Cutie: A Warm Mamma by Maxwell Bodenheim and Ben Hecht - HTML preview

L’ENVOI

HERE are three graves out in Rosehill Cemetery. Bring your sponge along while we give them the once-over. Over the first grave is a $500.00 tombstone donated by Charlie Blake and it says on the tombstone:

“Here lies Herman Pupick, glass eye and all. He was a mush head and a wet smack. When he died, his many admirers presented him with a drainpipe for a coffin. Those who knew him best called him Polecat Herman.

“During his unfortunate life, this piece of rat bait which lies six feet below was a censor and a reformer. He was highly respected by old maids suffering from dementia menopause.

“It was Herman Pupick’s ambition to go to heaven, but the fumigators threatened to strike, so St. Peter wouldn’t let him in.

“How this smut hound happened to die is interesting. He was stabbed by his wife during a quarrel. Mrs. Pupick accused him of adultery. Herman broke down and confessed he had committed adultery twenty-nine times and was tired of it. Those were his last words.

“Like all censors and reformers, Herman had a foul mind and a bad breath. His soul was a spittoon and everything that fell into it got dirty. After his death a delegation of students arrived at the undertaking rooms to permit an autopsy. But there was no outhouse available.

“The biography of this dead censor can be written in a few words. Everything he saw reminded him how dirty he was. Instead of cleaning himself up, he attacked the world with a cake of Sapolio. He tried for thirty-seven years to establish an alibi for his weak glands by claiming that God admired and rewarded impotent morons.

“There is no use feeling sorry for him. He was one of Nature’s blunders. His mind was still in its foetal stage. If God wants him, He can have him. And take the drain pipe, too. There are no competing claims.

“Rest in peace, Herman Pupick. The bereaved world will try to struggle on a little while longer without your uplifting presence.”

Over the second grave is another $400.00 tombstone donated by Professor J. Louis Guyon, and it says on this tombstone:

“Here lies the wife of Herman Pupick. She was a woman of refinement. She couldn’t pass a bathroom without blushing. It is wrong to speak angry of the dead. This interferes with our last testament to Mrs. Pupick.

“We will, therefore, refer as kindly as we can to her. During her life, Mrs. Pupick suffered in mind and body. Her virginity had decomposed at an early age. Her veins were full of lemon juice and she had a face like a second-hand apricot. Her knees looked like a couple of pineapples.

“She wore a switch and had false teeth and suffered from chillblains and she was so thin from worrying that she would have to be padded in order to fit into a bean blower.

“What Mrs. Pupick worried about was that some evil minded man might insult her. She was always scared to death for fear that some low and brutal male would try to rape her. This terror kept her from going out in the streets except when accompanied by several protectors.

“In a way, Mrs. Pupick’s fears proved ungrounded. Up to the time of her death nobody had tried to take advantage of her. But still you can’t tell. Mrs. Pupick knew men were filthy and vile, and whether anything happened or not it was best to be on your guard.

“Mrs. Pupick was proud of her husband until the day she murdered him. Herman used to pray every night before sliding into the hay alongside of this kippered herring that God should keep him pure. Mrs. Pupick felt that the way God answered her husband’s prayer every night was a miracle.

“The last day of this lady’s life was an exciting one. After her husband had confessed his sins to her, she murdered Cutie and him both and then staggered to the mirror and, taking a good look at herself, dropped dead.

“Rest in peace, Mrs. Pupick. No white slaver can get you now.”

There is no tombstone over the third grave. Cutie lies buried here, but nobody has put a tombstone up. When it became known that Cutie was dead, everybody went out and got drunk. But nobody thought of buying a tombstone.

Poor Cutie! She was a great kid and never hurt anybody. The undertaker who embalmed her wept like a baby. And the horses that carried her to the graveyard walked slower than usual.

The birds keep flying over the place where she’s buried. And at night people who knew her grow sad. She was a little bit rough in her work, but she meant well.

There is no use prolonging the discussion. Wherever our little warm mamma has gone there the flowers are blooming and the band is playing and the boys are all having a good time.

Rest in peace, Cutie. When we get rich we will buy you a tombstone and have three words chiseled under your name:

Faith, Hope and Charity.