Mamba

Alpha on a busy day

It all began with a book, of course.  As did so many events in my childhood.

I was 13.  My mother belonged to the Book-of-the-Month Club, and somehow -- by deliberate choice or, as often happened, by failure to send in a timely rejection -- the book had arrived, and my mother had read it.  The book, whose title I sadly don't recall, was a mother's memoir about the joys and tribulations of raising gifted twin boys.  It focused on the period when her twins were 13.

My mother told me that the book was about boys who seemed a bit like me, and that I might enjoy it.  I read it, and I did.  More than enjoyed it.  I was entranced.  I wanted to be friends with those kids.  No -- I wanted to be them.

The boys' mother wrote that her sons had developed a fantasy kingdom, using miniature toys -- a kingdom with royal ceremonies and matters of state.  What a fool I'd been, wasting my life to date having never thought of doing that!  All my brother and I did was play endless, pedestrian war games with toy soldiers and tanks.  How unimaginative!  How childish!

And thus I began laying the foundations of the great Kingdom of Mamba, with the complete interest, approval, and involvement of my ten-year-old brother.  Some of the earliest events are lost, of course, in the mists of time and legend.  But the first big event was the joint coronation of King Mamb and his queen, whose name I can't recall.  We decorated the top of the card table in our bedroom with colored paper, constructing thrones and carpets, and other royal paraphernalia.  (This was the year of Elizabeth II's coronation, so a scepter and orb were probably involved, as well.  I can't recall for sure, but it would have been just like me.)

Once the coronation hoopla had been completed, King Mamb's kingdom began evolving into a constitutional monarchy.  You have to picture our bedroom, which occupied three-fourths of the upstairs floor of our house, adjoining what we called "the hall," which occupied the rest of the floor including the top of the stairway.  We founded four cities on the bedroom floor as the basis for the kingdom.  My brother wanted cities on the floor, because he wanted territory for his military operations.  I agreed, because I needed boroughs that would be sending delegates to the federal parliament that I was establishing up on the card table, in front of King Mamb seated on his throne.

The largest city was named, appropriately, Alpha.  It was composed primarily of my "Tom Corbett, Space Cadet" set, surrounded by a metallic fence and populated by a motley population of humans and alien beings.  It was clearly the most cosmopolitan of the cities.  And the most technologically advanced.

The second city was called Beta.  It was a small Sparta, a military city populated by a large number of army men and their weapons that my brother and I had accumulated over the years as birthday and Christmas presents.  (To those who know what I'm talking about, the brand name "Dinky Toys" will bring tears of recognition and nostalgia.)

The two smaller cities, Gamma and Delta, were less distinctive in character, and were populated by various odd leftovers from various sets, including a few cowboys and Indians, and metallic "Lincoln Log" pioneers and marksmen.

Based on census data, each city sent a certain number of delegates to the federal parliament.  There were two parties, called, unimaginatively, the Republicans and Democrats.  I was chairman of the Republicans (I was a crusty Tory in my teenage years); my brother, of the Democrats.  The Republicans shared my interest in diplomacy and politics; the Democrats rejoiced in my brother's interest in inter-city warfare.  Elections of city governors and of delegates to parliament were held on regular occasions by a roll of a die.  I think the odds changed to some extent with each city, because Alpha usually remained firmly Republican and Beta, Democratic.

My brother and the Governor of Beta, his alter ego, were constantly stirring up trouble, which I and the forces of Alpha were engaged in putting down with great force, for the greater benefit of mankind -- to make Mamba "safe for democracy" and give Mamba "peace in our time."  (I learned a lot about the importance of how human emotions determined events in international affairs from my participation in this "game."  Game?  No, rather a miniature version of life itself.

Mamba -- and by this time, King Mamb had become a figurehead whose activities were of little practical importance -- had expansionist cravings.  Before long, Colony 1 and then Colony 2 had been established, just inside and just outside the open door between bedroom and hall.  Eventually, Colony 1 was granted "cityhood" as Epsilon, and sent delegates to the Parliament.  Over time, more colonies were established, spreading out of the bedroom throughout the adjoining hall.   Ultimately, colonies grew into cities, Zeta, Eta, and Theta, although by the time Theta was autonomous and sending representatives to parliament the game had reached its decadent stage.  A stage that lasted, actually, for years.

The true beginning of decadence began when we ran out of men, whether human or alien, soldier or cowboy, and had to populate the later colonies with marbles from our great collective trove of marbles.  By this time, the colonies had descended the stairway and were located in portions of the adult living space.  Marbles had one advantage over little soldiers holding bazookas and rifles -- great masses could be rolled across the floor, not unlike the hordes of Genghis Khan -- faceless, brutal, impersonal, notable only for their numbers -- and hot for blood and conquest.

Mamba lasted from the time I was 13 up until maybe my senior year in high school.  (Laugh if you will, but we now have 45-year-old men spending all their spare time playing similar games, with less imagination, on their computers.) 

Obviously, we had adult authorities in the house who, while ordinarily impressively tolerant of their sons' manifold foibles, at times demanded tidiness.  My mother found it wise not to venture upstairs unless absolutely necessary, but once Mamba colonies began invading the downstairs living space, she became somewhat more prickly. 

But Mamba was not a game that had to be laid out on the floor at all times, anymore than computer games require that the computer be turned on 24 hours a day.  It could be picked up, after some nagging, for special occasions -- like the biweekly visit by Olga, the detested cleaning lady -- and spread out again from memory when the urge next struck us.

Mamba never had a closing ceremony.  As our interests expanded, it simply got played less and less often.  I like to think that on some invisible plane of reality, life still goes on among the likable but contentious people of Mamba.  Beta's governor, in league with his villainous commander-in-chief, Captain General Meany, is still plotting against imagined enemies who must be punished for imagined slights and offenses (we all know about people in high office who act like that).  Alpha's governor, wise and world-weary, still goes on, attempting diplomatic solutions to military messes, insisting that Beta struggle for hegemony, if that's what it thinks it wants, in the arena of parliament.

And the masses of the outlying colonies -- anonymous, round, and marble-like in appearance -- still go about their outlandish lives, usually peaceful, but always capable of turning against their betters and storming the older, more established and civilized cities of the Mamba homeland. 

I find those thoughts strangely satisfying.  And I wonder if (and hope) those twins had as much fun with their own little kingdom?