Third Interlude

So, when we didn't raise enough money at Zoo Park to buy a horse, Claude Patterson talked to State Representative "Portly" Porterfield, who owned the Baldwin Theater in Springfield, and Porterfield booked us for three nights. Then Glenn went to work and arranged some tip-top entertainment. "Say, folks, if this don't crank your tractor, nothing will!" and so on.

The idea was to warm the crowd up with a little banjo banging and the warbling pieties of the Magnolia Quartet. What could be a rarer musical treat than that, I ask you?

But the Baldwin event didn't work out either.

See what I mean? There was always something. And Glenn wasn't exaggerating about the heat; July of '97 was "hotter than hell and the devil cooking hoecakes." I was ready to chuck the whole enterprise, when Glenn said not to worry. He said, "As long as we're telling our story and not the papers, we'll come out on top. That's the first principle of good business." So, he went back to Mountain Grove, wrote up a booklet, and printed off some 500 copies. Here's a copy:

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Artist's interpretation

You really should read it. Glenn was a true newspaperman, and he could turn failure into success and a lie into the truth with nary a qualm. In that regard, he was the perfect partner; in other regards, not so much.

Glenn could print ten copies for a nickel, and I sold them at 10¢ apiece, which was, Glenn said, a "significant operating ratio." (He loved to sound like he knew what he was talking about). When I stopped by Mountain Grove on the way to St. Louis, he stuffed my saddle bags with booklets, and I sold them on street corners and in department stores, in churches and taverns, anywhere folks would stop to gawk and listen. Then, when I ran out, I would work for a couple weeks as a typesetter at some picayune newspaper and print some more. Between the booklet sales and the "love offerings"—even Masonic halls would pass a plate—I was making damned good money for a penniless knight. Most of the money I would wire back to Glenn, so it couldn't be stolen. A fellow traveling by himself on remote roads is easy pickings, especially if he's a wearing a purple outfit.

I even made money advertising. Here's an ad from a St. Louis paper about one such venture:

Basically, I just stood in one of the front windows with a sign around my neck that said, "The Purple Knight of the Ozarks is Famous now!" I grinned at the old folks and waved at the girls and felt stupid as a steppingstone, but the Famous paid me twenty bucks a day and bought my lunch, so it was worth it.

Here's what really made it worth it.

After the store emptied out, I told one of the salesgirls about Franz Mesmer and animal magnetism and would she like to give it a go? Generally speaking, girls seemed to fall for all that mystical humbuggery, and like the others, she said, "Okay." We went back to the fitting area, and I pulled up a couple of chairs. Then we sat knee to knee, and I took her hands in mine and rubbed her palms with my thumbs. I whispered, "You must close your eyes," and when she did, I placed her hands on my legs and slid my hands up her arms, onto her shoulders, up the sides of her cheeks, and onto her temples, which I massaged with gentle circular motions. I could feel her relaxing, and I ran my fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp. When she moaned a little–always a good sign–I leaned in to whisper an incantation, and she melted into my arms. I would say old Franz Mesmer worked a good ninety percent of the time, and if he hadn't been so damn dead, I would have paid him my respects when I went to Europe.

One more thing I need to write down is that Glenn almost botched the whole deal with one of his lies. He said a Colonel Fletcher at The German National Bank in Little Rock would attest to the fact there was a plantation owner with a daughter, and he wrote up a contract, etc. One particularly nosy reporter actually called the bank to talk to Fletcher and nearly blew the whole scheme sky high.

Fortunately, people would rather believe a good story than a true story, so he never got anywhere with it. But you never know how these things will turn out; people are fickle as hell. One minute they're waving palm fronds, and the next they're shouting to crucify you. Yep, people are fickle and crazy, but, God, how I loved the girls! Still do, but I'm old now, so, shit.