Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!

... OR: "... Out of the Kitchen, and Into the Spandex": The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics [ PART FOUR ]

This one isn't just wrong, people.

This one is EVIL and wrong.

"Night of Tears... Night of Truth!" [NIGHT NURSE #2; January, 1973; Jean Thomas, writer; Winslow Mortimer, artist] opens up with a shot of Our Plucky Heroine -- one Linda Carter, to be precise -- reacting in commingled shock and horrror at the sight of a fellow female pedestrian, scant seconds away from Becoming As One With the White Dividing Line as several tons of wildly careening auto bear down on her like the holy wrath of God Almighty.

"Strange," the curvaceous caregiver muses, as the aforementioned auto -- which (assuming everything's reasonably... y'know... proportionate, like) is four, maybe five feet away; tops -- barrels its cheerily oblivious way towards a fateful rendezvous with human bone and cartilage. "That girl doesn't seem to see that car. And... it's going much too fast!"

Well: "too fast" being a highly subjective term, after all -- I mean, maybe the driver is trying for a bloody, mile-long swath of carnage and suffering, right? -- Unca Cheeks refuses to pass judgment, in this particular instance...

... but: said kamikaze car jockey is going just fast enough, apparently, to bag himself the season limit, pedestrian-wise.

"It hit her... HARD!" the keenly intuitive Linda keenly intuits; working from such scattered and ephemeral clues as the resounding kerrrWHUMMP!! of Detroit iron impacting forcibly against muscle and bone; the shrill, agonized shriek of human anguish, still rattling about the stone canyon throat of Downtown Wherever-the-Hell-This-Is; and the crumpled, blood-spattered heap of humanity acting as an impromptu speed bump right in the middle of the freakin' road, there.

"And the driver didn't even stop!" she continues. "Couldn't see his license number... but I'll remember that car... Cadillac... deep green -- !"

(... and, somewhere in the shadowy, nightmarish bowels of Gotham City: the Batman stands forlorn and alone on a rain-swept rooftop, and murmurs, disconsolately: "... so much... still so damnably much to learn, if I ever expect to measure up to... to her! The NIGHT NURSE -- !")

"Snap out of it, Linda!" the lithesome lamplighter chides herself, in conclusion. "That girl may be badly injured!"

Because she's... like... a nurse-type person, see? Has her own mail-

order thermometer and everything.

"You! Sweetheart!" a nearby beat cop demands, arriving upon the scene. "Who put you in charge, here?"

"Oh, sorry!" said lawman adds, a nano-second afterwards. "I didn't see you were a nurse!" (Hmmmmm. Looks like we've already chanced upon this comic's designated Robin, the Boy Wonder, by golly.)

"This girl's going into shock!" Linda exclaims, idly fingering an exposed femur. "I've got to check the bleeding! Can you help me give artificial respiration?"

"Sure," the helpful officer responds; "... but [Pick One] -- ":

A.) "... don't you know Good Samaritans like you can be sued for malpractice?"

B.) "... I think it only fair to advise you that I'm already... y'know... seeing somebody. Damned hot, too. For a profoundly inbred mountain logger, I mean."

C.) "... unless that's a harmonica wearing a dress, I don't think your mouth oughtta be there, should it...?"

D.) "... shouldn't we... like... see if we can locate her head, first...?"

"Say, now," Officer Friendly observes, rummaging through the ruins of the poor unfortunate's ruined purse; "... looks like the girl was carrying some identification." (In her purse? Geez... talk about your deductive long shots, here -- !)

"Maybe she lives around here!" Our Braintrust-In-Blue continues. "Light's dim... I can barely read... HOLY CROW!"

"Hey, Flanigan!" the cop exclaims to his partner, nearby. "That girl who was hit... her name's Betsy Greeley! Ain't that -- ?"

"Believe it!" Flanigan retorts, wide-eyed. "The Police Commissioner's Daughter!"

Meanwhile: Linda accompanies The Severely Run-Over Police Commissioner's Daughter on the high-speed ambulance ride back to her place of employment (the blandly anonymous Metro General Hospital); there to be met by her bestest best friend (and fellow lady-with-a-lamp), redheaded Chris Palmer; as well as Linda's ruggedly handsome romantic interest, sensitive and so-caring-and-professional-you-should-only-just- plotz Doctor Jack Tryon. (You're all taking notes, here, right...?)

"You'd better go on home, Linda" gal pal Chris advises. "We can take care of the girl from now on."

"No," a bleary-eyed Linda responds, absent-mindedly picking up a nearby rectal thermometer; lighting it; and inhaling, deeply. "I'd never be able to sleep until I knew she was out of danger!" (She's special, you see, is Our Linda.)

"Miss Palmer," Doctor Tryon snaps, shining a penlight into the unconscious patient's eyes; "... prepare to take the patient to the Operating Room! I think a spinal tap is indicated!"

"But before Linda and Chris can wheel their patient to surgery," the following caption chirpily (if ungrammatically) enthuses; "... the returning order of the Emergency Room is shattered by --!"

"My name is Fenton Greeley!" a bull-like, nigh-apoplectic individual in a pistachio green suit bellows, upon striding up to the Reception Desk. "I want to remove my daughter from this place at once... at once, do you hear?" (Obviously, he's heard this is the place where diagnoses of Major Spinal Trauma are made after shining a little bitty light into your eyeballs.)

"I engaged no doctor, or anyone else in this hospital!" the red-faced Police Commissioner continues, banging one beefy, massive fist down upon the desk for especial emphasis. "I want my girl moved to a private hospital, with the family's surgeon, Dr. William Sutton, caring for her!"

"Sir," prettyboy sawbones Tryon responds; "... to move your daughter at this time could be fatal! She is in critical condition! [And] as to your second request, perhaps you didn't know that Dr. Sutton is on the medical board, here at Metro General!" So there.

The much-talked about Doctor William Sutton is hurriedly paged, then; and the unsettlingly (given the surroundings, I mean) Vincent Price-ish healer comes a hustlin' and a-huffin' in, scant moments later; nattily dressed to the proverbial nines for what was (obviously) one hip, happenin' night out at the local DENNY'S.

"Fenton, my dear friend," the suave sawbones oils, smoothly. "I came as soon as I heard about Betsy!"

"We'll operate immediately," Doctor Sutton continues, glancing distractedly at the poor, luckless waif slated to be his latest "practice" session. "I'd like a couple of additional scrub nurses!" (Yeah, well: wouldn't we all, though. Keep your mind on your putative job, Doctor Feelgood.)

Linda and Chris assist the flamboyant physician in surgery, then; with a wide-eyed and worshipful Chris all but drooling through her gauze face mask.

"I never knew I could love surgery so much," the sultry redhead sighs, inwardly; "... until I worked with him!"

"Miss Palmer," the roguish Sutton later inquires, upon the completion of the autops... ummmmm... I mean: the surgery. "I saw by your cap and pin that you're a graduate of Metro General. Why were you never assigned to me during training?"

"Let's just say I wasn't one of Metro's most outstanding students," the unfailingly open and honest Linda simpers; flashing back, involuntarily, to that whole unfortunate dressing-up-the-corpses-in-the-hospital- morgue-as-various-members-of-the-cast-of-FAMILY TIES-and-having-hot- savage-and-grotesque-sex-with-'em incident, a few weeks back.

"I find that difficult to believe," a leering Doc Sutton opines, winking lasciviously. "You're certainly one of the most... outstanding new nurses I've ever worked with." Nudge-nudge, wink-wink. Say no more.

Meanwhile: "Night Nurse" Linda Carter -- remember her? She had her own comics title, once, back in the '70s -- has slumped her exhausted way back home; where she surrenders to the sweet, hallucinogenic embrace of Distilled Essence of Eau de Marvel Comics Flashback.

"... memories that hound her every empty moment... memories of the murderous Rocky, and his attempts to blackmail Metro General by blowing up its generator during the summer's blackout... "

[Insert Shot of a long-haired David Crosby-lookin' feller, firing off an oversized hand cannon and snarling: "I've already killed the guard... you think two nurses are gonna stand in my way?" Top of the WORLD, Maaaa -- !)

"... memories of a broken engagement..."

[Insert Shot of Standard Cleft-Chinned and Blow-Dried Romance Comic Book Hunkazoid, storming off whilst a teary-eyed Linda sobs in the foreground: "Then... it's goodbye! You can be my wife, or a nurse... but not both!" Because nursing is like unto taking a vow of holy orders, or something. Apparently. Kinda. I s'pose.)

(Boy: be really ironic if Mr. My-Way-Or-the-Highway, here, was a male nurse, wouldn't it...?)

"... memories of Graduation Day... "

[Insert Shot of a grief-wracked, white-clad Linda rising from the smoking rubble of what must have been one bad muthah of an explosion; cradling the cold, lifeless form of what was once her beloved kid sidekick, and shrieking: "Robin! NO! NOOOOOOOOO -- !"]

[Oh, yeah. Right. Like you weren't all hoping for a little excitement, right about now.]

We wrap our cheery li'l stroll down Memory Lane, here, with a recapping of the previous issue's historic banding together of The Roommates Three -- Linda Carter (the blonde, sensitive, dedicated nursie); Chris Palmer (the redheaded, runaway socialite nursie); and Georgia Jenkins (the black, streetwise nursie. Word up.) -- and the sudden intrusion of the aforementioned "Georgia" upon Linda's sweet reverie.

"Georgia Jenkins," a startled Linda exclaims; "... you sure can scare a person! I didn't hear you come in!"

"Just got home," the world-weary Georgia responds, one unwavering eye on the prize (re: The Thirteenth Annual Extra-Chunky Marvel Comics Plot Exposition Semi-Finals). "I was with Mama for a while, after the trial today. My big brother Ben is sure in a heap of trouble for getting involved in Rocky's crazy plan!"

There's some light, good-natured, sisterhood-affirming bantering the three roomies for another page or so, at this point; with attendant dialogue so mind-numbingly awful, it all but makes one lonesome for the giddy, golden days of: "You're certainly one of the most... outstanding new nurses I've ever worked with" all over again.

(e.g.: "Am I glad to move in daylight again!" a chipper Chris exults, upon being re-assigned to the hospital's Day Shift. "I almost felt like I should be sleeping in a box of my native soil!" Oh. Help. My sides.)

In short storytelling order, immediately thereafter: the curvy Chris starts her new position as a full-fledged "special assistant to Dr. William Sutton" (he of the purple velour smoking jacket, earlier); and is informed by said shaman that her duties specifically involve "keep[ing] records of my supply requisitions, my instruments counts, and my schedules."

(Said "duties" also [apparently] involve long, lingering candlelit dinners in swanky restaurants and smoky bistros with her new employer of record; the latter whom is much given over to nuzzling her graceful, swan-like neck and showcasing his patented "bedside manner" whilst murmuring endearments along the lines of: "Christine... that's a lovely name..." Oh, heaven help the working girl -- !)

An unexpected phone call from Chris' snooty moneybags daddykins, on the other hand, brings everything crashing back down earthwards again in one great, gallumphing hurry.

"Why do I dread seeing Father?" a pensive Chris ponders, upon brusque conclusion to said Father/Daughter tete-a-tete. "Is it because he'll offer me the moon to [Pick One] -- ":

A.) "... quit nursing... to quit disgracing the Palmer millions?"

B.) "... quit thinking to myself in ellipses... to quit disgracing the Palmer millions?"

C.) "... quit fortune telling for seedy, run-down carnivals... to quit disgracing millions of palmists?"

D.) "... hand over those negatives?"

A luncheon meeting between Palmers pater and filia, the following Saturday, starts out strained...

... and go-carts its way noisily downhill from there.

"I'm not going to fool you," the forthright young miss informs her sire, candidly; "... I won't pretend that I had a calling to become a nurse. But I am one, now! And some people think I'm a good one!"

Daddy's stony disapproval, however, remains unwavering and resolute in the face of his daughter's naked confession that she only did the whole "Nursing School" thing because -- hey! -- Shoney's wasn't hiring, that weekend.

"Come home," the leader of Clan Palmer gruffs. "Think of your aunts and uncles, in the midwest... and think of your dear mother... what she'd think, if she were still -- "

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: Even for a comic as wholly devoid of higher brain functions as Marvel's NIGHT NURSE: this passage seems just plain ol' whacky, really.

[I mean... what? A nursing degree from an accredited school or college is the midwestern equivalent of a big. honkin' scarlet letter "A" for Adulteress, or something? They don't have trained medical personnel, down Kansas or Nebraska or Idaho way? They're still using leeches, f'chrissakes? Old Weird Clem down the road takes himself a half-gainer into the corn thresher, and it's: "... yup... looks like thet leg's a goner, fellers"...?]

... and the emotional manure silo explosion that is Chris' bleak, joyless inner landscape just keeps on keepin' on, the following Monday, as the well-intentioned R.N. brings a pesky li'l problem to her boss-slash-

lover boy's seamy attention.

"Bill," Chris offers, haltingly; "... we simply must discuss these rather large drug requisitions..."

"Later, my dear," a genial Dr. Sutton soothes. "We're due in surgery, Christine."

"Are you sure you're well enough to operate today?" Chris inquires, making careful note of the way his fingers tremble as they twist the rubber tubing around his forearm. "You look rather faint."

"Only the remains of a lost weekend, my dear," the sawbones silkily assures her, whilst simultaneously chugging down several quarts of distilled bong water. "I had no one to count my drinks."

(Oh, yeah. This is Auctorial Subtlety at its absolute finest, ain't it? "Paging Doctor Ray Milland... Paging Doctor Ray Milland! Doctor William Burroughs says to meet him in Surgery! Bring your own mirror!)

There's a brief, tense moment later on, during the aforementioned operation, where a grey and sweating Sutton almost spills the contents of an entire surgical tray directly into an open patient; occasioning a now clearly worried and upset Chris to reiterate her concerns, re: Doctor Duane Allman, here.

"If I drink to excess, Christine," the aging medico posits, by way of response; "... it's only because I'm lonely! Remedy that... by going out to dinner with me tonight!"

No. Seriously. Jesus whack me with a stick if I lie.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," The Gentleman Junkie continues, later on, over a romantic candlelit dinner down at the local crack house.

"For one thing," a champagne-giddy Chris shoots back, giggling; "... you'd have to hassle with the pharmacy for all those prescriptions you write! They really are excessive!"

"Then maybe you could redistribute them among my residents," Ol' Doc Dementia helpfully suggests. "Surely a little juggling of the figures won't hurt!"

"But, a few mornings later," the following caption narcs...

... hard-lovin', two-fisted ace investigator Linda Carter is on the case!

"Chris, this is wrong... WRONG!" a steely-eyed Linda snaps at her redheaded roomie. "I saw those books in your room last night... so there's no need to hide them! You're keeping false records on Dr. Sutton's drug supplies! WHY???"

"I don't think a surgeon of Dr. Sutton's prestige," an indignant Chris sniffs, "should be stigmatized by a few silly supply records... just because [Pick One] --":

A.) "... the Chief of Staff thinks he's been wasteful with prescriptions and supplies!"

B.) "... he's pushing more high-octane blow throughout the entire east coast than the friggin' Don Corleone family!"

C.) [winking and mugging, broadly]: "... I was thinking of cutting you in for a little 'taste' of the resulting money action anyway, sugar."

D.) [eyes unfocus; telltale grains of white powder dribbling down from her inflamed nostrils]: "... ummmmm... ahhhhh... wellllllll... just because. I guess. What was the question, again...?"

Events snowball their merry, arbitrary way Hellwards from there, with Linda and resident eunuch Dr. Tryon conspiring (in secret) to get to the bottom of Dr. Sutton's psychedelic shenanigans; and an increasingly panicky Chris watching on, in mute horror, as unsteady mentor and love interest Sutton -- so freakin' stoned, by this ppoint, both eyeballs are rattling around in the same socket -- blearily sideswipes a parked car with his own Plymouth PeyoteMobile 2000.

Chris and Sutton receive word, via pager, that the still-comatose Betsy Greeley (a.k.a., "The Commissioner's Daughter") (Geez... Tolkein couldn't follow this cockamammie plot, y'know...?) has undergone some sort of relapse, during all of the foregoing frivolities and frolic; and Sutton -- dedicated Man of Healing that he is -- points his car in something vaguely approximating the actual compass direction of Metro General, and hauls metal.

"She's going to need an immediate repeat of the operation we did the night she was brought in," an amiably grinning Sutton diagnosis', via (apparently) long-range mental telepathy; guzzling greedily from a silver coat flask and calculating next month's golf club fees.

"But, Bill," a still (barely) rational Chris pleads; "... who's going to perform such an operation? You know her father won't sign a release unless you... Oh, NO! Not you... you're in no condition -- !"

... and it gets worser and worser still, moments later; as a goggle-eyed and ashen Chris observes Doctor Sutton -- who is quickly taking on the ultra-realistic cast of the "Doc Gonzo" character, from Hunter S. Thompson's FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS -- downing himself a double handful of horse tranquilizers, scant moments prior to staggering his way into the operating theatre.

Meanwhile (this whole story is just one, long Meanwhile, actually): Linda and Dr. Tryon are snooping around the absent Dr. Sutton's fabulous umpteen-gazillion dollar mansion, like the low-rent road show Nancy Drew and Frank Hardy that they are.

"Just take a look at all this liquor!" a disapproving Linda notes, scowling, as she passes by a multi-leveled display of bottles which (admittedly) looks like something out of the Dewars Profile That Time Forgot.

"Well, a small part of the mystery is solved," Dr. Tryon observes, nosing his way through a nearby desk drawer. "Several bottles of these drugs were ordered from my missing prescription pad! But... what does he do with them?"

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: He's using forged prescription forms to score himself freighter barge loads of d-r-u-g-s, f'chrissakes! And the last time he operated on somebody, he removed their pancreas and attempted to snort the @#$%ing thing! HE'S A JUNKIE, YOU FREAKING NITWITS! AAAAAAAA JUNNNNNNNNKIIIIIIIEEEEEEE -- !]

Suddenly (we've bagged our assigned limit, Meanwhile-wise): the keen-eyed Linda espies a handful of auto repair bills, fanned out in plain sight atop the desk.

"Oh, NO!" a stunned Linda gasps. "It can't be! [...] It's Dr. Sutton... he took his car to a garage in New Jersey, on the same night Betsy Greeley was hit! And the car he took was a dark green '72 Cadillac... with a smashed grill and headlights! HE'S THE HIT-AND-RUN DRIVER -- !"

Oh, the sweet, savage irony of it all.

Linda and Dr. Tryon promptly hie themselves hence, in order to get word to loyal gal pal Chris --

... but: Doc Sutton's redheaded enabler is already living the movie (as it were); having fled, tear-stricken, from the operating theatre where her lover and mentor was playing a slow, sloppy game of Fifty-Two Card Pick-Up with poor Betsy Greeley's interior organs.

"Oh, no... NO," an all-but-hysterical Chris sobs, upon receiving a phone call from Metro General. (Boy... rookie R.N.'s sure are a big, hairy deal at that place, aren't they...?)

"The little Greeley girl... died half an hour ago!" the heartsick healer wails. "The Chief of Staff is holding an immediate inquest!"

"You'll find out anyway," Chris manages to choke, by way of conclusion. "Bill did the operation, tonight. Badly. VERY badly."

(Well... yeah. That much became pretty much self-evident, by the time Doc Sutton set to giggling, hysterically, and daring the nurses in attendance to "guess where this red, pulpy thing goes! WHEEEEE -- !" I'm just sayin', here, is all.)

The three friends make their stunned, disbelieving way to the hospital, where -- sure enough -- the aforementioned "inquest" is already in full, swingin' session.

(This is actually kinda sorta like THE OX-BOW INCIDENT, in a way. Minus the... you know... realistic dialogue and characters and simple, garden variety coherency an' stuff.)

"My dear," an oily and unctuous Sutton purrs to a still-dazed Chris, just prior to their joint testimony; "... if the inquest should ask... you won't mention those few drinks I had the other night... will you?"

"And I guess I shouldn't mention the pills," the shaken (and muy resentful) Chris snaps back; "... or your trembling hands, either? You murdered that girl, as surely as if you held a gun!"

"Christine, dearest," Sutton protests, with a soft and implacable insistence. "Listen to me. [Pick One] -- ""

A.) "... There were many people -- the residents, the technicians -- who could have been responsibble for what happened!"

B.) [staring fixedly into the middle distance; a slow smile of commingled pleasure and awareness spreading across his aging features]: "... 'a gun,' you say? Hmmmmm... a gun... in the operating theatre... prob'ly help me wing a couple of those pesky giant purple bats that've been dive bombing me of late, come to think. Hmmmmmmmm..."

C.) [impatiently]: "... you don't honestly think the poor @#$% woulda survived the operation in any event, do you? Not after what I did to her lungs with that cheese grater, f'cryin' out loud -- !"

D.) [plainly exasperated]: "Fine, then! FINE! Then I don't bloody charge her for the second operation, then! Happy, now -- ?"

E.) "Oh, bite me! It's FUN -- !"

Well: a guilt-wracked Chris breaks down (of course) right smack-dab in the middle of her halting inquest testimony; lowering the proverbial boom on a bug-eyed Sutton, in so doing.

"Bill -- Dr. Sutton -- operated on the Greeley girl," Chris stammers and snivels; "... even though he knew he shouldn't! He'd been drinking... and taking dozens of pills! He -- "

"Christine!" a sweating and terrified Sutton shrieks. "STOP!"

"NO!" the plucky redhead shouts. "I won't stop! Not till [sic] I tell them about the fake prescriptions... the stolen equipment... the nude, blind cub scouts, shackled and locked away in the hospital basement... the nekkid 8"x10" glossies of that fat chick from THE DREW CARREY SHOW, stashed in his wallet... the hideous genetic experimentation upon innocent, helpless heads of romaine lettuce... the -- "

... sorry. Sorry. Doc Sutton isn't the only one good'n'hammered, as of this writing.

There's some distinctly minor "excitement," right at the end, here, as Commissioner Greeley launches himself at the weasely Sutton; and attempts to discover whether or not the human trachea can withstand several hundred pounds of constant, applied pressure --

(Seriously. Unca Cheeks isn't lying, this time. "I'm going to tear that miserable drunk apart... with my BARE HANDS!" Nowhere near as heart-pounding as it actually sounds, unfortunately.)

-- but: it's Too Little, Too Late, storytelling dramatics-wise; and our heavy-breathing fat man of a saga wheezes, finally, to a red-faced halt, with a shot of a psychically wrung-out Chris fleeing Metro General; loudly proclaiming (as if anyone could conceivably care, I mean) her overwhelming need to: " [...] get away... from the hospital... from EVERYTHING!"

The infamous NIGHT NURSE -- fabled (and feared) in fannish song; story; and legend as the absolute stone worst Marvel Comics offering evereverEVER (or, at least, until said company's usurious and draconian "contract" proffered to an aging Jack "King" Kirby, in return for his long-

hostage artwork) lasted for a grand total of four issues.

In other words: about eighteen or twenty issues too damned many.

The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE ONE)

The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE TWO)

The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE THREE)

The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE FIVE)

The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE SIX)
The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE SEVEN)

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