An Art Show and A Challenge

The whole crazy idea was dreamt up in the summer of 1953 in David Duke’s back yard playhouse.  The playhouse had been built by his father and was the coolest thing ever, but someone decided that it needed some decoration. For weeks, five of us labored making drawings in color pencils, crayons, and water colors (the kind with tiny wells in a row inside a long tin box with a snap lid). We covered the inside walls with art that looked like a cross between Grandma Moses on mescaline and Pablo Picasso during his “Why-Would-Anybody-Buy-This-Dreck” period. We were admiring our “art” when somebody whose identity is lost to time decided we should not hide our fabulous work. We should advertise a show and turn the playhouse into a bone fide art gallery. Images of fame and fortune mixed with piles of cash sealed the deal. We set to work like killer bees out to save the hive. Our advertising campaign consisted of hand-drawn signs on telephone poles all over the neighborhood and big block letters with arrows written on the slate sidewalks with colored chalk, all put out the early morning of the show. We sat in the play house and waited. And waited. And waited. There were pee breaks. Moms brought out PB&Js. Finally around 1:30 PM, a high school kid not from the neighborhood walked up between the houses and stuck his head in the door.

“Is this the art exhibition?” My older brother allowed that it was. He took two steps inside, looked around, said “Good God,” and left.

“Maybe he went to get money,” Ronnie Beaver volunteered.

“We forgot to put prices on the pictures,” I said. “Quick, what should we ask?”

“No. He’s gone forever,” said my brother. We all sat on the floor (there were no chairs, stools, or even empty boxes to sit on) and moped. We were debating about prices when two kids showed up from way out Wolverton Street. “This is the most stupid thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” said the first one in the door.

“Yeah, you guys are really retards,” said the second without even looking at anything. Clearly, they were looking for trouble

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“So’s your mother.”

Things were quickly escalating to the point where nothing was left but to fight it out. At least we were five to two. But the interlopers had pushed things past the point of no return and couldn’t back down. “We challenge you goons to a fight,” said the first kid.

Without hesitating, my brother blurted out, “You’re on.” What was he thinking? My brother was a lot of things, but he wasn’t pugilistic and he wasn’t stupid. Where was he going with this? He kept talking without a hesitation.

“Since you two started this, we get to pick how we’re going to settle it. We pick the place, the time, and the weapons.” Weapons? Had my older brother lost his mind? Rifles? Pistols? Mustard gas? Hand grenades? (There was an Army/Navy surplus store right on Market Street.)

Always the reader, my brother pulled a rolled-up Classics Illustrated comic book out of his back pocket. He opened it up and shoved it into the kids’ faces. They stared down. “Who and the hell are THEY?” The color picture showed two Roman soldiers locked in deadly combat.

“Figure it out, wimps.” My brother was really feeling cocky. “They’re Gladiators. We choose a Gladiator war in full dress at the Hill School playground next Saturday at high noon. If you guys lose, you have to buy every picture. They’re a dime each. If we lose…” My brother was groping, here. He knew that none of us had a penny, let alone a dime. “If we lose, you both get a dollar.”

What was this “we” business?  None of us could ever possibly come up with two whole dollars. The biggest cash in hand for me was a lousy quarter, and my brother had to carry it all the way down to the Rialto Theater before he’d surrender it so I could personally pay for my ticket. What had my brother gotten us into? The two kids put on a defiant front and backed out the door. The last one out sneered, “We’re going to bring everybody. You’re all dead meat. Gladiator war. What a stupid idea.” With that, they ran between the houses out onto Court Street and were gone.

The comic book that inspired all-out war in the neighborhood.

We Become Gladiators

Everybody grabbed at the comic book. It was all about somebody called Julius Caesar, and on various pages it showed these soldiers hacking each other to pieces. THIS is what my brother got us into? Everybody looked at the color pictures. Swords, shields, hammers, bludgeons, spears, iron balls with spikes on chains. It was a cornucopia of mayhem. Fred and Ronnie Beaver took off and came back fifteen minutes later with three more kids. I looked around in disbelief as one after the other said they were fine with the whole idea. I was certain we’d be crippled for life and have to beg for dimes down in Cameron Park. We’d be armless, legless, headless, blind, knocked into imbecility.

My brother could sense the rising tension. “Look. We’ll have wooden swords and sponge rubber balls on string. We can do this.”

“What about all those other dopes?” somebody asked.

“We’ll find out where their hideout is and go over under a flag of truce. We’ll lay out ground rules.” Nobody believed that one would stick, but what could we do? It was agreed the parlay would occur on Tuesday morning, assuming they’d agree. In the meantime, we scoured the neighborhood for empty appliance boxes and scrap wood. We made shields out of orange crate wood strips and pieces of cardboard. We made chest armor and wooden swords. After that, we ran out of ideas. My brother came up with using his stilts that the Old Man made for him as lances. Ronnie Beaver made bolos out of a couple of ratty sponge balls and twine. Somebody found a single, very old football helmet made out of leather. Somehow, it was decided that, as the runt of the litter, I’d wear the helmet and be the medic. We’d use my Radio Flyer red wagon as an ambulance. I’d stand on the sidelines and haul away the dead and  wounded to the playhouse. I felt better already, even though the helmet was so big, it went down over my eyes. I was told to deal with it.

By Friday, all the nailing, hammering, cutting and shaping was over. We gathered in the early afternoon and surveyed our armory. Everybody was issued a sword and a shield except me. Apparently, the other side had agreed that hacking away at the only medic on the field would be in exceedingly poor taste. The oldest kids got the stilts, and the most belligerent got the sponge rubber balls. My brother was concerned about tactics, or as he called it, “the order of battle.” It all sounded too complicated, so we finally settled on standing in a line and attacking en masse.

One of our gang guards the entrance to the playground.

(rendering by Richard Lytle)

We were all standing and ready for battle at 11:45 AM sharp. We had the west end of the playground because my brother claimed that the sun would soon be in their eyes, much to our advantage. Because Hill School was built on a slope and the playground was level, the tennis-court-sized playground was built on fill with a brick wall around three sides. The wall ended about three feet above grade and was topped with cement that sloped on both sides like the peak of a roof. Not much room to maneuver, but then again, we had ruled out maneuvers. Our whole gang was standing around in their ridiculous outfits when we heard chanting. The foe was marching west on Chestnut street to what sounded like a chain gang rhythm. I was standing part way up the slope in front of the kindergarten windows and couldn’t make out any words. It all sounded like grunting. They came up the wide steps onto the center of the playground, formed a line, and stopped. The opposing lines looked like they had been hit by a windstorm carrying pieces of cardboard and scrap wood. It would’ve taken a clever mind to make out that everybody was actually in costume.

Nobody moved. Nobody said anything or did anything. We needed a starting pistol or somebody with a checkered flag or a whistle. Finally, somebody yelled, “Yah, your mother wears army boots!”

That did it. The two lines came together to the sounds of splintering orange crate wood. When our guys advanced with their stilts, they were met by their guys swirling burlap bags over their heads. Who squealed? Did we have a mole on our side? How else could they possibly know about our secret weapons? The swirling bags also proved effective against our sad twirling sponge rubber balls. But after all of that, burlap bags proved to have little use as offensive weapons. Things were really getting intense with bits of wood and cardboard sailing up in the air and over the wall when a little, stooped old lady wheezed up the steps and hollered that she was going to call the cops. Everything stopped as both lines, such as they were at that point, turned towards her. I figured she’d freak out and realize that she was about to be set on by about twelve kids dressed up like nightmares out of It Came From Outer Space. Instead, she got even more bent out of shape.

Nobody knew what to do. I had my stuffed dog Blackie sitting on the asphalt with a hanky wrapped around his head, just for effect, you understand. I dumped him into the wagon and ran as fast as I could back to the playhouse. I had just stopped panting when the rest of the gang walked dejectedly in the door. There were a couple of bloody knuckles and one goose egg, and that was it. All the swords were stumps, and the really cool shields were in tatters. “Who won?” I asked.

At first, everybody tended their various wounds and piled up the sad remains of their war materiel. Finally, my brother, who was nursing a bloody knuckle, racked up the stilts and said, “Nobody.”

After all of THAT? Nobody? Nobody won? Nobody vanquished? No triumph? No laurels? Nothing?

“That dumb old lady played the ultimate trump card. We all agreed to continue the fight, but it would have to be someplace where little old ladies wouldn’t or couldn’t walk past.”

Slowly, our invincible army of gladiators melted away into the neighborhood. Apparently both sides had had enough of ancient warfare. The rematch never occurred, and soon both sides were back together playing hide ‘n seek, red light, and all the other playground games we had learned. As the weeks rolled by, the legend of the Great Hill School Gladiator War gained stature and caché. It made a huge impression when you said, “I was there. I fought in the Great Gladiator War.” The final outcome was never discussed, and the aura of the moment silenced the doubtful.