PROLEGOMENA

Your host proposes a toast.

The times are too depressing. You open a newspaper . . . can you believe these people? You pick up the latest novel, the characters get you down. Let’s not even talk about the writing! What ever happened to the hero? Have no fear, your man is here, Anselm Thomas Merrywood.

Sitting comfortably? Feel free to fill a friendly glass. And pull the curtains, turn off the stupid show, boot the bothersome cat. I have taken trouble in the telling, deserve your undistracted focus.

A tale of trouble? Why don’t you wait and see! But remember, a man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time. Yes, The Odyssey! I pay homage to Homer? Well, Ulysses did cut some figure, , crossing the wine-dark sea. But let’s face it, the fellow failed to come across as a whole bundle of fun. You will find me a different story. At least you should.

Ten years! And no end of ordeal. Why did the Greek submit to the grief? Pining for Penelope, of course. My love story is also some saga? Well, the voyage was hardly plain sailing, I have to admit. At least I tell you the honest truth, unlike a sorry character of renown. And I will deliver the lashes he deserves. All in good time.

No, I wasn’t lost . . . altogether. So how about the time and place? How about a little more patience! But your captain is a generous man, will provide you with some bearings. And here we go! The voyage launches from the city of London, in my native land of England, although the log opens at the turn of the millennium, in the Golden State of California. Ancient history, again? Well, crew members were already glued to the computer, if not yet appended to a phone. And did I have some company! Not easy to keep track? You’d like me to tie your shoelaces as well! All right, all right, as another gesture of good faith, I will go to yet more trouble, compile a list of characters. The contemporary hero is a consummate host.

Cheers!

(The list of characters follows. How do we open the page? Not again! Just see below.)

CHARACTERS

Top of the bill

ANSELM MERRYWOOD

Featuring

ALICE

Supporting cast,

BILL, Alice’s father

CHRISTINE (Chris), my former wife

CORTÉS, a literary luminary                        

EDDIE (Squirt), my acquaintance

GLORIA, Alice’s mother

GRACE, Gloria’s friend

IVAN (The Terrible), my employee

JILL, my manager

SONJA, my sister

Significant others

AGATHA, my beloved

BETTY, my mother

CHUCK, Jill’s husband

EMIL, a restaurateur

ETHAN, Alice’s friend

GERTRUDE (Gertie), Agatha’s replacement

LUPA, Alice’s companion

JACQUELINE (Jackie), a mistress

MAGNOLIA, a gallery owner

MONTY, a little creature

MOSHE, a masseur

NICK, a young scribe

RUDYARD, my best friend

Musical accompaniment

We hope you will enjoy the show, featuring the Beatles and a full bill of my favorites, too many to post here. But I thank you all most kindly.

(Intrigued, already? Well, you should be! And you have an invitation. See below.)

CHAPTER I. THE DECK

I have an invitation.

My memoir! And what will you remember? Well, for a start, fellow bookstore owners can shelve me under Merrywood, alongside the legends of literature. Though I answer in person, and proudly, to Anselm. A distinctive first name! Thank you, and having introduced myself, I can introduce my story, with a further distinction. A good character also answers to a call.

I live in the city. So I had to take a drive. The card of summons remained in a drawer, the envelope of forwarded address. Another invitation was waiting at the destination, fully on display, a festive deck her pedestal. You too would find her inviting. At least you should.

I paint the proof. Blue eyes, bountiful curls, button nose, she did the party proud. The person was somewhat short of stature, but what about Napoleon Bonaparte! Our picture was certainly an original, mounted on a redwood railing, framed by the cloudless skies. I am getting a little carried away? All right, I did fancy a fairy, floating over a magic flowerpot—a spring blossom opens in the sun! Our budding rose held some pale gold nectar, a goblet glinting in her grasp. And her show held the attention; a tongue tickled the rim, toes toyed with the pottery, skirt teased the painter, breeze-billowed at her knees. A picture is worth a thousand words? Well, the bare feet made a statement. The restive lips also had something to say—a person of interest was talking to herself!

The sun was shining. The deck was crowded. Words were flowing. And who was a motor of conversation? Well, I love to talk literature, devote my life to books. A woman at my table came with a strapless dress, though my choice of adjacent seat was pure coincidence, I can assure you. The fashion plate was yet to turn the evidence, though she had been cross-examining a waiter.

“Having fun, yet?” I took the wheel.

“They never listen!” She gave full attention, to the retreat of her server.

“My name’s Anselm, by the way.” I fired up the engine.

“I ordered a dry martini!” She studied her half-empty glass.

“You might have heard of me.” I put it into gear. “I own a bookstore in the city.” I got the motor rolling. “The Last Refuge.” I stepped on the gas. “What have you been reading lately?”

“At least the gin is decent.” She was willing to share, after all.

“I’m also a writer.” I tooted the horn.

“I’m a lawyer.” Now she wouldn’t shut up.

“We all make mistakes.” I had to hit the brakes.

“She is something else!” The lawyer pressed on, the woman was less forward with the fashion.

“Gloria?” I am a man of forbearance. “Our hostess throws some party, I guess.”

“The young chatterbox!” The examiner had noticed the person of interest, who had plenty to say, to herself. “I believe I’ve seen her before.”

“Juvenile court!” I am also a man of foresight? A barrel of fun, for sure!

Let me set the stage. A stained glass door slid open to a vibrant patio; a sturdy iron gate swung onto a vital colonnade, through which a spritz of celebrants was chaperoning their champagne down a private pathway to the beach. A yellow brick road? Well, Dorothy would not be in Kansas anymore! Purple parasols plumed a table circle, white-jacketed waiters dazzled the drinkers, ruby cocktails bejeweled the ring. My potion packed a punch, loose laughter lent more warmth, and a little industry furthered the festival—a party of bees sounding out a swath of jasmine. You could hear a concert, playing in the petals.

Nature had another show. A bluebird flitted from the fence, goldfinches livened the foliage, and a streak of red flashed across the flora, a carmine-throated hummingbird darting past the pollen to hover by a rarer nectar. A flower girl has an attraction, as you have gathered by now.

The soliloquy was through. The person of interest had found someone to talk to, though a bird is perhaps not the most rewarding conversation partner, even if humming! But who knows? The nature lover looked over the garden, and saw that it was good. Our guardian angel turned to our table, where a man in a tuxedo was monopolizing the exchange, loudly lamenting his chauffeur. The woman in the dress hung on his every word, despite a far more worthy candidate, sitting to the other side. Loudmouth then monopolized her knee, to confirm your suspicion.

Who cares? The flower girl caught my eye, took in my appearance, broke out a grin. She suspected a scoundrel had crashed the party? Well, my behavior was exemplary. But my footwear . . . !

“Uh-oh!” The woman in the dress acknowledged my vicinity.

“Your martini should have been shaken, not stirred?” I am such a wit! You will be shaking too, with laughter.

“We’re being watched.” And the turncoat gave me the benefit of her risqué choice of clothing.

“Our juvenile delinquent?”

“I think she likes you.” The woman was coming around! “Strange world, sometimes!”

“Gloria was talking about you.” Her man took charge. “Famous writer, hmm?” He rose. “Senior attorney, here.” He reached a considerable height. “I write too . . . personal injury briefs!” He needed work? “Gloria would have a good case.” He looked down on my shoes.

“I’m a close friend.”

“Let’s dance.” He extended an arm of assertion. I was not the recipient, you will be relieved to discover.

The pretty picture? Her skirt continued to flap, her hummingbird had flown. She still found her diversion. A tall man in tuxedo, a woman in strapless gown, had taken to the floor. The couple were delighting in a dance of love, others soon to follow. To the timely encouragement of Mozart. And the bare batons of two floating feet.

She was something else, indeed. And she would soon be somewhere else—adjourning the private conference, the conferee wandered off the deck. But the sun was shining, couples swaying, drinks were on the house. You get the picture. And you have an invitation. The party is just getting started.

Merrywood! . . . Pretty picture, huh? . . . Completely gone to your head!

CHAPTER II. THE DUMP

I bare the naked truth.

I spoke too soon. No man ever steps into the same river twice? Look here, Heraclitus, we’re on the same page! The water grows cold; the weather will change.

And how! Unruly winds had risen, tipping over the garbage, fogging out the sun. But the gales of laughter died, the dropping temperature dispersing the drinkers. The flight had one return. A missing person was back.

The invitation? Her lips were now black, her scowl withdrew all welcome. Your painter will now drain the canvas, dull the plumage, cloud her eyes to gray. And I must turn her wine to water, the minuet to a dirge, the dance floor to a dump—like sailors fleeing a sinking ship, the waiters had abandoned the deck to the debris. A sliver of flesh was still in evidence, but no longer licking a glass in mischief, the tongue stuck out in contempt.

The party was over? The house might still be hopping, for all I knew. But the sliding door, through which boozing butterflies had flit, was now a shutter of prohibition, the discolored panes a shield of grimly glowing stain. I might also remark the rebuff of a metal chair, the distress of an empty glass, the trespass of the litter. A wasteland? Well, it was April, the cruelest month of poem. But the destination was not an outright desert—you might perceive a penal colony, the remaining bodies under guard. The sentry was stationed in a corner, alone on her feet, her black lips serving notice, sullen eyes spreading gloom. The lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, discovering my witness . . . exposing my guilt? I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over a forsaken table where shabby starlings were stabbing a plate of pastry shards. But the stony edifice scorned my stillborn greeting, as attainable as Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid.

The deck was dead. And buried were the blessings. A wreath of smoke was conspiring with the fog. A funeral pyre? Well, no bonfire warmed the campers, no grill whet the appetite. The culprit stood downwind. But though her eyes were empty, her stained fingers held the evidence, black lips proved the vice. I disapprove the habit? I did have a fit—a fit of coughing. The cool customer reclaimed his composure, to clear up any doubt.

You might presume a provocation. My fellow sufferers pretended not to care. Our scourge took a last drag, tossed the butt, tended to the business. With her foot. We could pretend no more. Trash! So what, you say? I will tell you what: You profess a love of books. A good lover pays attention!

A foot trod on the glare. A foot trampled out the fire. A foot twisted on the cinders. And the foot was bare . . . a fact I fully exposed, already! I caught the eye of a fellow remnant. The close witness had his mouth agape, cocktail in suspension, arm around his date.

“Monks walk on coals in India.” I am a man of worldly wisdom. “Maybe she’s a Buddhist?”

“She’s something else, for sure.” Great minds think alike? The well-heeled executive had ignored my casual insurrection. Now we had a bond.

What is a man to do?

Merrywood! . . . Some advice? . . . Beyond help!

CHAPTER III. THE BALLROOM

We get the party rolling.

The house offered an escape. Pete beats a retreat? Maybe so, but Merrywood is the name, and I am the very figure of fortitude. And now we have cleared that up, a portrait can still use a change of scenery.

The sliding door made my entrance. Inside, a party was a-pulse, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace commands respect. To say nothing of the spread!

The unexamined life is not worth living? Socrates, get over yourself! A philosopher need make no apology—truffles tempted, fine wine flowed, all the ribs were prime. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indifference to wardrobe in favor of polished shoes and tailored jackets, their consorts a buffet of designer dress, painstaking coiffure, and pampered flesh.

A ball needs a belle. Gloria needed no introduction. Our queen was circulating, her jewels agleam, skin aglow, gown revealing a generosity. Her court was cut with more discretion. Forced laughter filled the ballroom, carrying over the strings of a fiercely competent ensemble, whose practiced indifference betrayed a foreign import. Her Highness livened the gala like a gust of summer wind through a cottonwood, introducing strangers, receiving tribute, dispensing charity. A monarch flutters with abandon! I took up a station by the bar to follow the performance and wait my turn. The grandee did glance in my direction, but royalty pretends no common acquaintance. I knew no insult, trust me, the butt of her scorn built of hardened timber.

A memorable occasion? Well, one man made his mark. A famous fairy tale has immortalized a ball with the magic of glass slippers; a memoir will now commemorate another, with an incredible show . . . of sneakers! Is there a law? Snobs might be sniffing, but I was wearing clean underpants, in case you have any doubt!

Such a character! A scoundrel has no shame, needless to say. I did have a sustenance; the adult likes his beverage, the bar was well stocked, the ballroom full of female interest. Gloria must judge a beauty contest, when drawing up her guest list. Alluring eyes, inviting lips, fine legs, coy curls; the pageant was provoking, the man getting ideas? Well, I am a philosopher, life’s rich tapestry always food for thought!

My fellow man? The gentry were having a feast. Entitled males stood around the linen, sipping fine champagne, wrapping arms of privilege round the waists of their reward—though their eyes wrapped me only in contempt. Little did they know! My own arms might be empty, outfit not conform, but an outlaw pushes the perfumed pulse, n’est-ce pas? Robin Hood robbed the rich, you might recall. Indeed, when the rebel read the room, a wealth of women reciprocated the review, to tell nothing but the truth. In amusement? The fun is just getting started!

My parents married young. The nuptials were rushed by geographical exigency rather than biblical sin, the mother a nanny in London, on a temporary visa, where her future bridge partner had disembarked the Royal Scotsman to pursue his career. An intransigent Roman Catholic and ornery Swede, their wedding vows sealed the triumph of first love over in-law reservation—bake a pie with chalk and cheese, why don’t we! The offspring knew an uneasy truce, alternate Sundays imposing the pomp of Latin Mass in the company of a crisp-suited father and the austerity of Methodist hymnal when kneeling with his wife, the chapel of clapboard construction after we migrated stateside on my tenth birthday. The feuding parties of the schism engaged in subterfuge, politicking, and defamation, but left the decision to the children. When they’re old enough to know their own minds. Unlike the lark, I have yet to find the exaltation. The dispute found no partisan resolution, the first-born sitting on the fence with Huxley, while his sister lost her religion altogether. But the damage was done, Rome winning naming rights to the boy, the prairie to the girl. And to my lifelong misfortune, George Merrywood, model of restraint and good sense, pillar of the community, golfer of steady nerve, reserved his one moment of abandon for the christening of his son after a twelfth-century saint, and author of an eponymous proof for the existence of God, foreword to the following chapter. Original sin was only the first offense. Anselm could easily reduce to Andy. I would willingly share a name with the wilderness photographer. Even Anse would be acceptable. But no, ever since kindergarten I have suffered the same indignity, the bane of my daily round, root of my distress. I may be the only man so burdened on the continent. The mockery arrives like a stomach pang, which I cannot dislodge and have done nothing to deserve. I boast a deep enough voice, guzzle strong beer, grow a full beard, know my way around a hardware store. Reginald changed his name, to become a rock star for the ages. I have considered the correction.

“Annie, dear boy, there you are.” Her Highness could no longer pretend; the peasant’s time had come. “I was looking for you everywhere!” The hostess cast a long-suffering eye over an old acquaintance, whose untucked shirt successfully failed to fit in. “Mr. Bookworm has come to the party!” I had no respect for royalty? Well, Henry VIII chopped off their heads, remember! “And how is the Last Resort?”

“Refuge!”

“I do have a friend who reads, I should send her your way.” My promoter had yet to visit the store herself, to my certain recollection. “Dottie is single, and isn’t too particular.” Gloria squeezed my hand and pressed close. “Such a scoundrel!” And her eyes fastened onto mine, which I struggled to save from a southerly settlement, where the plunging neckline revealed a plenty.

“The Last Refuge prevails, like Old Faithful. Though I left my staff in charge, so I have to fear the worst.”

“Jolly good. And the dame?”

“Giving me grief, as usual.”

“You’re a lucky man.” The hostess evinced no such fortune, inspecting my unshaven jowls.

“She was looking forward to this, likes to get out of town.”

“Naughty boy, you’re moving. I heard the news from Chris, but not a squeak from you.”

“I’ve sold the house, renting an apartment.”

“But my lovely invitation! Hand-printed by an artist.”

“Has its pride of place. The post office was able to track me down. They still deliver behind enemy lines.”

“Silly boy!” She leaned yet closer—nearby nobility had no need to know that a tenant had infiltrated their number. “Why does a single man need a house anyway?”

“The simple life worked for Thoreau. And he’d feel right at home. My landlord has a religious objection to modern convenience.”

“Sounds just darling. Do tell, where?”

“Dolorosa Street. No vacancies on Hope Road.”

“Super. Wait, you’ll be neighbors with another friend of mine. Have you met Grace?”

“A room with a view, according to his advert”—I had met Grace—“which is hard to disprove, if you think about it. I don’t suppose your husband would take the case.” A fixture chez Gloria, Grace would seek me out, making an assumption. The face of my future assumed a complexion. However, as far as I could tell, the worthy woman would not grace the present production.

“We were at Stanford together. Lovely woman. Her husband died last year. He was a lot older, mind you, could have been her father. Now she’s making quite a name for herself, freelance journalist I think she said. I should introduce you, she’s not afraid of a challenge, haha.”

“Please do.” I was introduced every six months or so.

“Isn’t the music heavenly? We flew them in from Germany. All the rage in Europe, you know. We’re so lucky they had the time. I asked them specially to play this piece.”

“Exquisite!” I was too numb. The Trout Quintet marks daring musical taste, you know. And my chance listen to classical radio can confirm your suspicion, Hamburgers regularly on the menu in the American concert hall.

“Sorry our famous writer couldn’t make it to celebrate New Year’s with us, and the new millennium. Quite the shindig, I still haven’t fully recovered.”

“Next time. Only a thousand years to wait.” My good woman, how could your famous writer possibly make it without a single word of notice?

“Lovely crowd, don’t you think? At least one of us knows how to throw a party. Bill had a veterans’ reunion here last month, professional obligation. They fell on my spread like vultures, you’d think they hadn’t eaten since boot camp. America insists on integrating the military! They had to bring their wives, so-called, he never listens to me. The resentment! You’d think it was a crime, having a beautiful house. We’ve earned our money, get over it.”

“Communists! I trust they didn’t loot the palace.”

“So happy to see you, Annie. How are you, anyway?”

Time was up. I have known the queen since she and Bill were dating. Her worst fear was his best man! Familiarity over many years has bred, not contempt but, well, familiarity. In sober encounters I am immune to her charms, often sweatshirt-and-sneaker muted. ¡Caramba tequila! Caressed by the coos, blessed by her bounty, a poor supplicant now soaked in a spa of stimulation.  

She pulled the plug. And a boyhood bane recurred, a mind to prolong the attention vying with concern lest a private protuberance provoke a public panic? Anselm, really! Have no fear, all eyes were on the level. And I will level with you, the dog is no excitable young pup. Maybe a smuggled flask of bourbon was to blame for any bulge!

“Actually, Gloria, I do feel a headache coming on. Better sit down.”

“Marvelous, I’ll see if I can find Bill. I’m sure he wants to catch up.” The bustling ballroom parted like the Red Sea, and a glory glided through, the splendid rump outlined through the cling of her dress.

The man was out of sight. The menace was present to the ears, his volume control stuck on self-congratulation, his fiftieth milestone offering them both an excuse. Gushing guests were spewing their spectaculars, though in truth the oceanfront property is too much. Gloria had tasked the architect—a dear friend—with a merger of masonry and beach, and the conceit had been duly executed, as if a shipwrecked shelter builder had the means to indulge his every fevered fancy.

—Crusoe, I have you in mind, as often. You had to strip the ship to fix your habitation. And I commend attention to another episode. Of course, that footprint in the sand would leave you thunderstruck. But a single print has no natural explanation, there must be more to say. Unreliable narration? Well, no one is perfect. Your whole damn story is mere figment? Never let it be said!—

The design won an award. So what, I won a gold star in kindergarten! Driftwood beams provided irregular support, rocks jutted through the walls, stained glass sold a sanctity, and windows in the floor opened onto a spotlit tide pool, of manifest manufacture. The supposed showpiece did somehow find a spread in a section of the Sunday paper, as an early morning phone call once brought to my attention. I am not remotely jealous, whatever they suggest. Gloria extols joint weekends at the coastal villa, though I could little conceive her partner deserting his desk of dividend, no matter how storied the retreat.

Looking for a rich husband? Gloria retained a promising lawyer, the continued contract conjugal. Fremont and Hayward is the firm, William Connor the name on the door. And the bearer has some clout, senior partners in conspicuous attendance, their wives in showy attire. Some bash! And some biography: I had not only come to his party, but belonged to the same alumni association, had crossed the same Yard. Veritas? Well, I started the juridical journey, only to pursue a purer path.

The state school grads met in One L. We took the same classes, rode the same train, roomed together at the end of the T-line, where blue-collar locals cut down the Ivy League. Merrywood nursed no chip, needless to say, but made few other friends, knowing neither secret handshake nor second home in the hills. My roommate roiled with resentment. Aren’t we special? The prole had a nose for privilege. Pretty preppies, reeking of perfume! An aspiring attorney will seek justice. Fuck ’em in the ass when I’m through. One of us never cheated on the test, was generous with late-hour tutorials, worked pro bono, and played in a rock n’ roll band. The other was subjected to review, serially failed the Bar, but with the compensation of bruising hours and an ambition pressing on pathology, established himself as the most sought-after litigator in the state, as his wife frames his repute. The boast has some material justification—witness the weekend house, the yacht, the ease with which they could summon self-important acquaintances to make a tortuous trip, over an hour’s drive from the city.

Let’s talk about another lady. Sherman marched his army to the sea; Merrywood motored his amour up the coast. I am a knight of automotive steed, though the dame had a tantrum and the going was tough. Not all cars reach the destination. A soft-top two-seater hung over a sandstone bluff, the owner in a daze, staring at the road ahead like Churchill at Gallipoli. I had been warned!

There’s nothing like a dame. But a ground campaign moves slowly, and we were already an hour late. A file of pedestrians crossing the narrow road came to an inconsiderate halt. I always make time for turkeys, but a truck was tight on my tail and the horn-blasting driver failed to share my fondness for the fowl. We had to make another stop, where the next foe lay in ambush. The tyke masqueraded as a gas-station attendant and rejected my card, muttering juvenile insinuation. Anselm Thomas Merrywood is the name on the plastic, and I would not budge. Waiting motorists grew restive until my lady’s charm persuaded her latest conquest to take a check.

To what end? The city’s movers and shakers had congregated in the big room to further some business, their circled backs forming a barrier that only Gloria could breach. Less formidable attendees, some of whom I recognized, meandered through the house, clustering in respect of its curious invention. The architect, Japanese, long haired and even more sloppily dressed than I, indulged a succession of reverent passersby. A photographer from the paper was doing the rounds. The mayor was stopping by!

Loud was the laughter. But I could not breathe easy, all merriment under threat. The story is familiar, the fabled hero defined by ordeal. He hazards the seas, beset by pirate ship, tempest and whirlpool. He struggles across the land, where bandits lie in ambush, menacing highway and byway, their crimes shocking a fine sensibility like jagged lightning disturbs a good night’s sleep. He does battle on the field, where dismembered bodies mount and blood flows like a river. He fells a giant, slays a dragon, burns down an enemy city. The then perils reach a peak.

A woman. “Hello, Anselm.” The challenge sounded to my rear. “Anselm!” Party hubbub providing an excuse, I might slink to safety? “Don’t run away.” I could as little escape as a rabbit in a steel claw.

CHAPTER IV. THE CONFINES

We get down to business.

My mother is a Methodist. Her son is still a lot of fun. The man also has a métier. We will now visit the location. You will find a refuge, and that more amusement lies in store. So much more!

So let’s get down to business. But bargain for no chain, The Last Refuge is a special place, most interesting, as patrons like to put it. Classical music, renaissance painting, vintage wine, the redolence of a gentleman’s club, the touch of fine vellum, the confines offer a compendium. You fill up my senses? Annie’s song is all feeling, Anselm’s shop food for thought.

“I find in Philosophy.” Blind to any business, Ivan had dumped a pile of treasure, was thumbing through the find. “Saint Anselm”—you rang?—“Ze Proslogion!” He traced the timeless text. “A being greater than vich cannot be conceive.” The store’s alleged employee likes to read aloud. “Hah, this proof belong Shopping Network.” On occasion, his incursions into the thickets of the English tongue chance upon a clearing.

Merrywood! . . . Got a problem? . . . Mocking the Russian! . . . The Russian mocks me, without mercy.

You conjure up a vodka flask? I too am tempted, despite the haste of that generalization, my familiarity with his diction and faith that the plodding intonation betrays a poet’s soul. Ivan is resolutely sober, an abdication of his national responsibility. The autodidact had pressed a lull in customer traffic to advantage, stumbling across my namesake in the alcove, which unauthorized reading now monopolized the counter. The scholar is jealous of speech, a train of interior monologue rolling at the expense of outward expression. “Boss, you think saint really believe proof?” A rare remark will mitigate his commercial apathy, erratic work habits, and antipathy towards the paying public. “Or play viz vords?”

Giving offense! . . . The offended have a recourse . . . Your comments page? . . . Our self-help section!

“A distinction without a difference. The word creates the thing.” I turned over one volume, Russell’s History of Western Philosophy, $38 used. Bertrand had been sitting on the shelf for years, but lowering his asking price would deliver a slap to a Nobel face. “Although faith does face the question—Why would God have any patience for those foolish enough to believe in him?”

“Good von, boss.” Withdrawing a notebook from his jacket pocket, the poet jotted his first entry in nearly fifteen minutes. My words of wisdom are preserved for posterity. If you could only read the record! “Heaven and hell, ze jealous God!”

“Insecure! If I can create the whole damn world, would I really be so petty?”

“Mama!”

“I can’t take the credit for that one. The song of Sister Sonja, vile heathen that she is.”

“Sonja have soul like Russia. How is sister?”

The Terrible checks few boxes of regular humanity. An unkempt beard, balding pate, dime-store glasses, soiled suit, and tatty tie present a blend of indeterminate vintage. He has been working for me, in a charitable manner of speaking, since high school, when he arrived on these shores with his mother. The eccentric couple took up residence in the shop, talked up the shopkeeper—I had the wisdom of Tolstoy, the depth of Pushkin, the soul of Chekhov. And I found the son in my employment. The inquiry into my sister’s well-being affected nonchalance, but his ribs had felt the tickle. Sonja once passed an interminable half hour browsing in a revealing bend before the house poet, his typically inscrutable features teetering between terror and temptation. The sloppy presentation belies a strict personal hygiene, and after Sonja’s departure, Ivan had to pay his visit to the bathroom. Boss, need to wash hands.

Some women wear the pants. Others choose the trousers, mama’s boy boasting the bravado of a rock-hidden beetle. But though the prose is scrambled, the person pretends to regular conjugation. Sonja’s mischief recalibrating his nervous system, the store solipsist found his tongue, chatted merrily with the cash register, and on the following day sported a new tie of daring coloration. I had little heart for disenchantment. The woman has a device, her brother no deterrent. I did reprimand her after the fact, protective of the victim. You don’t find him attractive, surely?—Annie, all men are attractive. A generous sentiment? Just like pets! Her occupational lasciviousness has struck many a blow, redressing the imbalance of folklore. ­My brother, you have no vagina, you will never understand. An astute observation, but still . . . Ivan?

What have we here? The prescient ornithologist will have already made the identification. No bird of teeming species, I can readily introduce the remaining members of my flock. But don’t count your chickens, I might make a special friend while spinning out the tale! You will often find the birds at nest, the main thread of my story unwinding in the confines. A humble abode? Our booklovers imagine a mansion! But the welcome has a downside, any simpleton can stray in from the street. Got a flashlight, buddy? The dull color of vintage wine disguises a richness, what do they know? Funny smell! You could say the same for rare charcuterie. I can recommend a good cleaning lady. When the charmed archaeologist uncovered the gold of Tutankhamun, did he complain about a little dust? I pay no mind, trust me. Indeed, we curry their displeasure, motion them back to the mall. And that Health and Safety citation is really nothing to worry about, our city bureaucrats as forgiving as Carrie Nation in the brewery. What about Emil’s! His confines have never been inspected, though our conception is immaculate by comparison.

Let us take a tour. The street is named after a storied destination on the Iberian Peninsula, where brain-dead tourists insist on running with the bulls. Forsaking the press of Pamplona, you push through a frosted-glass door, upon which The Last Refuge sets an expectation in gilt letters. You hear the tinkle of a bell but no chirp of greeting, suffer no unsolicited intrusion on your pilgrimage. Picture an ancient market town, growing haphazardly over the centuries around a bustling square, with a maze of narrow lanes disappearing through a crowded patchwork of overhanging dwellings. And that picture is not sketchy, sepia photos attesting to some stir. As the door gives a squeak of welcome, you discover a dark forest of ancient woodwork, through which a clearing leads to the clouded glass of the counter, command center of the conclave. There you will find the scoundrel, a nameplate confirming the credentials in copper. Have no fear, I am taking refuge from the madding crowd, just as you are. An uncommon couch, temperamental coffee machine, and beached bicycle line the thoroughfare, from which aisles of bookish enticement vanish into the tall but motley shelving. In the dim light, indolent hush, and narrow corridors, you will find your felicity, might even make merry with Monty. Our order might stray from the alphabetical, but the fortuitous discovery, the element of surprise! We lack some modern amenities? What about the Palace of Versailles!

“Ahem. The lady needs some assistance, I believe.” My raised voice broke a religious hush. I had been lunching with a klatch of local retailers gathered at the behest of Emil, drug dealer and owner of the bistro. Beneficiary of an early release program, the man was fully gassed, and his establishment had lately received a suspiciously glowing review in a local rag, making the prattle only more punishing. The “restaurant critic” was a regular, undertaking extracurricular activity with Emil in the men’s room. Our merchant association makes common cause against venal landlord and bothersome official, and the parolee had pushed his better to call another meeting. Some leaders are born, some are made, some are chosen. I was shamelessly conscripted. Annie, you wouldn’t get any customers at all, if we didn’t send them your way. Oh please, booklovers make a beeline for the door! The Alhambra business district fosters a corresponding Mediterranean work ethic, and after settling Emil’s uncomplimentary check, the meeting voted to extend the proceedings into an afternoon of barhopping. The Last Refuge allows no such respite. Already irritable, I barged through the door to find a well-dressed woman waiting at the counter. His nose in the same book, Ivan was oblivious.

“I apologize, ma’am, my assistant is brushing up on his ontology.” I elbowed the aspiring metaphysician aside. A veritable cornucopia, The Last Refuge is a preserve of medieval thought. Bibliophiles also marvel at our military history section, illustrated compendia of world trains, and comprehensive baseball almanacs. Our comely booklover was flirting with world literature. “Le Grand Meaulnes! Madame, you read French?” The owner was all business, needless to say.

Madame had come to the right place. The Last Refuge is also known for a spread of languages, a source of pride more than financial reward. If Ivan owned the shop, we would only stock the original. The monk considers translation a moral affront, will break his vow of silence to berate an offending purchase. I had been perusing The Brothers Karamazov in anticipation of my forthcoming feature on the radio dial, and The Terrible had picked up the copy I left by the till. We English readers are given to understand that Constance Garnett serviceably renders the spirit of the Russian; he begs to differ. Dostoevsky? No vay!

“Naturellement.” Madame gave a gracious smile. “Je suis française.” And was that a Gallic wink?

“Formidable.” The entrepreneur rose to another challenge. The Last Refuge attracts a wealth of foreign visitors; the owner engages a choice selection in their native tongue. “Quel plaisir.” The entente was cordiale.

“Madame, bienvenue au pays de la liberté.” The wit has a way. “Wonderful little book, a treasure.” The wise know when to quit. “Shame he died so young . . . why doesn’t it get more attention? . . . I read it in French . . . I’ve written a novel myself . . . I find his achievement quite mysterious . . . we carry it, if you’re interested.” My extended eloquence owed nothing to her looks, needless to say. An ambassador has a diplomatic obligation.

“It’s for my husband. I haven’t read a book in years.”

Ivan’s threads hang in unchanging exhibition. The refusenik respects some rule, the funereal suit making the man, like the black habit the nun. His function in our economy cannot be transparent to the casual observer, still less the diagnosis of his complaint, a condition verging on coma. You have yet to make the acquaintance, but my otherwise imperturbable wife suffered ongoing conniption on his account: Was he blissfully unaware of workplace expectations, subverting the only token of capitalism that afforded an opportunity, or taking advantage of my indulgence, the latter hypothesis a truism for an engineer of no nonsense? I thought better of compounding her outrage, telling of the bathroom trips coincident with her visits. And she was wrong, as usual; I can stand up for myself, take charge when his shelving is shaky. Ivan is Ivan, an enigma of no profitable interpretation. Yes, I fantasize about a severance, but the deed is humanly impossible, and not for want of spine. Fair enough, I write his paycheck and wield considerable advantage in years, but he has inveigled a compact whereby proprietor demand constitutes a breach of etiquette, threat of termination a joke of low comedy. In any case, his dispatch would unbalance an established order, The Last Refuge’s ambience no more feasible without The Terrible than blue cheese without the rot. Ecosystem and bellwether species evolve as one, and my scientist spouse supposed a similar symbiosis between the supposed disrepair of the store and notorious neglect of the employee’s suit. She may be correct; I fail to see the problem. The proprietor has dedicated his life to literature, but reluctantly keeps the books. Indeed, if I could sell the shop, I would retire to my own monastery of the mind. Ivan does not compromise; Ivan does not care. His challenge has no answer, my penance to a better god. And the silence of his company has some advantage.

“How about making yourself useful?” I maintain a pantomime, for private amusement. La tristesse du jour had bid au revoir.

“What you want I do, boss?”

“Check the back section. Maybe Emil needs some help.”

“Ze man beyond help!”

The poet has a point. Some men have few redeeming features, Emil has none. When not exercising droit de seigneur on his hapless waitresses, he slouches into the shop, repairs to the back section only to wheedle for an indecent discount. However, he still brings some money my way; I may later divulge the arrangement. And seeking to better himself, the villain respects my deference to Dickens, shares my love for English classics in general. Although he has only laid shoplifting hands on Emma and The Woman in White, to my certain knowledge.

‍

I also favor English beer. And please put down the phone, your congressman has better things to worry about! The dual citizen venerates Huck Finn, loves his car, and acts the jerk like a true American. But the apple pie does know other seasoning, my formative years suffering the blazer and cap of an all-boys primary school. And while I was declining Latin, playing cricket, and breakfasting on canned spaghetti on toast, the paterfamilias patented the device that secured his career and the optimal stream of subterranean sewer. My normally unflappable wife fessed up to a little flutter upon meeting George Merrywood, inventor of the same-named pump. Papa joined the company that allowed his family to cross the Atlantic and acquire the voting rights, but like the flow of a drain, DuPont expects mobility of management. The family wagon made stops in Jacksonville, Florida; Annapolis, Maryland; and Detroit, Michigan, my mother’s home state, an unsettled history that she blamed for her son’s alleged inability to throw strikes against the girls’ team. Anselm, a nice-looking fellow like you! All my friends at church have grandkids.—Don’t worry Mom, the mail-order bride says she wants a family.—Always a silly joke! You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I had one saving grace. A Harvard law degree hangs front and center on her living-room wall. So after passing on the legal profession, I introduced her to The Last Refuge with the relish of Vladimir Putin’s gay son bringing his boyfriend home for dinner. Mom, it is a little quiet in the shop today, but at least we get to talk.—Anselm Thomas, you had an impressive career, I grew up on a farm. She will come around, someday? Well, Dorothy did hear of a lullaby land, somewhere over the rainbow.

Emil is a creature of habit. The reliability would little placate the mother, the habits descending from mere nuisance to the loathsome. His English is also less than perfect. But though the dog will yap, he deigns to discuss his descent. If only the reticence in owning the accent extended to its employment! The language is insulting, the jokes crude, the suggestions improper. I will spare you the proof.

A way with words? Merrywood is the man, as you know. Emil also has a story, but there is no comparison. One citizen has so much to say, his shipment must be sparing; the other plies the same package ad nauseum. Though I concede that his liberties with native folklore are dispensed with a hint of Dickensian pathos. No matter how often he spins his story, the fabulist finds fresh amusement, and the telling certainly captures the attention . . . like a freeway pile-up of memory lapse, unhinged fantasy, and verbal diarrhea. A drop of Dickens? Well, I could distill the spirit, providing a finer blend. But first—

CHAPTER V. THE BATTLEFIELD

Your hero faces his doom.

“Anselm!” The party volume was set to riot. “Anselm!!” A battle cry bested the festive ferment. “Anselm!!!” The enemy was on the warpath? Maybe, but like a hardened fighter, an astute storyteller is a tactician of delay. Yet another digression? Who is writing the damn book—how about a little gratitude, for a change!

Nothing stops the march of science. Legends lead the charge: Galileo in his tower, training a heretical telescope on the heavens; Darwin in his cabin, poring over the notes that will change the world; Curie in her laboratory, peering at the test-tube radium that will send her to an early grave. No corner of the world escapes the investigation, from the galaxy at light-years’ distance to the amoeba on microscope slide. We read the works in wonder, marveling at the motion of the planets, complexity of the brain, origin of the species, structure of the atom. Yet the edification falls foul of the flesh; bodily functions also demand their reason. Serving the implacable god of knowledge, our scientists must drop their inquiring eyes from the mountain to the dung heap, descend from celestial observatory to basement lavatory. Have you ever asked yourself, how exactly do we know? A dated edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica ($89.99, possibly open to negotiation) has long occupied a forlorn shelf in the store, where the prurient schoolboy can browse entries on fornication and feces, and find the following under flatulence: “Intestinal gas comes from either swallowed air (nitrogen and oxygen) or the fermentation by bacteria of poorly digested carbohydrates in the colon, yielding a mixture of carbon dioxide, hydrogen, and methane.” Science demands deliberate experiment—imagine the necessary research! With what device did our die-hard empiricists collect their material? A desperate professor up for tenure pressed his failing students into service, plying them with beans and beer and exposing their rears for the duration, securing a plastic bag around the orifice of inflation? Inquiring minds might further read, “All the common intestinal gases are odourless; about 1 percent of the flatus consists of a mixture of other gases that causes the distinctive odour.” Wait a minute, now! Chemistry counsels careful consideration, cannot rest content with conjecture. There is no escaping the conclusion: the introduction of the nostrils of science into that plastic bag. A public-sector salary cannot provide proper compensation!

Trust me here. Fine sensibilities may bristle at this levity, but the ambush serves a serious purpose. Let us pass from pure science to the application. First, I will confirm your suspicion: I am a proud lion of tradition, though like others of crusty temperament, selective of review. The old guard looks fondly on the past, but must grant some promise to the present. I revere the Brontës, consider their nineteenth-century acquaintances holders of the rarest privilege, yet the villagers of Haworth, West Yorkshire, the sisters’ home on the edge of the moor, suffered an open sewer to run down the main street, drank well water contaminated with human waste, and lost appalling numbers of infants to disease. Genteel Charlotte had to squat over a hole in a freezing outhouse! Post-industrial man disowns his excrement, no sooner freed than flushed, and we charge our engineers, trustees of modernity, visionary designers of svelte airliners and luxury automobiles, with dispatching our effluvia to their final resting place. You take the works for granted, the accomplishment coming to the attention only in the breach, when swimming offshore you find yourself negotiating a raft of raw sewage. Spare a thought then for the sanitation professional, wallowing in the mire that you might forget your business. Imagine spending hours in the fumes, wading the sludge, showering with prophylactic soap. Does some psychological abnormality preclude more social career, do the public servants talk shop in euphemism, are their mothers still proud? Who are these curious individuals?

I introduce my wife. All right, technically I should say ex-wife, but we still address him as Mr. President. Christine Caprese, she never took my name, earned her MS in Civil Engineering from Stanford in 1986. Adding further injury to a life of insult, she shortens her first—Chris and Annie, I need not recount the innuendo. You might picture a Soviet-era athlete of dubious entitlement to the women’s squad, so I will immediately disappoint the presumption. Christine of my sorrows was strawberry blonde, soft of voice, comfortably curved, if her wardrobe did favor the practical over the preen. And the pragmatic woman knew no embarrassment. An enviable self-possession allowed her to publicly hold forth on her employment, in uncompromising vocabulary, without the slightest blockage. The proper matron nodded, the hipster canned his cool, the wag would never dream. Persuasion, anybody?

—Walter Elliot, the conceit! You paraded in front of the mirror, condescended to the lower-born industrialists eclipsing the landed gentry. Little disposed to favour, you were not fond of the idea of your shrubberies being always approachable. Good sir, you never met my wife! The sanitary engineer was not shy, pronouncing on her profession like a genteel visitor to Miss Elliot’s flower garden praising the perfume of the roses. She could persuade even you.—

Another knew her love. And he came first, getting her into bed—with one of his books! No longer of this world, old man Caprese never left her heart. The bereaved still saw his worn mitts on the bench, dusty volumes on the shelf, antique maps on the wall. And she married into a traditional bookstore. Not the most avid reader, the practical woman still rose to a challenge: straightening the merchandise, stopping the leak of patrons, preserving the memory of a father—the one man who could do no wrong.

I met an inspiring woman. I fell for a serious scientist. I married a dedicated professional. That was then. No stranger to emergency, the city engineer faced a crisis of no mechanical solution, the midpoint of a life. Anselm, you can’t complain, didn’t you change careers before we met? All right, but a bookstore is a serious undertaking! And you needed some help. I will address the bad faith, in good time. I came from nothing, remember. The reader might hope that a steady New Englander would follow my example, invest in some solid venture. You need to back off! The reader would be disappointed. Pulling up those roots, the transplant found her bliss, unhappily for me. In rank perversion, the same woman who had uncompromising expectations of a husband was fully forgiving of a friend. Melody hails from Marin, but that isn’t the worst of it. The libertine held me in contempt, helped herself to my liquor, introduced my wife to the Zen Center, and before you could say Adbhutadharmaparyāyasūtra, Christine had converted a shuttered church of the Redeemer into a wellness studio. Hatha Flow has washed up down the street, and the yoga mats blocking the sidewalk incite the scorn of our more judicious customers. At least they should. We were divorced within a year.

“Anselm!” The battle was joined. “Good to see you.” The belligerent never fights fair.

“Oh, it’s you.” I turned to face my doom. “What luck, my toilet is overflowing.”

“That was never funny. Gloria told me you’d been drinking.”

“Isn’t this a party? At least I showed—”

“Looking like a homeless person.”

“I thought we were divorced! And Savile Row won’t extend me any more credit.”

“You still maintain the other woman, I hear. If only the shop—”

“If only you felt for the finer things.”

“Some of us live in the real world.”

“I thought you moved on a more elevated plane.”

“My studio does solid business.”

“Okay, one member of the family is enjoying her little success. Unlike Don Caprese—”

“Anselm, please. I didn’t come over here for another fight.”

“Party on! Have you tried the steak tartare? Very tasty.” I was looking at her plate of mushroom crepes. She went full vegan in the waning days of the union, a ground I generously forswore in the proceedings.

“Oh dear.”

Gloria let me know. Annie, you are such a lucky man. And my wife’s best friend was wont to plant a seed. Was I good enough? Yes I know, Christine is popular, accomplished, nice looking, intelligent, well educated, articulate, dignified, self-reliant, energetic, patient, generous, resourceful, trustworthy, helpful, sociable, solvent . . . But if a woman is so damn perfect, what about her marital word! Man and wife were both distressed, when hearing from her doctor. And which one headed for the door?

Joe cannot let go? That may be the case, but my name is Merrywood, and a memoir has a mandate. I might still think about the marriage, occasionally. So what, I still think about the accident! The car was totaled, but the crash wasn’t really my fault, and we walked away without lasting injury. Gloria pretending post-divorce that she wouldn’t take sides, I opened her forwarded invitation with a sinking heart, could only decline on pain of proving the presumption. She had really no need to warn me. How often must I protest; how much sympathy can I take! Yes, my wife walked out, but I have fully recovered, trust me. I harbor no resentment, since you ask. I never dwell on the past, if you must know. I just ignore the reminders—what reminders anyway? Can we please change the subject! I have plenty of other things to worry about. I have no need to talk about it, really I don’t. I hardly think about her, to tell the honest truth. Let’s just move on, shall we? I rarely think about her at all.

“I was hoping you’d be here.” She could never take a hint. “I hear Betty was in the hospital. I do miss your mother. How is she?”

“The poor woman has no private life, apparently. I’m well, thank you for asking.”

“The lowest form of wit.” No sad piano accompanied her reproach. “I do care, you know.”

The wife reneged on the vow. She still minds the husband’s business. But like a deadly viper, the seasoned assailant strikes alone. So she had crossed the room unaccompanied, sparing me communication with the individual who presently shares her bed. The coward kept his distance, shielded by a clutch of nodding women, frantic for some fodder.

I will take the stand. No matter what my former partner says, I am not bereft of social grace. Visit me in the store, and we’ll have some conversation! The good soldier is not adverse to a party, but the war-weary regular made the drive with well-advised reluctance. I would face inquiry into the health of my business. I would run into a tedious classmate, of illustrious career. I would be expected to lament the lax morals of the English au pair. Returning guests would not forget that unfortunate scene with the young district attorney, reincarnation of Elizabeth I, virgin queen of England. You will be dismayed to learn that a most proper individual had to suffer a shameful accusation. It was just a rhetorical question! Can’t anyone take a joke?

“They thought Mother had a heart attack. False alarm, nothing too serious, apparently. They’re keeping her for observation.”

“I miss her. And how’s George?”

“Just turned eighty, and still a swinger. Though now he’s all titanium.”

“I used to play golf with my father. He never let me use the ladies’ tee.”

“It’s never too late!”

I removed her clothes. Private indulgence provides poor compensation. Though she has discarded a husband, the deserter has kept her looks . . . with some exception. The married woman wore a short bob, which complemented her features; the yoga instructor had grown her hair out, to less success. Should I remark to that effect, in a public spirit? A history of marital misunderstanding counseled precaution. And if I divulge a further development, please suppose no spleen. Rubens would consider her a picture. But I never judge the exhibition, trust me.

“I see the masseur has a fan club.” I surveyed the battlefield.

“Anselm, it really doesn’t bother me. Just to set the record straight, Moshe is not a masseur. He runs a holistic health practice, and he’s very well regarded. You know that already, whatever you pretend.”

“Maybe he’d give me a discount. Friends and family.”

“You don’t want to talk, that’s fine. Say hello to your parents.”

Lew might stew. But I’m not remotely jealous, trust me. The philosopher views life’s vicissitudes with calm detachment. I knew she would bring her boyfriend, Moshe of the piercing desert eyes—I overheard the unhinged remark, unfortunately. My slight indisposition owed nothing to his presence, trust me. Gloria’s affairs are a bog of affectation. Yes, partygoers were warming to him, saying how happy they seemed, but I’m indifferent to the insult, really I am. He might cut a figure, but what about the chin! If he was creating a little stir, then good for him, I say. I’m no insecure teenager, for heaven’s sake. I still carry a torch? Please, nothing could be further . . . ! She has moved on and I’m on my own, for all the world to see. So what! Does the lone wolf not inspire?

Battle had barely begun. A bray bested the babble; a beast bullied through the bustle. The lawyer’s clock is ticking and rations the minutes he allows for each guest, whether old partner in crime or recent acquisition. I’m not touchy. I don’t feel entitled to his time. Anselm Merrywood is secure in his sneakers, I can assure you of that. And I’m far from a critical man. But at their parties Bill competes with Gloria, and his self-importance crescendos to an intolerable pitch. The birthday boy modulates the boast only for superficial banter, the moral degradation of which he is insensible.

“Merrywuss!” Must he always? A squat figure approached, on an evident mission. The incoming missile sported a plain open-necked brown shirt and pants. I suspect that Gloria presses underwhelming attire on her spouse, the better to set off her splendor.

“Happy birthday, sir.” I am the taller, but possess no advantage. A bulldog’s presence belies its actual stature.

“Yeah, yeah, fifty years. Nothing to sing about, as we all know.” He patted his stocky frame.

“I’m still shy, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Your years haven’t treated you too bad, skinny bastard.” Unlike the lady of the house, Bill took no offense at my workaday wear, rude rags deciding the competition. “And we’ve laid on another treat”—the meat was on the cutting board— “your ex-wife!” The knowing cook has a knife.

“Connor, I do thank thee. It’s always a pleasure to see Christine. And she can’t stay away from me. The woman has a genius for walking by the store when we happen to want for customers—”

“Can’t stay away from her boyfriend. Check it out, all over each other.”

“Oh, that’s who he is. I was thinking some creepy party crasher was hitting on her.”

“She does like men.”

“Christine?”

“Just saying!”

“Listen, pal.” The slanderer led me aside. “My wife has invited the whole fucking city, as you can see. I have instructions, talk to every bore she knows, la-di-da. Going to be a long day. Before I mosey, got an idea. Let’s take the boat out again.”

“I love it, when we’re cruising together.” I serenaded a startled salon. “So long as there’s no company.” The last time he made the offer I found myself marooned with the upper echelons of Hayward and Fremont, came close to copying Davy Jones.

“Just the two of us. Get out of your sorry shop for once.”

The Connor consideration carries no conviction. I am his best friend, on Gloria’s rehearsal, an honor compromised by lack of other self-respecting claimants. He has but one gear, unrelenting personal advancement. A boat trip spells submission to his every controlling fancy, the inevitable cock-a-doodle-do. You’re a lucky guy, my friend, this baby cost big bucks, got me half the fucking world begging for a cruise. However, I must overrule my pride, set my stomach for a surfeit. I needed the villain’s help. Were he sober on the day, the request would fall on deaf ears, Scrooge as generous with his scrip as the Virgin Mary with her favors. But we sail with some provision, the rare time he indulges. In a crowd of celebrants Bill’s forbearance stands out, a circumstance he mordantly brings to the attention. Until his showdown with the sheriff, he was no stranger to the saloon, and Gloria would have an Oscar-worthy meltdown over our maritime indulgence.

 The house was packed. The party was swinging. But my post told a singular story, Gloria somehow failing to weave my threads into the fabric. I have the recurring nightmare, naked in a classroom, and now experienced a like exposure, second-guessing my clothing calculation. A saving Grace typically appeared at this juncture; I should forestall her rescue attempt. My ride was waiting outside.

Mike takes a hike? That is not beyond the realm of possibility, but Anselm is another animal; the critter is no quitter. And flight only draws attention, good manners mandating interminable goodbyes. However, my lone vigil must have so impressed that any approach would disappoint, belated engagement surrender my cool. The crowd was too dignified to supply the entertainment of a belligerent drunkard, kids were forbidden, and the musicians had played their encore. Christine and paramour merged on the other side of the room. I could not miss his pat to her rear. You might come to his defense, see no semaphore, and I praise your propensity to forgive. I also could not care less, trust me. The later mishap was a total accident, whatever you might think.

A lone wolf likes to prowl. And a long sufferer needs a breath of fresh air. The exterior move had an ulterior motive? You will have to wait and see.  

CHAPTER VI. THE WALL

Your hero has a hurdle.

A memorable story has a moment. The plot took a fateful twist, when Oliver asked for more; mankind made a giant leap, when Neil took his short step to the moon. And the world was hanging in the balance, when Eve eyed the fruit. A riveting memoir will now have you hanging in suspense. Will Merrywood make the move?

The sliding door made my exit. O captain, my captain! Our fearful trip is done? Whitman, please calm down! The ballroom was a battlefield, but a true hero has no fear. I did face a reckoning.

A few hands remained on deck. Your captain stood apart, his back to squalls of laughter, his face to rumbling sea. If he gave the impression of deep and distant thoughts, then so be it. And he had a glass in hand, the navy needs fortification. The fog had not made up its mind, the more decided sun had disappeared. A staff member clad in white jacket, pressed slacks, and patent-leather wingtips was lighting a heat lamp, which performance served no purpose, the deck was for the birds. All poor creatures need to eat, but another immaculately appointed waiter was shooing away a starving sparrow while he swept up the litter of indulgence. At least, he was going through the motions.

The Pacific Ocean spread both vast and near. The seas swelled, the surf broke, the water glistened, but the scene was unequal to the competition. The person of interest? She was still stationed in a corner, having some words, with herself. The striking figure better belonged at some remove—penniless, stranded on a moor, at a place called Whitcross, where no tie held her to human society, no charm or hope called her to her fellow creatures. A novel heroine? Well, a cigarette pack lay on the railing, a cord led from her ears, black lips mouthed the music, bare feet tapped in confirmation. Living in different worlds, standing on opposite sides of the deck, studiously ignoring each other, a dated drinker and disaffected young smoker nevertheless shared a category: the only unaccompanied guests on the premises.

Your captain took the wheel. The move was in the offing? Well, a heat lamp warmed my watch, a whisky raised my spirits, a trumpet blew encouragement into my ears. What a wonderful world! Louis, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. The hungry sparrow seconded the motion, breadcrumbs on the boards. My own stomach was full enough. Another pang was plaguing, the fruit within reach.

Merrywood! . . . Bug off . . . Fresh fruit can be bitter . . . I’ll be the judge.

The orchard gate is open. A shiny apple catches the eye of passing boys. Many are drawn to the tree; few risk the perilous pluck. Like the garden of Eden, big trouble lay in store? Well, my daring faced a further challenge.

Daring? . . . Just you wait . . . Haven’t got all day!

We were not alone. The move would have a witness, two waiters idling on deck. Can't anyone mind their own business!

The air was chilly. The pair were dressed for indoor employment, the employees outside the bounds—the white jackets, black shoes, tidy hair both advertised a service and disguised a sorry truth. The deck needed attention. The house was full of guests. The hostess had paid good money. And the lazy so-and-sos could find nothing better to do? I should order a Corpse Reviver. And be quick about it, boys!

What was keeping them? The two may have known each other, but had no words to share. Suspicious, huh? Practiced criminals have no need to talk, their plan rehearsed, moneyed pickings at their mercy. I have suggested security, Gloria ridicules the need—Annie, really! My guests? The suspect pair made a singular impression, the taller troubling like a tough, his sidekick smiling with some sweetness. But Clyde Darrow looked like a choirboy! A waiter’s uniform makes a good cover. An apron pocket readily packs some heat.

The female showed no fear. And was that a smirk? I have admitted to a slight contretemps, at a previous event, with a young woman guest. But really, it was all a misunderstanding. I was now under paid surveillance? Gloria would never stoop so low, surely. Though her husband would stop at nothing! The supposed waiters refused to look in my direction. A good spy never gives the game away.

The party was out of sight. The spirit now spilled over? Black lips mouthed some music. Bare feet tapped to a beat. She was making eyes at the boys? I love a man in uniform! The two smartly dressed young men might also come with tolerably good looks, though who knows? I had been impatient for their parting. They were waiting my own leave!

Bent out of shape? . . . The most upright of men! . . . Who never gets any action.

The door slid open. A finger beckoned. The boys scurried inside, tails between their legs. She did not seem to notice.

We were alone.

I did have some support. A cocktail makes good company. And the female has no fear for me, needless to say. Although the face is an enigma. And black lips only add to the unknown. Should Merrywood mess with the mystery? A careful man takes no untoward risk. A considerate man will not impose. A wise man weighs his words.

An invisible wall? Well, the wildlife would have none of that, the deck was for the birds. Starlings crowded the tables, sparrows claimed the garbage bags, pigeons flocked to the boards. And a hysterical gang of herring gulls was lined up on the railing. The squadron was on the attack, dive-bombing an enemy combatant.

An object of ridicule, more like! . . . Well, they were in hysterics.

In any case, they missed my sneakers, narrowly. Didn’t I promise you some fun! Birds had taken over, but not all the life was animated. A night heron was present in spirit, brooding at her feet.

The move! . . . I know what I’m doing here . . . Ornithology?

History heralds a hurdle. Washington crossed the Delaware, Caesar the Rubicon, Hannibal the Alps. Another warrior now faced a defining test? I did have a reckoning—rows of planks marking the distance, the diligent mathematician cannot help but count.

Playing in your pants? . . . Excuse me? . . . Telegraphing torment? . . . Listening to you!

The tale started with a toast. Let us now drink to good health. I keep my waist trim, never call in sick, favoring the cocktail over the medicine cabinet. But though we benefit from the stance, the upright is a challenge to the human, my frame no exception to the rule. Gravity enervates my lower vertebral discs with a secret squad of saboteurs, set to strike on special occasion. The doctors are stumped, the gym a lost cause, a wife given to question—and her system was perfect? The discomfort comes and goes, although one thing is constant. I take it like a man. I do not complain. I rarely make mention, as you will come to respect. The pain might be prevalent in comely company, but some correlation is just coincidence, as we all know. Can’t a man find himself in the presence, without scurrilous suggestion?

“Happy birthday to you!” The strain came through, though the glass door stained the passage. The starlings were startled, the gulls sounded a refrain. Even the statue showed some life, taking up the chorus. My lower back also clamored for attention—a cold wind induces the pangs, in case you were wondering. I still love my fresh air and developed an interest in the neighboring yard, where a silver Airstream interrupted the view of surrounding hills, red-headed woodpecker beat a lonely drum, and child’s swing hung from a leafless tree. A nearer fixture was standing still, in the corner of my eye, before lighting another cigarette. The sparrow had been keeping her close company, enjoying full use of only one leg. The solitary scavenger now limped off the edge of the deck, a plaintive cheep sounding the retreat.

Make your own move, man! . . . A smooth operator takes it easy . . . Nailed to a cross! . . . A cool customer slows things down.

Deliberation doomed the donkey; a medieval philosopher posed the paradox. Mind the mettle of the man; Merrywood has a more stirring proposition!

A young deer is skittish. The hunter must tread lightly in the forest, coolly lift his rifle, calmly draw a bead, patiently wait the instant of alignment. Surgical precision spells success. A true hero needs no help. A lone climber braves the mountain. A peak performer is a born artist of the move . . .

I am losing track. A doomed sailor had to walk the plank? Well, I found myself transported over the timber. The back protested, the gulls grumbled, the pigeons stirred in indignation. The person of interest noticed the move, but added no further sign of alarm.

“Uncle Annie!” She took a short drag, deigned a little dimple.

“Alice. Long time!”