 The Man with the Aching Back
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The Man with the Aching Back
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The Man with the Aching Back
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Pushing south into Cheap Street, Marian halted. “What’s that?“ A crowd gathered before a low stone dais, site of the yearly Folkmoot, where Londoners had met since antiquity to rule themselves. Beyond stood the Cross of Saint Paul, taller than a man. “Come one, come all! See the helpless wife defend herself against a brutish husband!” On the dais, a man in the black robes and pointed hat of a doctor extolled the wonders of a play to come. Behind him, a “wife“ chased a hapless “husband“ with a floppy club. The wife was a fat unshaven man in a wig of red horsehair. His gown was stuffed with rags to form tremendous breasts and a pregnant belly. The stage was set with a bed and a fresh-laid table. A “priest” waved the crowd closer. “Oh, Rob, can we watch?“ “Such shows are not fit for women, Marian. They’re coarse and full of crudity. And these actors are all thieves and sods...“ But Marian stayed, so Robin stopped talking. The actors repeated their antics, the crowd swelled, and when the grumbling grew loud, the play began. The husband took to bed, the wife chopped invisible vegetables, the priest slid out of sight, and the doctor raised a hand. The crowd hushed. “It seems,“ the doctor’s high voice carried well, “that one day a husband, feeling faint, took to his bed.“ The man abed groaned. Someone laughed. “But upon waking discovered a most terrible pain in his back, and could not rise. His wife, horrified, administered a poultice.“ From a wooden bowl, the huge and homely wife scooped a slop of grass and mud and slapped it on the husband’s face, making him spit. She patted with heavy blows to laughter. “But the poultice - cow manure, mostly - gave him no ease. The pain in the man’s back grew worse and worse, until he thought he would surely die.“ The wife sobbed in her hands. “And so the wife summoned a doctor. Me.“ |
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Running to an imaginary door, the wife stuck her head six inches from the doctor’s ear and screamed, “Doooooooc-tooooor!!!“
Staggered, the doctor tottered in and squinted around. “Let me see this patient.“ He squeezed the wife’s breasts in both hands. “Ah, that’s the problem. You’ve got glanders, my man.“ Batted in the head, he reeled and grabbed a pregnant belly. “And a tumor besides.“ Another blow knocked him across the husband. As the man shrieked and bucked, the doctor flopped to the floor. “And you shouldn’t keep pigs in the house.“ By this time the doctor had to shout, for the crowd rocked with laughter. Marian looped an arm in Robin’s elbow for balance. She covered her mouth for laughing. The outlaw smiled to see his wife amused. The doctor bumbled about, putting his hand in the poultice, stabbing himself with a kitchen knife, banging his crotch on the bedpost. All while the wife batted him silly asking for advice. Finally the physician fetched up at the husband’s death bed and fumbled out a small glass bottle. “This will tell his fate! As the great Galen, what goes in a man comes out. Good fellow, kindly fill up the bottle!“ The doctor poked the man’s belly, and up jetted a yellow spray that soaked both doctor and patient. The crowd bellowed with laughter. Marian leant against Robin. “That’d be beer hid in a bladder,” said Robin, but his wife didn’t hear for giggling. Now the priest stepped on stage and rapped the air. “Knock, knock, knock!” “It’s the priest!“ The ugly wife smoothed her hair and breasts with hammy hands, then wiggled her way to the door. Dry-washing his hands, the priest slunk in. “Is there a dying man here? I heard the sad news and came right away. Tsk, tsk. Terrible thing, dying, or so I’ve heard.“ After a quick glance at the bed, he trilled, “Oh, yes, dying for certain. Nothing we can do there. What worldly goods does the poor soul leave behind? Any donations for Mother Church?“ Scurrying about the stage, the priest snatched up anything loose and stuffed it down his cassock. The audience shrieked in delight. “Father,“ squawled the wife, “ain’t you gonna give ’im ’is last rites? He’s a powerful sinner, he is.“ “What? What’s that? Oh, yes.“ The priest kept scrounging. “Let me see, how does it go?.. Well, never mind. First he must confess. Confession’s good for the soul, you know. Can’t have no sinning. No stealing, no lying, no hypocrisy.“ Whoops from the audience fair drowned him out. The priest slid a chamberpot from under the bed, pulled out a brown lump, took a sample bite, grimaced, but stuffed it too down his cassock. The audience gagged. Marian stuck out her tongue. Robin said, “I warned you this was no miracle play.“ |
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With nothing left to steal, and blockaded by the wife, the priest did
his duty. “Let us hear, man. What’s the worst sin you’ve committed
lately?“
Propped up in bed, the husband rolled a fishy eye toward his wife. “Well, Father, I had sex with a woman.“ “What?“ The wife reached in her bosom and pulled out a club of stuffed rags. She walloped her husband. “Wretch!“ “Sex with a woman?“ caroled the priest. “Oh, that’s bad, bad. Sex is bad. Women are bad. One Hail Mary. When was this you had sex?“ The husband shielded his head. “On Easter Sunday.“ “Beast!“ Another wallop. “Oh, Easter is bad. Sundays are bad. Two Hail Marys. Where did you do this?“ “In the nave of Saint Paul’s.“ “Whore!“ Another blow. “Oh, naves are bad. Saint Paul was bad, bad, bad. And a Station of the Cross. Did this woman submit willingly or did you force her?“ The husband bragged despite the hammering. “Oh, she were willing enough. It were a nun. Ow! At least I thought it was a nun. Ow! Turns out it were a man. Ow! A Jew. Ow! With the pox...“ Jostled left and right, with half of London stepping on his toes, Robin Hood looked for a hole to step in - and gawked. “Sufferin’ Jesus!“ Grabbing Marian by the elbow, they ran. (Here Robin and Marian run off to rescue Much. The rest of the play follows.) The priest had meanwhile discovered a sausage (a painted wooden one) and tried to stuff that too inside his cassock. The wife spotted him and threw her club down - on her husband’s head. “Here now! That’s our sausage for our supper! You can’t take that!” The priest held the sausage straight out from his crotch. Women laughed. The wife latched hold and got it locked between her thighs. They wrestled, belly to belly, rocking to and fro, the wife looming over the priest. They both shouted in falsetto. “You let go of my sausage, madame!” “It’s my sausage!” “Don’t be ridiculous! Women don’t have one of these things!” |
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“I do so have one, right here! My husband’s got one too!”
“His probably isn’t as big as mine!”’ “You’re right there! All the women know the priest has the biggest sausage in the parish!” “It’s a gift from God, madame!” “I wish He would share his gifts more freely!” They went on back and forth as the crowd fell against one another. Robin Hood gasped, “This isn’t nice.” Marian was laughing too hard to reply. The doctor rushed onto the stage with his yellow-filled bottle. “I’ve got it!” Waving his arms, he finally got the priest and wife - and the audience - quiet. People shushed to hear. “I’ve figured it out! As you know, urine is the one thing that can tell us everything that’s wrong with a man! And I’ve been studying this man’s!” He held the bottle against the sun. “As you can see, the color is right, the texture is right. But there’s one test that I have yet to perform.” “And what’s that?” asked the other three. “This!” The doctor put the bottle to his lips and drained it. Smacking his lips as the audience groaned, he annouced, “That taste is right! And I’ve concluded, based on my observations, that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with this man!” All three rascals turned to the patient, who brightened. “Nothing wrong?” Plunking his feet on the floor, the husband danced a little jig. “Why, the doctor’s right! There’s nothing wrong with me! It’s a miracle! God be praised!” He shot his hands in the air. The crowd cheered and applauded. Then the husband turned to the bed. “But what’s this?” He held up a large mace - a sturdy club studded (painted) with spikes. “This was in the bed under me all the time? No wonder my back hurt!” The wife broke from the priest and grabbed the mace. “There it is! I wondered where I lost it! This is my very own mace given me by my mother on my wedding day!” She hugged it to her lumpy bosom. “Oh, I’m so glad to see it!” The wife then fixed rheumy red eyes on the men. “And I know just what to do with it!” Keening a battle cry like a Saracen, she waved the club in the air and chased the men. They jumped and jolted and banged into one another, finally running jammed together like a flock of chickens with the brawny wife in hot pursuit. Around and around and around the set they ran, then disappeared around a corner. END
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