Shakespeare, he’s in the Alley

The man in the frock with pointy shoes and bells, stood in line at the soup kitchen in the Bowery on a warm summer morning.  His flowing dark wavy hair fell to his shoulders, and he flipped his hair back as the other homeless people gaped at him.  “Can I have kippers and bangers with a side of Yorkshire pudding please,” he said to the man doling out food when he got to the head of the line.  The man looked him up and down for a moment and replied, “This isn’t the Windsor Castle here.  You’ll take what we got,” as he ladled a pile of watery porridge on to his plate.  The odd looking man sat down on the curb next to the other hungry denizens of the underworld.  The man sitting next to him greeted him and asked for his name.  “My name is Willie Spear,” he said.  “My name is Dean,” came the reply.  “Where are you from Willie?”  “Why I come from Stratford-on-Avon,” Willie said.  “Is that in Connecticut?”  Willie looked puzzled.  “I know not where that place is.  I come from the midlands and traveled overnight to London to try to sell my latest sonnets.” “Oh, you are an English dude.  So that’s why you talk so funny.  What is this sonnet you are selling?  What does one do with a sonnet?”  “Forsook, my friend.  You know not a sonnet?  It is only the finest poetry that soothes the savage soul”  “Oh, so you are a writer Willie?  You have any writing that I can see?”  With that, Willie reached down into the pocket of his frock and pulled out a wrinkled white paper.  He handed to Dean who looked down at it, his eyebrows furrowing as he strained to make out the words.  “I can’t understand any of this stuff,” he said.  Dean turned to the main on the other side of him.  “Hey Steve, my friend Willie over here is a writer.  What do you think of this?  Dean said as he handed off the paper. Steve looked at Willie for the first time.  “Where is this dude from?  Mars or something?”  “Na,” replied Dean.  “He said he’s from Stratford-on-Avon.”  “Is that in Connecticut? “  “No, he’s an English guy and he thinks he’s in London.”  Steve looked down at the piece of paper.  “Is this in English?”  It looks like some foreign language to me.”  Willie snatched his paper back.  “My writing is too artful for thou”, Willie said.  “Methinks thou protest too much.  I shall henceforth journey yonder to where appreciation is forthcoming.  I have been in London a fortnight and it’s time to move on.”  With that Willie got up and walked away heading uptown. 

At the corner of Broadway and E. 12th St. he found a large sign with the word “Strand” in front of a book store.  Ah, he thought.  I finally found my bearings.  He knew the Strand was his place of comfort in London where he can meet fellow authors, poets and philosophers.  He entered the store and asked the first person he saw where he might find Trafalgar Square.  That was always his starting place to find merchants who may purchase his works.  After only getting a startled look, he moved on and decided to browse the books.  “My good man”, he said to a store clerk filling a shelf, “perchance, can you direct me to the section where I may find sonnets and plays?”  The store clerk scratched his head.  “We don’t usually carry that here, but we can special order it for you.”  Willie thought for a while and replied, “Does your shop buy original material?  I have written quite a few plays and sonnets.”  “I don’t think so,” said the clerk.  “Why don’t you ask the manager?  He’s the guy in the green shirt behind the desk.”  Willie approached the desk and waited for the man in the green shirt to look up.

Excuse me, my good man.  Are you the proprietor of the establishment?

Yes, I am.  How can I help you?

I’m a famous playwright you see, and I’m willing to sell you exclusive rights to my new plays.

You are, are you?  If you’re famous I should know your name.  Who are you?

My name is Spear, sir.  Willie Spear.

And where are you from Mr. Spear?

My abode is in Stratford-on-Avon

Oh, are you the guy who wrote “Hamlet”?

Why yes, that was one of my plays.  It was a big hit.

I see.  Wait here Mr. Spear.  I need to talk to my boss.  Don’t go anywhere.

The manager goes to the back office and dials the local police precinct.

103rd police precinct.  Sargent O’Rourke speaking.

Hello.  This is the manager of the Strand book store on Broadway.  I have a guy in the store who thinks he’s Shakespeare.  He wants to sell me his plays.  I mean he’s got the pointy shoes and bells and everything.

That’s like the 10th call I got about Shakespeare today.  I wonder if it’s always the same guy.  Is he threatening violence or doing anything dangerous?

Not yet.  But I think you should do a wellness check.  Maybe he escaped from a hospital.

OK I’ll send an officer over to investigate.

The manager went back to Willie.  My boss will be with you soon.  Mr. Spear, did you come here from a hospital?

You mean Bedlam?  Yes I am from there but I was given a furlough for a fortnight.

That’s the hospital in London, right?  Why were you there?

I think it was jealousy.  A lot of playwrights are envious of my success so they went to the authorities and told them I was loony.  Ridiculous, isn’t it?  At least they treat me well and let me continue to write.

Officer Jones entered the store and approached the desk.  

Mr.  Spear, this gentleman in the blue suit will help you.  

Thank you sir, Willie said to the officer.  Can I show you my plays?

Do you have any ID?

Any what?  I know not what you speak of.

A document that has your name on it?

All my documents have my name on it.  I autograph all my plays.

Sir, I need some proof of who you are.  Can I see what you have in your pockets?  I’m just trying to help you.

Willie emptied his pockets.  See, all I have is my work.  Why don’t you look through them and see if there are any you want to buy?  They are guaranteed to be hits at the Globe.  You can make lots of money by putting them in production.  I ask only a modest percent of the proceeds.

Where do you sleep, Mr. Spear?

At the Y on W. 14th street.  I just need some funds to tide me over until my Auntie comes and gets me in two weeks.  She has a home in the North Country with a quiet studio for me to write.  But I need enough to pay the hotel until then.  I didn’t want to tell her I’m out of the hospital.  She would get mad.

I see.  How much would you need?

About 12 pounds and 3 schillings.  

Can I see your work?  Maybe I will buy them.

Willie handed the officer his crumpled paper.  After studying the paper for a few minutes, the officer continued.

Yes, I can see this is very good.  I will pay your hotel bill if you promise to stay there until your auntie comes to get you.  You can call me at this number I’m writing down on this slip.  Do we have a deal?

Yes, it’s a deal.  Willie smiled for the first time that day as Officer Jones winked at the manager and went out in the midday sun.