks for himself and Flizzer. Then turning back, looking at Lewis’ friends and speaking loud enough for all in the bar’s other occupants to hear “...that I don’t give a rat’s ass w-w-what y-y-y-you or y-y-y-your f-f-f-friends think!”
Dismissing him with a wave of his hand, turning back to the bar, Garibaldi placed his cupped hand on the surface in front of him just in time to catch another gin and bitters as it came sailing towards him.
This time, though, the trip from the bar to his mouth was interrupted by another, harder, tug on his sleeve causing the liquor to slosh over the rim of the glass.
Putting the glass down, he glanced at the barkeep—who reached under the bar for a club—then, all pretense of friendliness gone, the magician turned back to Lewis.
His eyes narrowed to angry slits, the young man turned from Garibaldi and, forcing a smile, looked at his friends then, bringing his attention back to the magician, “‘ow’d’ya d-d-do it?” Anger causing his stutter to become even more pronounced. “‘ow’d’ya g-g-g-get a b-b-bloody C-C-Christmas tree into th-th-that ‘at?”
The magician’s top hat had been sitting at his elbow on the bar. Grabbing the hat Lewis put it on his head, then, for benefit of his friends, doffing the hat, made a deep, exaggerated bow.
Angrily snatching it off the young man’s head, Garibaldi placed the hat back onto the bar.
Reaching over the bar, grabbing Lewis by the sleeve of his jacket, “Here! You!” Jerking him about, the barkeep held the club in plain sight.
Holding his hand in a halting gesture...
“How’d I do the trick?”...motioning the barkeep to stop.
His voice taking a softly hollow tone that ‘all’ in the previously somewhat noisy tavern could hear.
Sarcastically answering Lewis’ question.“ ‘How’d I do the trick’? L-L-Lewis, my b-b-b-boy, that’s the m-m-magician’s worry, to keep the likes of y-y-y-you, and your f-f-f-f-friends…” scornfully emphasizing the words ‘you and your friends’ “...from knowing how m-m-m-magic is d-d-d-done.”
Silence.
All eyes on Lewis and the magician, the entire pub had gone silent.
Pulling his sleeve from the bartender’s grip. Sensing a threat of sort, thinly smiling at Garibaldi, “Ya ol’ f-f-fake! Ain’t n-n-n-nothin’ m-m-m-magic ‘b-b-b-bout’j’ya!”?
Reaching forward, taking the magician’s hat from the bar, turning it in his hands, studying it, “N-n-no-sir! No m-m-m-magic!” Lewis stuttered. “W-W-What’j’ya ‘ave on t-t-t-t-the s-s-stage, a ‘ole in the f-f-floor? Ya ol’ f-f-fake!”
His black yes somehow growing blacker. Glaring at the younger man. Standing away from the bar. “All right, Lewis...” his voice dropping, taking the same strange, sinister tone it had on the stage, strangely forcing Lewis’ eyes to look into his eyes “…if it’s magic you want…”
Looking from Lewis to the barkeep. Turning. His black eyes slowly touching each person in the pub, lingered a moment longer on the three at the table, who begin to squirm under Garibaldi’s intense gaze…
“…It’s magic you’ll get.”
“Lewis...” the glare of the magician’s black eyes probing even deeper into those of the younger man, holding his right hand forward “...give me the hat.”
The words ‘give me the hat’ having no physical force, yet slack jawed, his smile gone, unblinking; Lewis stood staring wide-eyed at Garibaldi.
“The hat, Lewis. ‘Now’!”
‘Now’! Feeling! Somehow ‘actually’ feeling the one word command. Compelled, ‘The hat, Lewis, now’! Holding the hat in both hands, Lewis obediently handed it to the magician.
Setting the hat brim up on a stool along side the bar.
“Lewis...” Garibaldi asked “...are you sure that you want to see my magic?”
The young man neither spoke nor moved.
Smiling malignantly, taking the handkerchief from his breast pocket, Garibaldi ran it through the ‘O’ made by his thumb and forefinger, dramatically snapped it in the air and then laid it over the hat.
“Lewis, if you would...” speaking in his softly hollow yet commanding tone “...put your hand into the hat and tell us all…” nodding his head towards those sitting quietly ‘listening’ and ‘watching’ “... what you feel.”
Lewis hesitated.
Lifting a corner of the handkerchief. “Come, my boy. You don’t want your friends…” glancing over his shoulder, to the wide-eyed trio sitting at the table behind him, “…to think you a coward. After all, ‘It ain’t m-m-magic! I’m nothin’ but an ol’ f-f-f-fake.’”
Lifting his arm slowly. Moving his hand slowly. Hesitating, his arm hanging in midair he stopped.
“Lewis...” a malevolent look coming to the magician’s devilish face “… it’s only a t-t-trick’!”
Staring into the triangle of black space beneath the handkerchief. Moving his hand, Lewis hesitated, again.
“Yes...” cajoling, “...hat’s it, my boy. Just put your hand inside.”
Forced to obey. Haltingly, Lewis’ hand went into the dark triangle.
His fingers touching the silky lining, Lewis felt the round hardness of the hat’s inner crown. Shaking his head as though coming out of a trance, his glazed eyes focused and… knock—knock. He rapped his knuckles on the hard surface of the hat and the stool beneath. Smiling, he looked onto the magician’s face… and into magician’s eyes.
“Yeah! Ya b-b-be’s nothin’ b-b-but a ol’ f-f…”
The young man’s smile disappeared as suddenly the crown of the hat and the seat of the stool beneath fell away, and his arm sunk to the elbow.
The people in the pub gasped, for the distance from the tip of Lewis’ fingers to the crook of his elbow was approximately eighteen inches. The hat was no more than eight inches in height and yet, even though he stretched and wiggled his outstretched fingers, he was unable to touch bottom; a look of disbelief came to his face.
“Come, come, Lewis…”
The hollow voice seemingly coming from a long distance away…
“…It’s only a ‘t-t-t-trick.’”
Obediently, Lewis moved his arm downward, past his elbow, until he was leaning over the stool his armpit just above the rim of the hat…
He touched something…
The tips of his stretching fingers felt… what?
Bewildered, it was…
Smooth. Soft. Round. Separated into two half's by means of a fleshy fissure.
Familiar !
Lewis’ bewildered look was replaced by pleasure because… soft… what he was feeling was soft and warm and his hand caressed it, familiarly.
“Silbie!” Lewis looked stupidly over his shoulder, at one of the women at the table. “Silbie! Lord, if’in it ain’t your arse!” This said without a hint of a stutter.
Laughter rippled throughout the pub.
But now, the smile slowly faded from his face, because…
Widening. The fissure that separated the cheeks of ‘Silbie’s ars’ widened and grew deeper and he feel of smooth, warm flesh was replaced by…
Bewildered again, looking at Garibaldi, “What is it?” Lewis fearfully asked…
Garibaldi said nothing.
“What is it?” His voice rising. His words questioning, “What is it?” Lewis repeated — his fingers touching something. He felt… Lewis felt a cool dampness.
But no, what Lewis felt was not damp. What Lewis felt it was dry. It was smooth. But no, it was not smooth, not really smooth.
His probing fingers touched a small aperture, and another.
Moving his fingers a bit lower he felt a slight, dry tickle on the web of flesh between thumb and forefinger.
Stretching… Stretching. Compelled, Lewis moved his arm lower…
“No! Oh, Jesus!”
His eyes opening wide were filled with terror, Lewis looked at Garibaldi.
Smiling his sardonic smile, “A trick, Lewis?” Garibaldi whispered.
Realizing! “Oh, Lord!”
Jerking backwards, “Oh, Lord,” trying to pull his arm from the hat. The hat that was somehow attached to the bar stool — the bar stool that was now thrashing in a violent circular motion.
“‘elp me!” Pleading, “‘elp me!” the young man’s eyes passing from Garibaldi to Flizzer to the barkeep and back to Garibaldi.
“‘elp me!”
Lifting his glass of gin and bitters, with a quick flick of his elbow, Garibaldi swallowed the contents.
“It’s got me! ‘elp me!” Begging, “It’s the snake!” Pleading, he turned to his friends at the table, but frozen in their chairs, their eyes wide, their mouths agape, his friends were powerless to help, even if they had the courage to help.
“Save me! ‘Jesus ‘elp me’! It’s got me arm, pulling me...”
Next: Zachariah 15: Lewis
