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COFFEEHOUSE CULTURE -- Issue 2

The Coffeehouse Culture medicine show rolls into town. High-stepping minstrels and banjo strumming troubadours lead the brightly painted wagons down main street. The entertainment starved residents read the exhortations to experience the wonders of the ancient east, to enjoy a long and vital life, to fortify and even fiftyfy the physical frame and they are hooked. “Come one. Come all. Roll up. Roll up,” proclaims the Barker. "Hear the wisdom of the Ancients, the secrets of the Magi and the tales from mysterious Atlantis. Come one. Come all. Try the Pro-Fess-Or’s nostrums, potions and lotions to cure all your ills, to strengthen and bring vitality. Energy, vigor and good health can be yours. Come one. Come all.” And already the stage is erected and the nigger minstrels are tuning up as Mr Interlocutor dances the cakewalk along the edge of the platform. The population gather round -- women in crinolines and bonnets with parasols resting on their slim shoulders, men in work dungerees or leather chaps, children in flowered dresses or short pants, the girls with ribbons in their plaited hair and the boys with Bowery boy caps pulled rakishly over one eye. Young and old, healthy and infirm, the bad and the beautiful, they gaze at the stage with their eyes sparkling as Mr Interlocutor and the Barker trade insults and go through a long stand-up/sit-down/stand-up routine while the two rows of ministrels mug along. There is music, a chorus line of four scantily clad black girls who dance a mild version of the hooychy koo (some of the women in the audience turn their backs to show that they are church-goin' and 'cain't abide no lowdown women leading their men astray,') there is a stand-up comedian dressed in a striped blazer and wearing a straw boater, a magician who astounds and mystifies and then it is the Barker's turn. Like a siren he sings his songs of allure and mystery and the audience is right with him. He describes the far away pyramids and the secrets of longev-ity, vital-ity and, dare he say it -- he winks conspiratorially -- fertil-ity" discovered therein by our own Magus of Med-i-cine, our own Master of the Healing Arts, Physician to Kings and Maharajas, Midwife to the Mighty . . . . . " He measures the pauses between each word. The band strikes up. The tension is palpable. Standing in the wings is a tall, grey skinned and dark-eyed figure in a black frockcoat. His lined face and rheumy eyes reveal little of his exotic past. Could it be ‘Professor’ D’Ath, great grandfather of our own good Dokker? He strides onto the stage, looks out balefully over the audience and says in a slight but sonorous voice: "Is there anyone called Mary Clarke here?"