This week, the Illustration Friday challenge word is “sky”.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!
Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea tray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!”
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) by Lewis Carroll
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josh pincus is crying is on Facebook now. You like him, right?
In the long ago days before eBay cornered the market on people selling their household castoffs, my wife and I frequented flea markets on a regular basis. Each Sunday morning, when the weather was nice (and sometimes when it wasn’t), we’d strap our unwilling young son into his car seat and head out to the dusty site of a long-closed drive-in theater or the parking lot of a local farmers market. Spread out among the makeshift baked dirt and gravel aisles, an eclectic combination of junk dealers, closeout merchants and Mr. and Mrs. Yard Sale displayed their wares on splintered wooden tables and battered tarpaulins, hoping to unload the bulk of their inventory and make an early exit before the afternoon sun discouraged potential customers. Mrs. Pincus and I would methodically trudge up and down every last aisle, perusing every last item, anxious to spot that elusive bauble missing from one of our many collections much to the dismay of our young son who thankfully occupied himself in his stroller with some clean toys brought from home.
Not all flea markets were relegated to some remote overgrown field or patch of abandoned concrete behind a boarded-up strip mall. Sometimes, wily vendors took up residence in the shell of a defunct supermarket, stocking the former produce section with used action figures and the checkout lanes with old board games.
One of our usual stops, after weeding through the piles of unwanted crap at South Jersey’s stalwart Berlin Market, was one such out-of-commission supermarket on Route 30 on our way back to suburban Philadelphia. With a cry of “Oh no! Not here again” from my son, we’d file into the cavernous husk of an old Acme Market for a quick browse through the… the… merchandise, for lack of a better word. It was here, at the Route 30 Market, that we met Jamison Smoothdog.
Jamison was an intriguing character. Small and wiry with pitch black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. When he spoke, his voice was the deep croaking product of years of mistreatment by countless unfiltered Camels. Despite being indoors, he wore dark glasses, lifting them only to obtain a better view of the particular collectible he was trying to convince you to buy. On a small card table, he exhibited a variety of toys — both recent and vintage — and his asking prices ranged from reasonable to outrageous. At first he seemed no different from the parade of collectible toy dealers we encountered over the years, but there was something unique, something mysterious, about Jamison.
We visited the Route 30 Market and Jamison Smoothdog’s setup several times. Each time, he was pleasant and friendly, talking passionately and knowledgeably about the toys he had for sale. Sometimes we’d buy something from him, sometimes we’d leave empty-handed, but some small bit of information was revealed to us with each visit. One time, he told us he played guitar. Another time, he told us his old band played at JC Dobbs, the legendary South Street club that was the embryonic stage for bands like Pearl Jam, Green Day and Nirvana. Then, on one particular day, he told us that he wrote “Can’t You See,” the anthemic signature song made popular by Southern Rock icons The Marshall Tucker Band. Jamison explained that he received a large sum of money in exchange for the writing credit be given to the band’s lead guitarist Toy Caldwell.
As the months and years moved on and Internet shopping replaced the face-to-face experience of flea markets, Mrs. Pincus began a lucrative business on eBay. She sought merchandise from other sources. We began to enjoy sleeping late on Sundays. The one-time charm of traipsing among dirty jumbles of old playthings began to wane. We passed by the Route 30 Market a few times on return trips from Atlantic City and just never stopped in. Soon, the market’s large sign came down, the parking lot began to fill with weeds and trash and the building fell into a state of obvious disrepair.
And we never saw Jamison Smoothdog again.
One boring evening, a Google search for Jamison Smoothdog yielded sketchy bits and pieces of a melancholy life. I discovered that he had owned a few incarnations of collectibles stores in the small community of Collingswood, NJ, each having a relatively short existence. I discovered that he played numerous shows at JC Dobbs and the North Star Bar (another small Philadelphia venue). I found out that his real name was James “Jimi” Hendrick, but he changed it to his more colorful moniker to avoid confusion with a more popular guitarist with a similar name. I uncovered a brief marriage, ending sadly when his wife was killed in a car accident. I learned that there is a long and bitter controversy concerning the true authorship of “Can’t You See.” I also learned that the controversy will most likely never be solved since Marshall Tucker’s Toy Caldwell passed away in 1993. Jamison subsequently recorded several album’s worth of material, all of which were shelved. Distraught, reclusive and borderline alcoholic, Jamison Smoothdog passed away as well, angry at missed opportunities, missed recognition and missed compensation.
This week Illustration Friday word is “water”.
“Ocean: A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world made for man – who has no gills.”
— Ambrose Bierce
“Speak for yourself, Ambrose. “
— The Creature from the Black Lagoon
Twenty-three year old Debora Sue Schatz, on the job as a mail carrier for just over a year and a half, was doing a favor for a co-worker. On June 7, 1984, immediately after finishing up her daily route, Debora drove to a more affluent section of West Houston to cover for a fellow mail carrier who needed some time off. She started off down the 10300 block of Lynwood Hollow and disappeared. The next morning, Debora’s postal vehicle was found containing some undelivered mail and her purse. A little after midnight, Debora’s body was discovered in a wooded area in northwest Houston with two bullets in her head.
Police began an investigation and combed the neighborhood, questioning anyone and everyone. Bernard and Odette Port, residents of Lynwood Hollow told investigating officers that their teenage son David had taken their car the day before and had not been seen since. A search of the teen’s room turned up bloody clothing, shell casings and a recently-fired pistol. David arrived home during the search and, upon seeing police cars in front of his house, sped away. Police arrested the boy when he crashed his parents’ car after a short high-speed chase.
While in custody, David Port confessed to officers that he had forced Debora up the stairs of his home to his bedroom at gunpoint, then shot her when she tried to escape. He explained that he put the body in the trunk of his parents’ car and dumped it in the woods.
David Port was tried, convicted and sentenced to prison in 1985, Two years later, an appeal overturned the conviction, citing an inadmissible verbal confession. Five years later, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals threw out the lower court’s ruling, and Port was returned to prison. However, after 26 years, Port would be eligible for release with supervision, under a 1977 ruling designed to ease prison overcrowding.
In January 2001, the Debora Sue Schatz Memorial Post Office was opened on Rogerdale Road in Houston with a dedication ceremony.
This week, the Illustration Friday word is “mirror”.
The coolest movie I ever saw was Brian De Palma’s Phantom of the Paradise. It was a camp, over-the-top, rock and roll take on the Phantom of the Opera … and I ate it up. The production was unbelievably low-budget. The songs, by prolific songwriter Paul Williams (who also starred as the malevolent Swan in the film), were just the right blend of cheery pop and contemporary glam-rock paired with slightly sinister lyrics. The acting was… well, what did I know?… I was 13.
Phantom of the Paradise was soon unseated from the top position on my Cool Movies List in 1975. By then, I was 14 and my sensibilities had become more developed, my tastes more discerning. A friend and I ventured via public transportation, unaccompanied, to Center City Philadelphia. Our destination was The Arcadia Theater on Chestnut Street, in the center of a block of first-run movie theaters. We paid the inflated admission of $6.00 (we were used to paying a buck at the theaters in our Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood to see pictures that had been out for months) and headed inside to see Tommy.
The film was visually stunning. What it lacked in coherent plot it made up for in ocular stimulation. Considering there was no spoken dialogue, casting non-singing actors was a risky move on the part of visionary director Ken Russell. Oliver Reed, as Tommy’s step-father, delivered his songs with the strained voice of an uncomfortable novice, although he was the veteran of the Oscar-winning musical Oliver only a few years earlier. Jack Nicholson also seemed out of place, singing his one featured song with an inexplicable British accent.
Although I have been a music fan since I was very young, I was not one bit familiar with The Who. I went to see Tommy to see Elton John who, in 1974, was at the pinnacle of his career. I knew Tina Turner (who played the Acid Queen) from an appearance The Ike and Tina Turner Revue made on American Bandstand one Saturday afternoon. I knew Eric Clapton (who played The Preacher) from that song on the radio about shooting the sheriff, but I knew nothing of his musical credentials. I had no clue who Pete Townshend and John Entwistle were or why the darkened theater erupted in wild applause at the first glimpse of the adult Tommy, played by Who lead singer Roger Daltrey.
Ann-Margret played Mrs. Walker, Tommy’s mother, despite being only three years older than Daltrey. I was familiar Ann-Margret from numerous Bob Hope specials, her scenery-eating role as Kim McAfee in Bye-Bye Birdie, and, of course, her cartoon turn as “Ann-Margrock” in a memorable episode of The Flintstones in which she posed undercover as Pebbles’ babysitter. Ann-Margret, a seasoned recording artist, held her own even though her singing style was more suited for a Las Vegas showroom than rock anthems.
Ann-Margret’s most memorable scene in Tommy was, arguably, during her rendition of “Smash the Mirror.” In this sequence, Mrs. Walker, living the high life as a result of her son’s fame as the new Pinball Wizard, laments that he can’t have enjoyment because he is deaf, dumb and blind. Frenzied and frustrated, Ann-Margret (as Mrs. Walker) clad in a skin-tight, white, chain-mail jumpsuit, flings herself around the plush, white confines of her bedroom. Suddenly, she hurls an empty champagne bottle at the television screen and the pristine room becomes flooded with laundry soap, beer, chocolate and baked beans. Let me tell you, watching hot 34-year-old Ann-Margret cheerfully wallow and writhe in a roomful of baked beans is an indelible image that has been etched into the mind of that 14-year-old that still lives in my mind all these years later.
Ann-Margret was nominated for an Oscar for that role, probably for that scene alone. She didn’t win.
She was robbed.
(I have seen Tommy numerous times over the past 37 years. It ain’t as good as I remembered.)
Let me start out by saying I’m not going to vote, so fuck you.
But, if I were to vote, it would be for Barack Obama. Why? Not because of his political promises or his vision for the country or his plans for the economy. He’s probably full of shit, just like every politician before him. (I think that’s a prerequisite for becoming a politician.) But, I would vote for him simply because he seems like a nice guy. A real guy. Like, a guy you’d like to be your neighbor. Running into him at the supermarket. Your kids playing with his kids. Out on a Saturday afternoon, mowing his lawn. Y’know… just a guy. I think the average American looks at Barack Obama and thinks, “Yeah, I can relate to him.”
But, Mitt Romney?!? Jesus Christ Almighty! Who does he represent? Who can possibly relate to him? That asshole boss that fired you? That prick down at the bank that declined your loan application? The car salesman who smugly snickers when you are checking the stickers on a Mercedes, then gently steers you towards the Fords while he’s rolling his eyes? You’re damn right! That’s who Mitt Romney is. He’s that guy you innocently start chatting with at a cousin’s wedding cocktail hour and find out that he’s a filthy rich, out-of-touch, never-worked-a-day-in-his-life, patronizing, elitist little fuck who, when the band starts playing, dances like a stiff-jointed white guy.
One question should be asked at the Presidential Debate and you’d make up your mind in fifteen seconds. Get the two candidates up on the stage and ask just one question “You’re at work and your wife calls and asks you to pick up a loaf of bread on your way home. How much is that gonna cost you?” I will bet that Mitt Romney hasn’t a clue how much a loaf of bread costs. Barack Obama? The guy went to a PETCO with his dog! His wife shops for laundry detergent at Target, for crissakes! He goes on vacation and takes his daughters out for ice cream. Mitt Romney probably sends some domestic out to buy ice cream and says, “Here’s seven hundred dollars. That should cover it, right? Make sure you get vanilla.”
So, all you people who, after the debacle that was the 2000 Presidential election, still think your vote determines who becomes president good for you. I think that’s adorable. I don’t really care who becomes president, but I do hope he’s not an embarrassment.
It was late in the 1977 baseball season. Dusty Baker, the Los Angeles Dodgers veteran right fielder, was coming around third base and trotting home on the final ninety feet of his 30th home run of the season. He was greeted at the plate by on-deck batter Glenn Burke, a youngster in his second year as a big-leaguer. As Dusty crossed home, a smiling Glenn raised his arm up and extended his open palm. Dusty, a bit confused by the gesture, instinctively did what he felt he had to do he slapped Glenn’s hand with his own palm. At that very moment, the “high five” was born.
Dusty Baker’s baseball career flourished, playing nineteen years and amassing nearly 2000 hits, a Gold Glove in 1981, two consecutive All-Star appearances and three trips to the World Series. After retiring as a player, Dusty was a three-time Manager of the Year, calling the shots for the San Francisco Giants (taking them to the World Series in 2002), the Chicago Cubs and, currently, the NL Central Champs Cincinnati Reds.
Glenn Burke’s baseball career took a decidedly different turn.
After five minor league seasons batting over .300, Glenn was heralded by Dodger scouts as “the next Willie Mays.” The athletic, young Glenn was immediately welcomed into the Dodger clubhouse. His on-field energy coupled with his sense of humor was instantly embraced by his new teammates. However, Dodger management was less that enthusiastic about Glenn. Glenn was gay, and the front office didn’t like it, specifically team manager Tommy Lasorda and general manager Al Campanis. Lasorda’s son, Tommy Jr., was gay and that caused a rift between father and son. The elder Lasorda resented his son’s friendship with Glenn and he made that resentment very clear. Campanis, whose past was already marked by derogatory statements regarding African-American players and a controversial trade involving his own son Jim, was especially bothered by Glenn’s sexual orientation. He offered Glenn $75,000 to get married. The always comedic and easy-going Glenn replied, “I guess you mean to a woman.”
Even after starting in the World Series, Lasorda, Campanis and the rest of the Dodger front office plotted to trade Glenn, much to the dismay of his teammates. Glenn was unceremoniously shipped to the Oakland A’s, where manager, the infamous Billy Martin, introduced Glenn to his new team as “a faggot”. Glenn stayed with Oakland for a year and a half until the hatred, ridicule and hostility from management became too much. He retired from baseball in 1979 at the age of 27.
Glenn participated and won medals in track in the first Gay Games in San Francisco. In an interview in Inside Sports magazine, he publicly “came out,” proudly acknowledging what his teammates had known for years.
Soon, his notoriety faded and his money ran out. He spent what little he had on drugs. A car accident broke his leg in three places and he struggled with medical bills, even turning to theft, for which he served jail time. The last years of his life were spent wandering the streets of San Francisco homeless, penniless and self-medicating on crack as a way to ease the pain of AIDS which he had contracted. When word of Glenn’s situation reached his former Oakland teammates, they rallied support and brought as much comfort as they could in his final days.
Glenn died in May 1995 at the age of 42. He said he had no regrets, noting “They can’t ever say now that a gay man can’t play in the majors, because I’m a gay man and I made it.”
Aunt Nancy is awesome! In the thirty years since I was introduced to her, I have known her to be devoted to her friends and family (even family-by-marriage). She is a hard worker, reliable and dedicated to her employer. She is quiet and reserved. And, she is one of the nicest, sweetest, even-tempered people I have ever met. I don’t think I have ever witnessed Aunt Nancy raise her voice. She has always greeted me with a smile and always seems to be happy. On the rare occasion that she has uttered a cross word, it was in reference to a rude store clerk or a bad driver.
One by one, Aunt Nancy’s three children grew up and moved out of the house, into lives of their own. Nancy’s youngest daughter married and made her a first-time grandmother. Nancy’s eldest daughter will marry this weekend. Sadly, Aunt Nancy’s beloved husband of many years passed away in 2008. But despite that and a few health issues, Nancy has remained strong and determined and has maintained her cheerful demeanor. And I recently discovered the source of Aunt Nancy’s strength. Aunt Nancy loves her some KISS.
Last year, at a family dinner at my in-law’s house, Aunt Nancy revealed her affinity for the pop-metal masters of makeup and mayhem. She told us, with the bubbly giddiness of a teenager, of her experience at a KISS show that she attended. We were dumbfounded yet amused. My wife and I tried to imagine the usually-reserved Aunt Nancy thrashing about, arms extended above her head, fingers bent into rock and roll “devil horns,” squealing with delight as bassist Gene Simmons “The Demon” exhaled fire and spewed blood over the frenzied rabid throng. Aunt Nancy! In that crowd! Unimaginable! Still, Aunt Nancy enthusiastically related every detail of the concert, from the dazzling pyrotechnics to the spectacular lasers to the special stage-side section reserved for Rascal scooters (the demographics of the KISS fan base have skewed considerably over the course of their five-decade career).
We have since learned that Aunt Nancy has notched another decidedly unNancy-like concert under her belt Aerosmith. Although she dismissed the warm-up band as “a bunch of loud no talents I never heard of” (it was Cheap Trick), she was delighted by the geriatric version of Boston’s one-time rock darlings. Aunt Nancy passionately described the stage antics of sinewy vocalist Steven Tyler, fresh off his stint as judge on…. whatever that show he was a judge on.
But, it’s KISS that is the true apple of Aunt Nancy’s eye and the best was yet to come for her.
Last Friday, the leather-clad painted purveyors of lightweight heavy metal brought their “The Tour” Tour to Camden’s Susquehanna Bank Center (or whatever they’re calling it this week). Susquehanna Bank Center (or SBC, as it wants to be known) is one of the most poorly laid-out concert venues I’ve ever seen. Built primarily for summer festivals and hosting big name draws in months when the weather is nice, SBC is comprised of a semi-circular building (“It looks like a big Bose radio.,” observed my wife) that houses the large performance stage, which is easily viewed by those lucky enough to have purchased tickets for actual seats. Those opting for other viewing alternatives are relegated to the massive sloped lawn situated behind the building. The stage is (barely) visible through large square openings at the rear of the building and via dim images projected on off-white brick inlays just below the main building’s roof (once the sun goes down, that is). Adding to the displeasure, the lawn is accessible by a network of steep, narrow, winding staircases, each landing lined with ridiculously overpriced concession stands. But, Aunt Nancy would have none of the “concert-going-for-the-masses” nonsense. No, no, no. An ecstatic Aunt Nancy had pre-purchased her exclusive “VIP Meet & Greet” experience tickets and arrived at the venue ready to meet up with her on-site VIP host. The VIP Super Deluxe Once-in-a-Lifetime Soundcheck and Meet & Greet Experience Package includes: One reserved ticket located in the first 10 rows of the stage, Exclusive Meet & Greet with KISS, Personal Photograph with KISS, Autograph Session with KISS, Exclusive access to KISS’s preshow Soundcheck, Specially Designed KISS Tour Shirt, Custom Designed 18k gold plated KISS Ring, a set of Official KISS Guitar Picks (with custom case), Official Meet & Greet Laminate, Commemorative VIP Ticket, Crowd- free merchandise shopping and the aforementioned host all at a cost of a mere $1250. No, I didn’t forget a decimal point. I’ll spell it out, so there’s no mistake one thousand two-hundred and fifty George Washington dollars. I think that was the amount of the last installment of my son’s monthly college tuition payment. Maybe a little less. But, it was worth every last penny to Aunt Nancy and, Goddamnit!, she deserved it.
Aunt Nancy began making her way to the designated meeting area to be ushered in for her great KISS encounter. Due to recent surgery, Aunt Nancy uses a cane when walking. As she negotiated an uneven walkway, Aunt Nancy tripped on an errant rental chair and fell flat on her face. Her glasses were smashed and pushed into her forehead where they tore a large gash. Attentive medical staff arrived at the scene quickly. They began to wipe away debris and clean up the blood now flowing profusely from the wound. The EMTs insisted on taking Nancy to a facility better equipped to handle such a serious injury, but she would hear nothing of it.
“I have to meet my group for the Meet & Greet!,” Aunt Nancy protested, “I am not going to miss it!”
The workers managed to clean and dress the injury, instructing Aunt Nancy to apply pressure with the wet cloth they supplied. After the briefest of recovery time, Nancy got back on her feet and the medical crew carefully led her to the Meet & Greet entrance.
“No!,” Nancy asserted, “Not here! This is the Motley Crüe line! I paid to see KISS!”
The startled workers guided Aunt Nancy over to the correct entrance. By this time, the small exclusive group had filed in to the meeting area. Aunt Nancy took the one seat that was available, right next to the imposing Gene Simmons. Gene’s attention was instantly drawn to poor Aunt Nancy, a coldpak pressed to her bandaged head.
“Oh my God!,” the bassist gasped, “What happened to you?” His concern seemed genuine.
Aunt Nancy explained the details of her mishap, trying her best to remain serious, but was losing out to her excitement. She had dreamed of this moment, but not exactly in this way.
As part of the VIP experiences, attendees were permitted to bring two items to have personally autographed by the band. (The 2012 version of KISS includes original members Gene Simmons, rhythm guitarist Paul Stanley and two other guys who replaced founding members Peter Criss and Ace Frehley some time ago. But, under a thick layer of theatrical makeup, what difference does it make?) Aunt Nancy happily presented her aluminum cane to the band for an inscription. Gone are the glory days of nubile, young ladies pulling down the skimpy necklines of their tops for a signature scribbled across their breasts. A smiling 60-year-old with a piece of orthopedic equipment is the best the band can hope for at this point in their career. Aunt Nancy was reminded that she was entitled to another autograph. She rummaged through her purse and produced a blank letterhead from her current place of employment a Jewish elementary school (where, years ago, she was the assistant in my son’s classroom). The letterhead, emblazoned with a logo proudly proclaiming the school’s Jewish heritage, was examined by Mr. Simmons, after which he turned to Aunt Nancy and, noting the appropriate time of year, wished her a solemn “L’Shana Tovah!,” the traditional salutation for Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. (Gene Simmons was born Chaim Weitz in Haifa, Israel. His mother, Florence, is a Holocaust survivor.) Gene turned to a KISS crew member and explained “I just wished her ‘Happy Jewish New Year'”, then whispered confidentially to Aunt Nancy, “They don’t know! They’re goyim.” (A playfully derogatory term that Jews call non-Jews.) Then, Aunt Nancy posed for a picture with the band. The grin on her face is so wide, she looks as though she will burst!
Aunt Nancy dutifully reported to work on Monday. She stood at the front of the classroom of youngsters, as she had done thousands of Mondays before. To them, she is “Mrs. K.,” but, how many of those kids know how cool Aunt Nancy really is?
The Illustration Friday word this week is “book”.
When she wasn’t writing poetry, Sylvia Plath spent a good portion of her life trying to kill herself. At 21, Sylvia made her first attempt at suicide by taking a handful of her mother’s sleeping pills. When she was discovered three days later, in a crawlspace beneath her house, she chronicled the event with “[I had] blissfully succumbed to the whirling blackness that I honestly believed was eternal oblivion.”
After more attempts at ending her life, including a deliberate car wreck in 1962, Sylvia finally succeeded. Early in the morning on February 11, 1963, while her children slept, she sealed off the kitchen of her small London apartment with wet towels shoved into door jambs and window crevices. She turned the gas oven on, put her head inside and waited. She compared the despair in her life to an “owl’s talons clenching my heart.”
Sylvia’s only novel, The Bell Jar, a not-so-thinly veiled account of her life, was published only one month before her death.
This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “crooked”.
“Canada Bill” Jones would shuffle and trip into a room, wearing ill-fitting clothes and a cocked grin. His hair was mussed and he’d ask stupid questions. And it was all part of his master plan.
Born in England in the early part of the 19th century, Bill moved to Canada while in his 20s. He apprenticed with a veteran gambler and cheater named Dick Cady, who taught the young Bill the ins-and-outs of Three Card Monte. Cady showed Bill the finer points of marking cards and manipulating deals until Bill was adept enough to take his game on the road.
Playing the role of the simple bumpkin, Bill charmed his way into the confidence of rich travellers on the Kansas City and Omaha railroads. He’d smile broadly, shuffle the cards awkwardly and proceed to cheat his unsuspecting opponents (read: suckers) out of every last cent they carried. He teamed up with fellow card shark George Devol and together the pair swindled the wealthy including cheating ministers out of their congregation’s collections all the way though the pre-Civil War South. Canada Bill lived by the creed: “Its morally wrong to let a sucker keep money.”
Bill and Devol switched venues and became fixtures on the big riverboats that chugged up and down the Mississippi River. On one occasion, after being caught cheating by a particular ship’s captain, Bill made a sincere and solemn offer to limit his cheating to only the very rich and Methodist ministers. The captain kicked them off the ship.
Bill’s weakness, however, was his own propensity to gamble and sometimes he became as big a patsy as his own prey. Once, Devol walked in on Bill playing a game of Faro (a popular card game in the 1800s involving a “dealing box” that was easily rigged). After only moments of observation, Devol told Bill to quit, as the dealer was obviously cheating. Without budging, or even looking up at his cohort, Bill confessed, “I know it’s crooked, but it’s the only game in town.” Bill and George Devol eventually parted company when Bill caught his partner trying to cheat him.
Bill roamed the country, plying his deception in Cleveland and Chicago. Unfortunately, his own love of gambling caused him to lose his money just as fast as he acquired it. Now in his 70s and in poor health, his travels brought him to a charity hospital in Reading, Pennsylvania where he died penniless. His funeral was paid for by out-of-town gamblers that both respected Bill’s ability and were saddened by the loss of an easy mark. As his casket was lowered into the ground, one gambler in the crowd offered to bet $1000 “that Bill was not in that box”. He received no takers when someone replied, “I’ve seen Bill get out of tighter spots than that!”
