Preview: The Shovells

The Shovells - A Three Act Play
Unpublished Work© 2017 Retopia Limited.
All Rights Reserved.
By Steven Wood Collins
Auhor of Puramore - The Lute of Pythagoras , a dystopian sci-fi novel, and The Patricians blog


Act One – Grannie

The wooden joints of the ancient rocking chair creaked and cracked as Chester pitched back and forth on the veranda of his opulent East End mansion. The rhythmic report of old age sounded like his joints when occasionally used.

He started to nod off when he heard her approach. Bracing himself for the worst, he snapped upright.

“Chester, you lazy old coot, git up frum thar and fetch a jug of moonshine frum the root cellar!”

“I be a fetchin' moonshine whenst the still be a done a makin', Ma.”

Grannie sat down in the rocking chair facing his. She wore a solemn expression on her face. As she began to rock in cadence with her son, she said, “Elvis he's a fixin' to be a noveleest.”

“That sounds like a migh' dangerous occupation! It be 'bout time he thinks 'bout doin' somethin' dangerous as a growd-up. Whut be a noveleest?”

“Noveleests be’em, you ignoramous, who be a writin' books you don't ne’er read!”

“Be you insultin' my intelligence ag’in?”

“Dat thar be a regular occupational 'azard fur you, you lazy polecat, if’n you 'ad anay!”

“Whut Elvis needs doin' to be a noveleest?”

“Mandie Mae says he needs to takes one of doze books to a publeesher.”

“Whut be a publeesher?”

“Hell fire on me if'n I knows!”

“Who he gots to wrassale to gits one of dem thar books?”

“Him ne'er need to wrassale a single blamed soul, you lazy hick. You needs to buys him one of dem thar books fur him. You plumb furgits we don' need to wrassale anymo’ to git whut we’ins wan’s.”

“Old ‘abits die hard, Ma. Whar be Elvis now?”

“He be out back at the concrete lake a wrassalin' and a blackguardin' that beeg, ugly lizard critter you boughts him the othern day.”

“That be one of those crocodillians.”

“Crocowhuts! Be you disrespectin' me ag’in? If'n you be, boy, I gonna to whup you good wit’ a stick!”

“Gorsh, I ain't disrespectin' you, Ma.”

“I warns you I ain't a takin' no backsass frum you. I be your eldern by thirteen yearn and knows the ways of the world likes you ne’er will. You and yourn chillen be backerds and always will be comparst to yourn dear ol’ ma." She sniffed the sniff of righteous indignation.

"Well, anyways, I be a hopin' he don' kill dat one too fast like he didst the othern. It be a dang blasted shame to be a wastin' money like dat on his wretched critter collection. Why cayns't he be like normal male youngens back home and wrassale with black b’ars like they does in the woods in old Kentuck?”

“Don't be a givin' him any idears, Ma, or he be a askin' for me to buys him a black b’ar.”

She regained her composure. She said, “Given him a holler! I be a wantin’ him to tells you hisself 'bout his afix'n to be a noveleest.”

“Elvis! Git in this ‘ere house, righ' now,” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“You know, Ma, I been a thinkin'…”

“You be a thinkin', ay? Looky out world! Chester’s been a thinkin'”

“Ma, please. This thinkin' is mightily importan’ to me," he implored. “Elvis pert nigh on twenty-seven yearn of age and he ain't a grandpa. And Mandie Mae, well, she be a turnin' twenty yearn of age this year and is a fixin' to be one of those spinsters if'n she don't gits hitcht soon. That all be a shame on the Shovell clan. I too be concern’d ‘cause ourn kinfolk ne'er live much past forty yearn of age.”

She stared at him as though he was daft all the while he spoke. She responded: “Chester, you be a dang blasted imbecile! Shovell kinfolk ne'er e’t better than possum and taters. No wonder they died as youngens. This be a new age of super duper victuals and medicinal practices. Ne'er you mind, purty Mandie Mae and that no 'count Elvis they live yon one hundred yearn of age and Mandie Mae she git hitched nigh on whens I breaks Elvis of the uncouth ‘abit of wrassalin' wit’ hern suitors. Let me do the thinkin' 'cause you ain't up to speed wit’ modern morays 'cause you be uneducated. I gonna start pinnin' back yourn ears and a makin' you read a newspaper every day like yourn dear old ma does.”

“Ma, I ne'er seed you a readin' one of dem newspapers.”

“Chester York Shovell, be you a backsassin' and a disrespectin' me ag’in!?”

“No, Ma, but...”

“But me no buts, boy. Now fire up dat smoke pot. Nigh’ critters be a startin' to git the bes’ of me. And stop pickin' your teeth wit’ dat dang blasted possum bone! Boy, that be anothern nasty ‘abit of yourn dat I gonna breaks you of someday. You ain't ne'er gonna gits hitcht 'gain wit’ uncivilized manners like dat.”

“Ma, neighbors gonna complains to the police ag’in if'n I does.”

“If'n 'bours does, you be a offern dem to buys theirn property ag’in. I don' a cotton wit’ theirn interference with ourn familiar bliss after suppertime. Sooner we be ridst of dem the better. Purty soon we jus' migh’ own all the property for all the eye can seed 'round these heren parts and cans clear all ourn land fur alter purposes.”

Chester took a match out of his shirt pocket and struck it across the back of his thigh. The phosphorous tip instantly ignited. He lit the smoke pot and his corncob pipe. Drawing on the burning tobacco, he grinned a wolfish grin. He said, “Now that be one idea of yourn dat I likes immensely, Ma.”

Suddenly Grannie’s face became flush. She brought her hands to her face as a staccato screech commenced like the sound of dog nails dragging over the marble floor. She shrieked: “Elvis! Whut in the blue blazes are you doin' with dat thar vile creature! Git it out of here, you beeg lummoxen!”

The exceptionally tall and muscular young male yanked on the rope with all his might to stop the eight-foot long crocodile tethered at the other end from charging any further toward the pair. Besides the large bowie knife slung from his right hip, all he wore was a tightly fitting swim trunks and a silly grin.

"But, Grannie! I be a wantin’ you to be a appreciatin' me for my accomplishmen'. Looky here. I dun manages to close Herkimer's yap."

A long length of thick hemp rope wound around the animal’s snout.

This finally proves whut I be a expectin’ all along--that dang blasted, inbred moron McCoy clan manage’ to produce a dang blasted moron Shovell. I don’ warnt Chester befur he star’ a courtin’ dat McCoy woman dat thisn likely migh’ occur if'n he knockt her up. Well, dat thar goes our dream dat he be a one day a takin' o’er Chester's Shovel Mountain Panther Piss Sour Mash Still and makes a success of hisself in the distillin' business on his own. Perhaps his bein’ a noveleest ain't such a bad idea afte’ all fur him given his mental infirmity. Oh, well, at least Mandie Mae be somewhut normal for continuin' on the Shovell clan ‘eritage. But Chester he be a needin' a righ’ful heir 'cause Elvis ain't no how be a proper successor. I must fetch him a new wife to bear him anothern son. Thar be plenty rightful and proper ladies in these here parts of Londontown to be a hitchin’ him to. Well, anyway, 'til dat occurs I must be a placatin' Elvis as bes’ I can 'cause Mandie Mae done told me dat they be sensiteeve in nature. Boy, I sure do love a thinkin' like this 'cause it be a makin' me feel so intelligent. I just wish that old coot Chester would let a honey bee flyst ‘round in dat empty barn he calls his brain every once in a while. Last time he did we became billionaires. But that be ages ago and anothern story for a tellin' later. I must tend to the matters at hand so I must cease this thinkin' for now. Well, that thar is just the way we’ins talks in ourn neck of the woods in ol’ Kentuck.

“Ma, you be okay?” he said. His face was no more than a foot away from hers.

“Yes, confound it! I was just a thinkin’!”

“You gave me an awful fright, Ma. I thought dat we’ins migh’ lost you fur good. I ne'er seed you a thinkin’ like dat befur.”

“Be you a disrespectin’ me ag’in?!”

“No, Ma, but...”

“Git back to dat thar char of yourn, you nitwit! Now whar was I?” She smiled at her grandson after she shook her head.

“Why you smar' and clever ol' boy! I be so proudful of you I couldst almost speet. Now you keepst that rope 'round Herkimer's snout so he can’t e’t any more of ourn 'coon dawgs. And you be a keepin' it ropt to a fence post whenst you feeds dat thar critter.”

Elvis beamed. "I promise, Grannie. I cans always hogtie the rope 'roun’ his snout ag’in after he e’ts. I know the wrassalin’ technicalities fur dat now.”

“Why you be a smar' and goo' ol' boy, Elvis. Now you haul dat thar critter back to dat thar lake out back and gits back here in a lightnin' flash 'cause we be a wantin' to jaw at you 'bout your wantin' to be one of dem thar noveleests. And fur heaven's sake, put on yourn britches, you be a startin' to rile up the womenfolk helpers dressed as naked as a jaybird.”

“I be a back here in a lighnin' flash, Grannie.” He proceeded to run with Herkimer in his arms to the nearly Olympic-size swimming pool.

She looked into Chester’s eyes. She said, "I reckons dat boy be a makin' a fine noveleest one day.”

The pair continued rocking in contemplative silence with their eyes closed while they awaited Elvis’s return. Fifteen minutes later he returned.

"Grannie, I’m aback."

Her eyes snapped open and she looked up at him. “Well, so you aire. Pull up one of those chairs over thar and let's have a jaw at you.”

“Son, your Grannie be a telling me dat you be a fixin’ to be one of dem thar noveleests. Dat be a migh’ radical departure frum anythin' a Shovell ‘as e'er dun. Be dat as it may, you canst spends the rest of yourn life wrassalin’ crocodillians.”

“Well, Pa, I was a hopin’ you’d buy me a black b’ar…”

“Are you disrespectin’ yourn pa, boy!? You shuts yourn trap ‘til you been a told to speak.”

“Okay, Grannie.”

Pa resumed: “You’ve reached a poin' in yourn life wheres you needs to be a thinkin’ seriously ‘bout yourn life’s wurk. I be always a wantin’ you to be a continuin’ the age-ole Shovell tradition of shovelin’ fur a livin’ if’n you weren’t interested in the liquor disstillin’ business. Shovelin’ ain’t such a bad career, son. We’in Shovells been doin’ dat fur generations, probably as far back as the invention of noble diggin’ implement.”

“How would you know dat, you puddin’ head!? You don’t even knows yourn great grandmas’ maiden names.”

“Please, Ma. Don’t interrupts me ag’in. Dis ‘ere is a serious discussion dat I’m a havin’ wit’ my son,” he snapped. “Now, as I was ‘bout to say, as my dear old grandpa was fond of sayin’, 'you takes care of your shovel and your shovel will takes care of you for the rest of yourn life.' Shovelin’ ain’t a glamorous callin’ but it’ll provide for you and yourn family even durin’ the wors' of times. And if’n you be as good at the profession as I and the las’ fur generations of Shovells was, you be a one day reachin’ the apex of the shovelin’ trade and wurks for an undertaker. It don’t git any better than dat in the line of work. I’m proud to say I dug graves back home fur some of the fines’ folks who ever died. We’ins as a family owe our very existence and vast fortune to the noble diggin’ implemen’. Ne’er forgit dat and always be proud of yourn ‘eritage as a Shovell. Whut do you say to dat, son?”

“Go ahead. Talk, boy!”

“Pa, I hold my head up high knowing my heritage as a Shovell as I do. But I must admit to you that I feel the call to another calling—one as a writer of novels. I must also confess that I’ve been reading novels for several years now while you weren’t looking.”

“For land’s sakes, may the Good Lord ‘ave pity on your soul, boy! You ain’t even mastered the fine art of blackguardin’ yet and you be a readin’ noveels behind our backs. I think I’m going to die of shame righ’ here and now!”

“Ma! Let the boy speak!”

“Grandma, I’m planning to return to school to study literature and writing in order to further my career objectives as a novelist.”

“Chester, git me a jug of moonshine now. I’m going to git properly drunk!”

“Ma!” Boy, that be some ambition of yourn. Where do plan to pursuit yourn schooling?”

“I was thinking of enrolling at Oxford University.”

“That’s ridiculous! Only the best of the best English blackguarders be a schoolin’ thar. You take a look at dat uppity solicitor of ourn who gradeated frum dat institution. He’s by far and away the vilest of blackguarders I ever ‘ad the eternal disgrace to ‘ear speak. I was so mortified with his blackguardin’ the furst time I ‘eard him speak I almos’ died right thar on the spot. I couldn’t even understand most of the cuss words he used they were so vile and blasphemous. You’ll ne’er match him in any way shape or form so don’t even thinks of it. Heck, you be a still practicin' your blackguardin’ skills on dumb animals.”

“Ma, I think the boy’s a might confused. Whut sort of noveels ‘ave you been a readin’?”

“Books written by Mark Twain at first. Now I’m reading a book written by Ian Fleming.”

“Who gave you those books?”

“Our solicitor, Mr Briarwood.”

“Just as I expected! Fire dat boy righ' away, Chester. He be a corruptin’ the moral sensibilities and fibers of my gran'son. He be a startin’ to talk like him, too.”

“Ma, please. I be a migh’ touched to the ‘eart Mr Briarwood been a taken an interest in furtherance of his education.”

“Well, if it weren’t for him I might not have ever taken a shine to reading, Pa.”

“Even still, it be a far cry from whut I ‘ad in mind for you as an occupational pursuit. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather receive vocational trainin’ as a shov’ler? You knows you cans make an honest living in the trade and always live on the income you cans earns frum the still when times gits real bad in the shov’lin’ business. I’ll even train you to operate your own still.”

“Pa, I just don’t think that I’m cut out to be a shoveler, or moonshiner. Besides, we’ll never run out of money for at least the next ten generations of the Shovell clan. My heart is in pursuing a writing career and thats what I aim to train to do.”

“How do you expects to git into dat Oxfurd University?”

“With your money, Pa. Just dump a wheel barrel full of it on their doorsteps. You can always hire someone to tutor me in the fine art of English blackguarding before and after I begin my studies.”

“Well, you were the first Shovell to ever gradeate from high school. Dat does say somethin’ 'bout yourn aptitude fur higher educational studies. Ma, whut be you a thinkin'?”

This be wharin I steps in to save the day in furtherance of my plan to wed Chester ag’in so he cans produce anothern male heir.

“Why I be a thinkin’ it’s a hellacious idea fur him to educates hisself to become a noveleest. I cans’t be more supportif.”

“Really, Ma?”

“Really!”

“Are you sure you be a wantin’ this fur yournself, Elvis?”

“Absolutely, Pa!”

“Okay. I be a callin’ Mr Briarwood furst thing in the mornin’ to git the wheel barrel a rollin’ fur you. But you be a needin’ to speak fur me as you’ve always dun. Dat Mr Briarwood doesn’ seem to understand proper English when it be a spoken.”

“I shall do so with pleasure, Pa.”


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