The Glisson Glop — Who Was That Masked Man?

In 1999, my son, Sebastian, was a high-school senior, and it was time for him to take the Scholastic Aptitude Test. He signed up a little late, so all the locations near our home in Solana Beach were filled up. Instead, he was assigned to take the SAT at a school in Chula Vista, a 45-minute drive down I-5, just a few miles from the Mexican border in the south end of San Diego.

I was glad to oblige and do the driving. My time waiting for him would be well spent. I was deep into writing a book about the FBI catching spies during the Cold War—my story, written as fiction. I could find a table to work on in the school library.

Chula Vista High School had one of the modern libraries, set up for both the students and also the surrounding community. That explained the prominent section for children’s books.

I left my son to find his testing room and settled into a comfortable spot in the library.

About an hour in, several people began to arrive, sets of parents with one or two little ones, ages about four through ten. They were quiet enough and didn’t hinder my concentration.

About fifteen minutes later, I turned around to see a couple of dozen people, all with children. By this time, the three librarians had arranged a semicircle of two rows of folding chairs in an open area for a Saturday morning presentation. Children began to sit on the floor in front of them.

Fine, I could move farther away to a quiet corner.

A few minutes later, the librarians appeared to be in quite a tizzy. They kept looking over at the crowd that was forming, and down at all the children. They seemed in near-panic mode.

Always with a first-responder brain, I wondered what the problem was. I had never been in this school, none of my five children attended it, and I never expected to be back there again. Still, was there something I could do to help?

I walked over to the librarians and, not wanting to interrupt, stood patiently opposite them across the counter. One of them moved toward me.

I told her it seemed that something was amiss, and I was merely inquiring about it.

Absolutely flustered, she said they had arranged for a professional reader, a woman, to fly into the local airport that morning. She was to read to a couple of dozen children and their parents. 

The librarian reached for a circular announcing the event. It had been posted around the school and in stores in the neighborhood. Then, appearing very down, she said the small plane their guest was to take to the local airport near Chula Vista could not take off. There was no other way for her to travel a couple of hundred miles to make it to their planned event.

She was crestfallen, as were the other two librarians. They were about to make a very sad announcement to a becoming-more-anxious crowd, but were putting it off.

I gathered myself to make a decision. Sebastian had more than an hour left for his test, and I could always work on my book another time.

I addressed all three librarians. I told them I had only come to bring my son for his SATs, but as coincidence might have it, I might be able to help them.

They stared at me, saying nothing. Maybe they were hoping for a miracle.

I explained that I had five children, ages nine-through-nineteen. I had been the entertainment for many of their parties and school classes for the last several years. I have a number of poems memorized and had performed them on enough occasions that my young daughters had been even invited to parties by girls they hardly knew, so their father—me—could perform for their birthday guests.

“If you would be willing to take a chance on someone you don’t know and never heard of, I would be glad to give it a shot.”

All four of us looked around at the stirring audience. The librarians looked back at me—now, all but pleading.  

“Would you?” one of them asked.

I was on.

I walked to the line at the edge of the semicircle and addressed the audience. I told them I knew they had come to listen to a professional reader, but due to circumstances beyond her control, she could not make it. Instead, I told them, I had driven all the way down from Solana Beach to entertain the children.

“About a hundred and twenty-five years ago,” I began, “Lewis Carroll wrote a book for his young niece, Alice. He had sat with her on a stone wall at Christ Church College in Oxford, England, surrounded by a lovely garden. All of a sudden, a white rabbit appeared through the bushes and stopped only a few feet away from them. That was the moment “Alice in Wonderland” was created in the mind of Lewis Carroll. Children everywhere have enjoyed it ever since.”

I had their attention. Now to ease into the poems.

“He wrote about two very unappealing young boys, twins, who dressed alike, Tweedle-dum, and Tweedle-dee.”  

Hearing their funny names, some of the children began to giggle.

I went on:

Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee agreed to have a battle,

For Tweedle-dum said Tweedle-dee had spoiled his nice new rattle.

Just then flew down a monstrous crow, as black as a tar barrel,

Which frightened both the heroes, so they quite forgot their battle.

There was some mild applause, but that was only the set up.

I told them that is “reciting” a poem, but to really tell the story, you have to act it out.

I turned around, took a deep breath, and set myself into a pose. I turned back around and pointed to my left with my left thumb, “Tweedle-dum…” then with my right thumb, jerking in the other direction, “and Tweedle-dee,” then stepping forward toward the front row of children, “agreeeeed to have a BATTLE!” 

The kids jumped back, but were laughing.

“For Tweedle-dum” thumb jerk to the left.

“said Tweedle-dee,” thumb jerk to the right, 

“…had SPOILED his nice new rattle!”

Then looking up to the heavens, with a searching glance, and all of a sudden, appearing to see something dark and terrible, I brought my hands to my face in fear.

“Just then flew down a MOOOOOOONSTROUS CROW, as black as a tar barrel (said with amazement), that frightened both the heroes so….they QUITE forgot their QUARREL!”

Now there was applause from both the little ones and their parents. It was not a recitation, but a performance.

I picked eight volunteers among the children on the floor, who would help me with the poem. Once lined up across the front of our makeshift stage, I gave each one their line to memorize. They all repeated them one-by-one, and finally stood in a row. 

“Ready…?” I said, and pointed at the first little boy.

“Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee,” he said, loud and clear.

Next child, “Agreed to have a battle.”

Next child, “For Tweedle-dum said Tweedle-dee”

Next, “had spoiled his nice new rattle.”

They finished it out, and the parents were pleased, but had no idea what was coming. If I hadn’t done this before, neither would I, but that was the beauty of this experience. If I was fortunate, and them as well, they would never forget it.

I went back to the first boy and had him say his short line with passion, like it was truly the first line of an exciting story, but then to stand back for the next child to come forward for her line. 

It went off just about like clockwork. I walked across the front as the lines were spoken, waving my arms so they would do their best to emphasize certain words, and look up at the invisible crow in a frightening fashion, then ending with a calm satisfaction, as the last little girl said, “They QUITE forgot their QUARREL!” She even did an exaggerated head nod to bring her chin all the way down, drawing the poem to its conclusion. Now there truly was applause. It was a great little performance.

They all sat back down and I returned to center stage.

I told them there is usually a moral to a story, at least something to learn from such poems. Here, I summed it up as, “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” That is, do not let the little things bother you. Deal with them, and get over them. But when really big problems face you, that is when you need to be concerned, like when a giant bird is flying down to get you.”

I raised my arms upward, palms facing the sky, an imaginary giant bird coming toward me. I seemed to be pushing it away and took a few steps up and back. The children in the first row scattered out of the way, as they, too, imagined what I was fighting. 

“Then,” I said, “compare that to things that may bother you, but are not really a big deal—like whose rattle is it. This will cause fewer arguments on the playground, and people will get along better.”

I waited a moment and said that Mr. Carroll had written another, longer poem, called The Walrus and the Carpenter. 

I began:

The sun was shining on the sea, shining with all its might,Doing its very best to keep the billows calm and bright,

And this was odd because it was the middle of the night.

I stopped there and asked the children if there was something that didn’t make any sense. One girl raised her hand high, with a straight arm, and her other hand holding it up at the elbow. She really wanted to be called on.

“The sun doesn’t come out at night,” she said.

“Well done,” I told her, “and that was the point. Mr. Carroll taught mathematics—which is a more complicated kind of arithmetic—and also logic. He would write things in his poems that were not logical which, for him, in 1872, was great fun and like a joke. That is probably why his stories have lasted for 125 years!

I recited the rest of the long poem, with the Walrus and the Carpenter getting all of the oysters to follow them far down the beach, and eventually, eating every one.

Some of the children seemed to have taken the oysters’ side and became sad, but I told them that is just how Mr. Carroll wrote it. 

To the parents in the back, taking this all in, I commented that the characters in the Walrus and the Carpenter, were actually caricatures of famous political figures in England at the time, Lewis Carrol’s way of making fun of them—like the king and the prime minister—sort of, in disguise.

There were some other poems I also acted out, and my audience seemed happy they had come to the library that morning.

I looked over to the librarians for the first time since I had begun. Actually, I had forgotten about them, so involved had I been with the children. They were all smiles.

I looked at my watch and said I had one more poem, which was my very favorite of all. This did get their attention.

I told them a nice lady named Diane Redfield Massie had written it in 1970. In 1999, that was almost 30-years before, and seemed to the children to be almost forever ago.

“It is about a monster who lived on the bottom of the ocean floor. It was so deep and so dark that he could hardly see his hand in front of his face. This was a special monster, because he liked to read. But to read books, he had to have light. There were two different fish that made their own light, the lantern fish and the electric eel. They would swim right near the monster so he could read by their light.

“But the problem was—and it was a big one—the monster had to eat. And the fish he ate were—the lantern fish and the electric eel!”

I said these last words in an ominous way, and leaned over the front row of children. A couple of them shrank back, taking on the fears of the little fish. That was when knew this was going to work.

“The monster has to make a big decision. Does he want to eat, or does he want to read? And that is the story of The Monstrous Glisson Glop!”

Before I began, I took the best actor of the Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum set of children. She was the little girl who had been on the end. I said three lines to her and asked her to repeat them a couple of times. First was, “Why should I?” Easy enough, and without the context of the words around it in the poem, it wouldn’t make sense, but this was all in good fun and acting.

Next was, “Perhaps you might eat me!”

She said it just fine, but I needed her to show some passion, as though she thought she might actually be eaten by a monster.

I was thinking her parents might cringe at that, but it was important for the storyline. I thought they would be fine when it came up in the recitation.

Then, I said there was one more line, “I’m going!”

She said it, and I asked her to say it again, almost as though she was slamming a door and leaving a room in anger.

She looked at her parents in the back row of chairs, then turned back to me, once more, and said, even more loudly, “I’M GOING!”

Wow, that was perfect!

I knew this would be the finale, and I wanted it all to come out smoothly. I also hoped I hadn’t forgotten any of the couple dozen stanzas to be able to recite the entire poem. It had been several months since I last did this, and I’d had no time to practice it since learning of the librarians’ catastrophe-in-the-making. 

I turned around and went into my best Glisson Glop mode. The big room was silent. 

Over the years, partly because the FBI taught me to speak Romanian, I have portrayed the voice of the Glisson Glop as sounding like Dracula. That, too, has gone over well with audiences, and it just feels right for the voice of a monster who lives on the ocean floor.

It begins with a certain eeriness, and my deep baritone voice added to the tension.

“There WAS a MOOOOONSTROUS Glisson Glop….” now I was up at my full six-foot-plus-height, and arms stretched far above my head. I brought them down and leaned into the young audience, “who lived beneath the sea. His eyes were red (pointing to my eyes), his teeth were sharp, (pointing at my teeth), and (with my hands moving up and down outside of my chest to my legs), greener than a pea.”

Now for Dracula to take over when the monster speaks. 

“I LOVE to dine on lantern fish, and eels are better yet, the more I eat,” the Monster said, “the darker still it gets….”

The kiddies in the first couple of rows were all but in a trance. Their parents didn’t know whether to watch their children’s reactions, or just take in the performance.

“It’s gloomy on the ocean floor,

It’s blacker than the night,

And if I eat the lantern fish,

There won’t be any light.”

He ate another lantern fish, (slurping sounds)

And swallowed down an eel. (more slurping sounds)

“A pity,” said the Glisson Glop,

“How sad it makes me feel.”

He found his tattered storybook,

And held it to his face.

“I can’t make out the words,” he said,

“I’ll NEVER find my place.”

I mustn’t eat another eel—

An eel cam swimming by.

He gulped it down and licked his chops, (slurp, slurp, slurp…)

“It makes me want to cry!”

“The sea is black as ink,” he said,

“It’s hard to see my claws.

If lantern fish come swimming by,

I’m buttoning my jaws.” (Motion of buttoning my lips)

The lantern fish came swimming by.

He ate them one-by-one. (slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp)

“I’ve finished off the lantern fish,

And now,” he sighed,” there’s none.”

(Momentary pause….)

A little fish came swimming by,

With lights above its head.

The Glisson Glop fell on his knees,

“A light!” the monster said.

“Stay here!” he told the little fish,

“Come near so I can see.”

Now I pointed to the star actress who had learned her lines so well, and gave her a big nod.

“Why should I,” (she said, quite belligerently, then I said), “said the little fish,” 

(then her turn, again) “Perhaps you might eat me!”

“Perhaps I won’t,” the Glisson Glop said,

Crossly from his bed,

“I hate the dark, it strains my eyes,

It makes them veeery red.”

“My promises,” the Glisson Glop said,

“Hopefully are good.  

I try my best to keep them,

When I don’t, I know I should.”

(Pointing again at the girl for her last line), “I’M GOING,” (and she actually turned her shoulders, as if to go, then my turn), said the little fish,

And quickly swam away.

“Outraaaaageous!” said the Glisson Glop, (my arms up high in frustration)

“What can a monster say?”

(Pause….)

He lay upon the ocean floor,

“‘Tis day, or ‘tis it night?

“One can’t,” he said, “tell what it is.

I wish I had a light.”

“I wish I had a lantern fish

And one electric eel.

I’d never think again,” he said,

“Of making them a meal.”

“I’d treat them very gently,

And pat them on the head, (Here, I always pat the heads of the two nearest children)

And read them bedtime stories,

Before they go to bed.”

(Pause…)

The Glisson Glop lay sadly down

And strained his eyes to see.

The black was even blacker

Than it ever used to be.

(Another pause…)

“What’s there?” he said, “Some little lights,

They’re coming near. Hooray!

A lantern fish, an eel,” he cried,

“Are surely on their way.”

(This last stanza, said calmly…)

A lantern fish and eel swam down

And climbed upon his knee.

And now the monster reads at night,

“It’s hard,” he said, “when one can’t bite,

Or nibble up one’s reading light,

But, oh…. it’s nice to see.”

I stood there for a moment, scanning the crowd on the floor and in the chairs. There was silence. I was not sure if they knew it was over, or if they were waiting for more. For someone performing, it really wouldn’t matter, because either one meant you really, really, had their attention.

I stretched my arms out from my sides, made a slight bow of my head, and said, “The end.”

Then there was cheering, and it was funnier to me than I would have thought. I had always performed this poem when one of my children was in the audience. The little girl had played the little fish role—that my own daughter, Natalia, had spoken at almost all of the performances—and today’s actress had done it to perfection!

I pointed to the young lady and gave her a lifting sign to stand up and take a bow, and she did. Now there was even more laughter from the parents, but they kept clapping until her face was beet red. 

I told them they had been a wonderful audience, and I was glad to have come to their library this morning.

I walked over to the librarians, whose faces were also red, perhaps in exhalation that all went well. Maybe the thoughts about their planned reader no longer pained them.

At their counter, the three gave me a short ovation, and thanked me more than I would want to write about here. 

I shook all of their hands and bowed out. Over in the corner, I closed up my computer and started to leave.

At that moment, Sebastian was opening the library door from the hallway and we met at the doorsill.

I asked him how it went, and it was clear he’d had a tiring experience. I put a supportive arm around his shoulders and we walked out to the car together.

Years ago, when I was a boy in the 1950s, there was a TV show, The Lone Ranger. It had been a radio program years before the advent of television, and it was an easy jump to the visual medium, back then, in black-and-white.

The Lone Ranger, with his black mask, white hat and white stallion, was accompanied by his companion, Tonto. They traveled from place to place in the Wild West. When they found downtrodden people in strong need of a hero to save them from bullies ruining their town and destroying their peaceful lives, they took action. 

By the time the hour-long show was over, the Lone Ranger had resolved their problems and the bad guys had gotten their comeuppance. Then he mounted his horse and rode off into the sunset. This was how every episode ended. Invariably, one of the grateful townspeople would say out loud, to no one in particular, “Who was that masked man?”

Then the theme music came to life, Rossini’s incomparable William Tell Overture.  (Dah, da, daht! Dah, da, daht! Dah, da, daht, daht, daht, daht, daht, daht, daht, daht, daaaaaah! Bot-a-bump, bot-a-bump, bot-a-bump-bump, bump……)

Now the Lone Ranger was speeding across the valley and up onto a hill, his horse, Silver, rearing up on two legs.

I didn’t have a savior complex, but I reflected on what had happened in the last hour or so, while Sebastian was bearing down on dozens of multiple-choice questions.

None of the librarians knew my name, or asked what it was, and I hadn’t introduced myself. I hadn’t given them my FBI business card, and, surely, I would never be back in that school again. If for any reason they would want to reach me, perhaps to do it all again, or even to send me a “Thank you,” none of that would have been possible.

I admit, I felt good about the time spent, the experience, the entertained audience, and the prima-little-starina who might just decide to go into acting one day. (You never know.) 

Hey, I helped out where help was needed, thanks to hours of memorizing a dozen or more poems over the last many years. I am grateful to the authors of all those children’s books, who enabled the events of that morning to go so well.

Driving north on I-5, Sebastian was resting, head back and eyes close. I could not help but picture one of the older librarians, calling to mind one of my all-time childhood favorite TV shows, saying to no one in particular, “Who was that masked man?”

Damned if my head wasn’t buzzing with the William Tell Overture for the rest of the day.

Wayne A. Barnes

March 22, 2023

Plantation, FL

This essay is dedicated, with special thanks, to Diane Redfield Massie, creator of The Monstrous Glisson Glop, which so many have read, and I have always enjoyed performing.