We here publish, for the first time on this site, a fragment
of a hitherto-suppressed manuscript, known among connoisseurs of incunabula as Murphy:
the Early Years. It begins
with his time in the reform school for wayward boys.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Murphy.”
“Yes’m.”
“You
been bad.”
“Yes’m,
I know’m.”
“You
know what that means.”
“No’m.”
(Incredulous.) “ ‘No-ma’am’?!
You don’t know by now? -- It means you get whipped.”
“Yes’m. I know’m. Reckon that’ll happen. Happens alla time.
But I -- just don’t -- know
what it -- means….”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Murphy
was never alone in the empty corridors.
Always there was the echo of his footfalls: sometimes on the heels of his steps, sometimes slightly in
anticipation, leading him on.
“I
know you’re there,” he said.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Murphy?”
“Yes’m?”
“You
been thinking those bad thoughts again.”
“Yes’m.”
“Better
tell ‘em to me Murphy.”
“No’m.”
“Better
tell me or I whip you good.”
“Yes’m. Reckon you’ll whup me either way.”
(The
keen and screwed-up eye.) “Was that a smart remark?! -- Why I’ll--“ (reaching for the
switch.)
“No’m
-- not smart. A really dumb remark
-- I see that now.” (Trembling as
he spies once more, the instrument of his sharp distress.) “But a true one, ma’am. -- Can’t help
it, ma’am.” (Wincing,
wincing; shriveling beneath the
blows.) “Can’t half help it.” (Wincing deeper now -- wincing even
beneath the wincing skin.) “Gotta
find some’n, someth’n, help me help it….”
(Furious) “I’m
helping you!”
(More
in sorrow) “No’m. All respect, ma’am, but -- no, you’re
not helping, not helping at all.”
(The
blows fall thick and fast -- herself almost at liquefaction, as in a dream --
while young Murphy shrivels, dwindles, to but a tiny remnant of his former
self.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes,
by himself in a room, his eyes
would turn inwards; thoughts would
buzz around his head like flies.
He
did not belong here; so it
seemed. And yet -- he definitely
belonged here. They had sent him
here, and he was not allowed to leave.
He
was in the place, but not of it.
Slowly,
he began to leave it, through a tiny hole in the back of his brain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Murphy,
small of shoulders, bowed of head,
shuffles up to the office.
“Ma’am
I? -- ‘scuse me, ma’am.”
(Looks
up sharply.) “Murphy! Young rascal. What brings you
here.” (Softening a bit,
though; the boys seldom show up
spontaneously, voluntarily.)
“Well
I -- no-one else to ask, ma’am. I
just got nobody, no, not one person, in the whole wide world.”
Definitely
softening, and settling back -- almost reflective. “So… What’s on your mind, young Irish scamp?”
Awkward; fumbling for words -- then finding
them. “Well I -- I just wonder
what -- what it is, really: that makes me so bad.”
She
frowns; is silent; purses her thin lips. “I reckon it was just… a bad seed…”
“Bad
seed, ma’am?”
She
purses further. “There are two seeds in the spirit -- two of them, and don’t you forget
it. You just happened to get
the bad one. “
He
is silent, not understanding; and
yet, and yet … yet beginning to understand.
She
decides to level with him. “You
know -- you were conceived in iniquity, by a very bad woman, with a very bad
man. But bad as she was -- he
still should have stuck by her;
made an honest woman of her, or near as anybody could with material like
that. -- But he skedaddled, soon after soiling your young mother’s bed. He was a coward, and a welsher, was
your dad. And the apple does
not fall far from the tree.”
Had
he ever known the man, this might strike Murphy like a blow; but he had never known the man. “So… I guess I was just -- born to sin; that right?
Just plain -- simmered in it,
‘fore I was ever even born. That
so?”
(Somewhere her heart smarts her; yet she must be stern in the
truth.) “That is so, Master
Murphy. You were born in sin, like
a squid in ink; and will certainly
be damned.”
Since
this prognosis seems only to confirm the daily burden of his present life, it
daunts him less than one might think.
He simply verifies.
“So: no hope, is there.”
“No; none. -- Well… there is… Jesus; but he is not for the likes of orphans,
or reform-school boys…”
[To read the complete series, click here:
http://murphybros.blogspot.com/search/label/memoir
]
[Watch as Murphy, wiser now, confronts two souls in extremis:
[Watch as Murphy, wiser now, confronts two souls in extremis:
Flash update!!
Actual footage from Murphy's reformatory !!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TzD3xJRRyGA&feature=related
-- Alright okay ... something even deeper than that:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHRFZFmEq9o&feature=related
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