Samuel Holloway looked out the window, at nothing in particular.

 

His thumbs were hooked into his suspenders, and he was deep in thought.

 

From the 33^rd floor, he could see the entire city, the suburbs beyond, and the clouds above.

 

Seated behind him, at the conference table, sat every member of the executive committee. He could smell their cologne, and hear the low murmurings between pairs of them.

 

He had heard, in the halls, the concerns of the employees. The talk was that the Rex Publishing Company, after 133 years of distinguished service to the world of readers, was about to be sold. The rumor mill had it that they would be purchased by The Bindery, a huge bookstore conglomerate; the type that sells coffee and music, and fancy little places to sit and read. People came there to read, and to look hip and scholarly as they did so. It was not good news for the employees of Rex Publishing.

The Bindery had a reputation for reducing both salaries and employees when they took over.

 

The biggest salaries at Rex were now seated behind him, he knew that they were concerned, as well they should.

 

Samuel knew that a single word from him, and the merger plans could be dashed, or they could be brought to fruition. Certainly, they all knew that something had to be done. All that one would have to do, would be to walk through the shipping department, and see that less than half the number of books left the building today, compared to ten years ago.

 

He was not certain why. Some said that the agents had gotten fat and lazy, and had stopped scratching for new authors. Other said that readership overall was down, and blamed television. Others blamed Oprah. Samuel knew full well that whatever Oprah told people to read, they read. And not one of those books came from Rex.

 

Although Samuel, of course, felt no concern for his own position or income, he knew that they did, the people in that room, seated behind him now. He new that the “little people” did also.

Much of the buzz about their uncertain future came from the plain workers; he heard it everywhere, although they never seemed to be aware that he was listening.

The secretaries, the printers, the binders, even the custodial staff, worried about the loss of their job, their income, and their way of life.

 

Samuel could not help but feel that this group could have done something to avoid coming to this situation, long ago. But they had not. They overspent, had meetings, and protected their own interests.

 

Looking out that window, with all of them seated behind him, he began to feel his power.

 

It was time, he decided, for leadership. It was time to shake things up, and get in gear. There were too many people depending on these folks for them to be sitting around, in endless debate.

 

The words began to form themselves in his mind.

 

He could imagine himself swinging into action, turning away from the window, and with a strong voice, filled with the authority and responsibility of his position, he would begin.

 

“People, the future of this company, and the lives of many, have been placed into your control. It is time to shut up, and get to work.”

 

He would remind them that the number of books that went out of the loading dock doors had gone down steadily, and they had failed to do anything about it. He would remind them that every worker there was aware of this situation, and they waited for a response from management.

 

Those days were over, he would tell them.

 

Immediately, he would take control over every aspect of the business, and he was committed to returning it to the kind of place where people did not go to work every day, wondering if their next paycheck would be their last.

 

They would shorten their vacations, roll up their sleeves, think outside the box, and generally get to work.

 

And anybody that was not with him, was against him. They should leave now.

 

It was just unimaginable, that they would even entertain the idea that some candy-assed, frou-frou bookstore conglomerate, could take them over.

 

It was time for plain talk, and action. Folks were depending on them.

 

As he thought these things, he felt his posture improving. He was standing erect now, almost military perfect. He felt as powerful as he ever had. He was ready to take command, and he swung his body around to face them.

 

This was the moment, and he knew it. Someone had to rally the troops, and he knew that he was the man for the job.

 

He removed his thumbs from his suspenders, and turned on his heel to face them. His face was taut with purpose. Surely, he reasoned, his wartime stare would be enough to gather their assembled attention.

 

He stared at them, and they stared back.

 

It was one of them that spoke first.

 

“You will have to excuse us now, Samuel, our meeting is set to begin.”

 

There was a low chuckle from somewhere; he could not identify it.

 

He picked up the squeegee, removed the cloth from his pocket, and gave a final scrub to a stubborn smudge on the huge window.

 

As he left the room, he heard the word “daydreamer.” He imagined that it was said fondly.

 

He had heard it before.

I thought that it was time to write down all that I remember, before it’s too late, and I am dead.

 

I have been thinking about making my notes and memories for a while, but I got news yesterday that made me decide think that I better set it all down on paper. It was sad news.

 

Both Mr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson died yesterday.

 

I heard some people say that it had been fifty years since all of the fireworks began on account the Independence paper that me and Thom worked so hard on.

 

One thing is for sure. I couldn’t write this down at all, except that Mr. Jefferson taught me how to.

 

Sometimes, I tell some of the young folks about what it was like back then, and tell them stories about me, and all of the fellows.

 

I can tell that they don’t always believe me, because I have never been a rich man like the fellows was, or a delegate. Sometimes they poke fun and me and ask me where I signed my name on the Declaration, because they didn’t see it on there.

 

The truth is that I was one of the fellows back then, and they would all tell you that, if they weren’t as dead as they are.

 

I did my part, sure enough, and I intend to set it all down here, or at least as much as I can remember. Then you’ll see, and maybe it will make you check that Declaration a little closer.

 

I was about fifteen years of age back then, back when it all started. I just happened to be in the right place. So here goes.

 

 

The thing about me is, that I wasn’t really looking to do anything important. I mean, I wanted to make a few quid, and that was all. I never really planned on getting involved with all of those rich guys, and change history and all. But I guess I couldn’t help it, and neither could they.

 

I have always been a city kid. I like all of the hustle and bustle of a real city, not like those little towns up north, like Boston and New York.

 

Some people say that there are nearly 40,000 people living in Philadelphia now, and some days it sure seems like it, with all of the garbage in the streets. Lately, there seems to be more Catholics than Quakers. Modern times, I guess. You just have to go with it.

 

I lived on Filbert Street, which had plenty of bustle, what with the tavern and all. But as a young man of the city, I like that. Some of the streets had been cobbled by then, but not all. The cobbled streets were used more, what with the lack of mud, but there was still plenty of garbage, and horse dung, and people selling wares. Just walking down them could be a real adventure. As boys, we would often just watch and hope that maybe an interesting person might come by, like a pirate. Mostly though, the pirates was down by the river.

 

I didn’t have a father since I was about six years of age. I did have a mother though, who worked over at the Dead Fish Tavern, which was also where we lived. My ma told me that my pa had died, which I chose to believe, even though some of my friends would tell me that they seen him down by the docks some times. I never knew him that much anyways, as he was often at sea.

 

My ma made a lot of friends over at the Dead Fish. Some of them seemed like better friends than others, but what did I know? I was just happy when she would send me upstairs with my own soup bowl and a hunk of bread.

Since she was working all the time though, I was running the streets a lot.

About the time of twelve years of age, she began telling me that I should be looking to earn my own keep. She also told me to stay clear of the docks, but I didn’t all the time, as that was where we went for swimming.

 

I started working over there at Carpenter’s Hall a year or so before everything got interesting, what with the work that Thom and me did on that declaration and all.

 

My mother had told me that it was time for me to get busy and earn my own way, what with me being fifteen and all. Maybe even strike out on my own, but I didn’t. As I said, I’m a city kid and no farmer.

Sometimes my ma compared me to those Bacon kids, but not favorably. I never really liked any of them, as they always seemed kind of snooty to me, what with their two sets of clothes and all.

 

There was work that a man could get at the printing shops, or down at the docks, so I tried them first. The docks need burly men compared to what I am, so they told me to go home, and send my father.

I couldn’t send him on account of his death, and when I explained that, they told me to send my big brother, which I explained to them that I never had, except for Silas, who only lived for a week or so.

So, even if he is my big brother, it didn’t do them any good.

I tried to make them understand that a fifteen year old has responsibilities to the family, which they said doesn’t matter if you are “scrawny as an imp.” I’m not sure about imps, but they way that they said it made it sound bad.

So, I tried the printing houses.

 

There was this man, a Mr. Aitken, that was starting up a printing business. I went and talked to him about being an apprentice printer. He said something like “You’re too old to be a feckin’ apprentice,” or something close to that. It was pretty hard to tell on account of the way that he spoke. I think he was from Scotch land or something. Anyway, he wasn’t from Philadelphia, that’s for sure.

 

That’s when I met Dr. Franklin. His name is really Benjamin; Ben is what some people called him. He liked to be called Dr. Franklin though, so that’s what I did.

Dr. Franklin is some guy, that’s for sure. Two things I can tell you about him are this. He sure likes the women, particularly young ones compared to him, plus, he had gas all the time. I never heard anybody fart like that, and not laugh afterward. That’s what me and my friend’s did anyways. Dr. Franklin always blamed it on the beer, and he could be right about that. He sure liked his beer.

 

Dr. Franklin was in the middle of having gas the first time that I met him. He was all bent over a big wooden box, looking at a bunch of metal letters. You could see that he was having trouble making them out. I guess he didn’t hear me come in, because he was all bent over, staring at those letters, and he was letting one fly that lasted half as long as a Sunday sermon. So, I did what was right in that situation. I laughed.

 

He didn’t turn around at first; he was busy complaining to the letters for being so small, and saying that he should figure out how to hang a magnifying glass on his face.

 

When he did see me, that first time, he was smiling a great big smile. I guess he knew what was funny as well as I did. He never pardoned himself for that, like some rich guys did, but he always had a comment about it. Most times, he would say, “Better out of thee, than in thee,” and he always smiled. Come to think of it though, he smiled most of the time, whether he had gas or not.

 

This time though, he said “Just praising God with a backward wind,” and then he said something about some guy named Augustine or something. That was another thing about Dr. Franklin; he was always saying stuff that somebody else said, and then he would tell you who it was that said it. I never really heard of the other guys, but the stuff that he said all by himself was always funnier.

Yep, Dr. Franklin sure is a funny guy that knows what a lot of people say. Gassy too. I liked him right away. Plus he gave me a job, but I don’t think he meant to.

 

Before I could ask for a job, he called me over, and showed me the little letters that he was trying to figure out. I found out later that they were the letters that he would put into little racks that went into the printing press.

 

He said, “Can you see these?” and I could, so that’s what I told him.

 

“Does this one look more like an eff or an ess?”

 

I didn’t know so I said, “I don’t know.”

 

Then he went on about how they looked too much the same, and maybe it was time that he fixed the alphabet, so you could tell the difference in letters easier.

Old Dr. Franklin was forever fixing stuff that he didn’t like, and some times, it worked. You would have thought he could’ve fixed that gas problem of his, but the truth is that he was proud of it, and he made people laugh.

Sometimes the guys down at the City Tavern would tell stories about his farts; they were that good. And they always laughed, every one of those guys, except for John Adams, who never laughed at nothing.

 

Now that I think of it, I have had lots of guys try the “pull my finger,” joke on me, but Dr. Franklin was first. I guess he invented that too. I should have asked him, when I had the chance.

 

“I need a job. I can be a printer’s apprentice, even if I am too old.” I had to interrupt him to get this in. I was surprised that he said “Okey Dokey,” so fast, but I was happy, too.

He told me to come tomorrow morning, and I could get started.

 

When I got there the next morning, he was looking at a piece of paper, and lining up letters again. He must have been there for a while, because when he saw me, he said “Good afternoon.”

I shouldn’t have tried to correct him, but I did, so I said “Good morning.” And he said, “What’s left of it,” and I said, “Left of what?” and he said “the morning,” and I said “Huh?”

 

About ten minutes of this continued, before I understood that I was not as early as he had hoped I would be.

 

I asked him what he was hoping for, and he said “Half-six,” to which I said “Three,” which he must have thought was funny, because he laughed so hard that the gassing started.

 

For a guy that smart, you would think he could remember names, but he sure couldn’t. I’ll bet he only called me Clem a handful of times.

I would have preferred that he called me Clem all the time, because that’s my name and all. But he didn’t, so sometimes I was Jim, or Samuel, sometimes even Ben, which surprised me, and a couple of times I was Hezekiah, which I didn’t care for that much.

 

Dr. Franklin said that he was going to get me started in “my proud new trade, that of scholars and artisans,” and he told me to copy the letters that were written out on the paper. I was to find the ones just like them in the drawer, and to line them up just so. That way, he said, we could print lots of copies of what was on the paper.

 

After he told me this, he said he had to “go see a man about a horse,” which I learned later wasn’t about seeing a man at all, and horses had nothing to do with it. But I didn’t know that till later.

 

When he was leaving he said, “watch those effs and esses.”

 

So, I did what he told me, and then I waited till he got back. He seemed happy that I was done already, but the truth is he would have been happy about anything, by the smell of his breath.

 

The next part was fun. He showed me how to rack up the letters that I put together, and put them into the printing press. Then we lathered up some ink into it, and slid in a paper. Before you knew it, I was cranking this handle, sliding papers in and out, and printing stuff. I really liked it, and Dr. Franklin could see that, so he says. “Do that five hundred times, Vern.” And then he left, the last thing that he said was, “Bolt the door when you have finished Eli, and I shall see you at half-six, tomorrow.”

 

I was trying to tell him that I wasn’t that sure about “five hundred” or “half-six,” but the printing press was pretty loud, plus he gassed right over my words.

 

That’s why the next day didn’t start off so good.

Dr. Franklin wasn’t doing anything when I got there. He looked like he was waiting for something, or somebody.

 

I said, “Hey, if you’re not busy, lets go get some breakfast.” He said that he had “dined before working hours commenced,” so I asked if I minded if I ran down the street for a hot roll.

 

He minded.

 

“Wilver,” he said, talking to me, which I knew because I was the only one there, “I was expecting you at half-six.”

 

“Three.” I answered.

 

“Enough with the humour,” he said. When he said it, he didn’t sound that humorous, so I just stood there.

 

“Are you unable to be here at half-six?” he asked. I said that I wasn’t sure, given the fact that I didn’t know what he was talking about.

 

“Half-six is when we begin, Clem.” I was surprised that he got my name right; it must have been an accident.

 

“I get here as soon as I get up Dr. Franklin. For cripes sake, I didn’t even have porridge this morning.”

 

“What time do you rise?” he asked. I could only say that I rose shortly after I woke up, depending on how cold it was, or how bad I needed to pee.

 

That was when Dr. Franklin began to teach me about time, and that those bells weren’t just for music. I appreciated it, and he was having fun teaching me.

For a while, he forgot that he was way madder at me for something else, than he was about the whole “half-six” thing.

 

After I pretended like I understood the whole “hours and half-hours,” concept, we moved on to larger matters.

 

“Now Claude,” he began, “I realize that you are only an apprentice, but still, I must inquire, did you proof read this?”

 

I knew enough about reading to know that I didn’t know how to do it, so I just said, “No, Sir, I just matched them up like you said.”

 

“Then kindly tell me what good is does to have a newspaper where the headline says ‘Two Hunt in Soreft Sire’.”

Since I didn’t know what good it did, but sensing some problem that was caused by me, I said, “I did just like you told me.”

 

“Did you think that people would deduce ‘Two Hurt in Forest Fire’ from this?”

 

I said that all I knew about deduce was that my mom complained about it, when the ale got high down at the Dead Fish Tavern.

 

He was pretty loud when he asked, “I even warned you about the effs and the esses. Can you not read, Herbie?” To which I replied, “What do I look like, one of those snotty Bacon kids?”

 

I guess he was figuring out that not everybody was a high-falutin doctor that knows how to read, but he didn’t say any more about that. He changed the subject, and said, “Your mother frequents the Dead Fish Tavern?” I told him that I didn’t know much about frequentin’, but that she worked there.

 

“Works there?” he said, his eyebrows arching.

 

“Yep, she’s a serving wench.”

 

“The stout redhead?” he asked

 

“Tall blonde.” I told him.

 

The news gave him a kind of thoughtful look, and he started a sentence with “ Yes, the tall blonde, I understand that she doesn’t mind….” But his voice trailed off.

 

I was glad that he didn’t continue, because I think I caught his gist. I was no baby; I was fifteen years old, for criminy sake.

 

Dr. Franklin shook his head, as a signal that he was changing his thoughts, and said, “I fear the answer to this question, Morris, but how many copies did I request that you print?”

 

“Five Hundred,” I said, relieved that I could get at least one answer correct.

 

“Then why do I find two thousand copies of the “Soreft Sire” edition?”

 

“I would have the made the rest Doc, but I ran out of paper.”

 

And that was when Doctor Franklin was kind enough to get me the job sweeping up at The Carpenter’s Hall.”

 

 

The Carpenter’s Hall didn’t have any carpenters in it, at least not that I had seen. I never saw any hammers, or saws. Mostly there were men talking about what buildings ought to look like, and there are some other men talking about cloth goods.

 

The one thing they did have around there was a lot of whispering. Grown men sitting in rooms talking about secrets, and then when I come around with the broom, they started talking about buildings. They didn’t think that I knew that they are talking about King George, but I did.

He’s the king, was my opinion, so he is in charge. But these guys seem to have other ideas about it. Good luck arguing with a King, is what I thought.

 

Dr. Franklin didn’t seem to think too much of the king, I know that. Maybe that’s why he moved away to France. I am glad that he got me the job before I left, but I sure missed him. He’s different than most of the other rich guys.

 

Anyway, I did a lot of sweeping, and cleaning, and taking care of fires, and wood, and soot, and ashes. The job got easier in the summertime. Plus, I didn’t have to push the snow off the steps.

 

A lot of the time, I just swept. I was happy to be busy, and my mother needed the money. She must have, because she took it all.

 

I guess that I was happy to help her out, but not always.

 

I can remember when the meetings started.

 

Maybe I got nosy. I know that I didn’t have no cause to be poking my ears in, but I did. At first, I would just sweep slower when I wanted to listen. Then one time, old John Jay, talked right to me.

 

I was surprised that he did, but maybe I shouldn’t have been.

 

The thing was, that I had stopped sweeping altogether, and I was just leaning on the broom, listening.

 

The fellows had got to know me some. Some of them called me Clem, which is what I asked them to do, but some called me Mr. Burgess.

It’s funny about the people that own land. They all dress nice, and they keep pretty clean. They know that they’re better men than me; just as sure as I know it.

Some of them lord it over you, and some don’t. Some seemed to think that they were supposed to make me think that I was as good as them, and some always seemed to remind me that I definitely wasn’t.

 

For instance, I remember John Jay saying, “Clem, would you be so good as to empty this spittoon, and wipe the floor about it?”

 

But others, like that old fatty John Adams would say, “Tea please, Mr. Burgess.”

 

Sometimes I got him the tea, most times I didn’t.

 

Not that I minded, it was all in the asking.

 

How he got them to make him president, I’ll never know. He never seemed to fit in that good with the fellows.

 

He would dine with them; I know that. But he wasn’t that good at taking his turn to pay for supper, or a draught of ale.

One of the names that they called him was “His Thriftiness.”

It was funnier when, later on, they called him “His Rotundity.” He kind of asked for that though.

 

Either way, they only said when he wasn’t around, and he never suspected any different than they thought he was the man to look up to. But I knew different.

 

Maybe that’s why he didn’t get along so good with Mr. Washington, and Mr. Jefferson. All of the fellows looked up to those two.

 

I admired them too, and even though me and Thom had our battles, I knew that they was both great men.

 

I knew it before most of the other regular people did.

 

You could just see it.

 

 

The meetings, at first, were about staying British.

 

They just wanted peace, but things were getting expensive.

 

Rich people like them didn’t think that they was supposed to be giving King George all that he wanted them to chip in.

 

Nobody back then thought that they would break off and start a whole war over it. A lot of the fellows got pretty scared after they closed down the port up in Boston.

 

It was Sam Adams and Dr. Franklin as I recall, that was stirring the pot, saying they should stand up for themselves. Pat Henry got into the swing of things for sure. I remember that every time he got up to talk it sounded like a goldang sermon. They sure listened though, and I couldn’t help it myself.

 

Mr. Randolph was the man in charge, as I recall, but he was pretty quiet.

Sam Adams was a favorite of mine for sure. He was like them, and then again, he wasn’t.

 

They was always telling him to straighten up his appearance, and fix his hair, especially Johnny Hancock.

 

Sam Adams was always kind of rumpled, and when the fellows would go out for their supper, he generally went his own way. One time I asked him why he didn’t join in, and he would always say that “He had matters to tend to, matters of patriotic mischief.”

 

So, when some of the funny stuff started happening, I suspected Mr. Adams, and I know that I was right by the way he would smile when I asked him. But he never said nothing.

 

It was different back then, when we was British America. Them guys worried about treason for sure. Not Sam though, he would say stuff like “feck the British.”

 

People like me might talk like that, but gentlemen didn’t. I guess that was the difference about Sam. He didn’t care about being no gentleman, and it showed.

But he was smart about a lot stuff, and they knew it.

 

I know that the fellows were slow to catch on that having the meetings over at the State House was a bad idea. Sam convinced them though. He called the State House “Tory Heaven.”

 

That was the reason that they came over to Carpenter’s Hall, where I was the man that did the cleaning.

 

They got more privacy there, except not from me. I’m glad that I got nosy, though. Later on, they even let me help about a little.

 

Not that I’m taking much credit, because they never give me any.

But they could have, at least that’s what I think.

 

When I got to know Sam Adams better, he asked me lots of questions. It went like this.

 

“Clem, do you know what’s going on here?”

 

“Where?”

 

“Here?”

 

“We’re talking. You and me, but I should be sweeping, right?”

 

“Not that, I mean what the fellows talk about, whilst we meet together.”

 

“Well sir, you ain’t that fond of the king, and it’s costing the fellows money.”

 

“Do you agree with the sentiments that you overhear?”

 

“I don’t hear nothing, Mr. Adams.”

 

“That’s a load of shiite Clem. You’re about to wear out the floor just outside the door, from all of the sweeping that you do there.”

 

I knew that he was onto me. So I said, “I ain’t no rich man with land somewheres else. It don’t have much to do with me, or my kind.”

 

“It does indeed Clem. That is the entire point. The King doesn’t want this to be a free land, and we do. Don’t you want freedom, Clem?”

 

I had never thought about freedom one way or the other, I would have been happy to make a whole shilling every week, and that was about it.

 

“What would happen if we didn’t have the King?” I asked him. “Who would be in charge?”

 

“You would Clem. Just like me, and all of the other men in that room, and all the people in Philadelphia and Boston, and in between.”

 

I said, “I’m afraid to say something bad about the King, Mr. Adams.”

And I was. We all knew about treason back then. It was a bad thing to have thought about yourself.

 

“That’s the point, Clem.”

 

“What is?”

 

“You shouldn’t have to be afraid in your own land.”

 

“If you fellows was in charge, would I have to be afraid?”

 

“No sir. We seek the freedom to speak about what is on your mind, for everyone.”

 

“Could I crack wise about John Adams?”

 

“Without impunity,” he said.

 

I wasn’t that sure about impunity, but I tried not to act like it. Come to think about it, I’m still not sure about it. If Mr. Jefferson was here, I could ask him, but he ain’t.

 

Anyway, I was catching on to his drift. Plus, if those fellows thought that King George was a bad guy, I had to take their word for it. I never met him myself.

 

So I said, “I’m all for you fellows.”

 

Sam liked that, and then he gave me a little job to do.

 

I was to do my sweeping, and nosing, like I always did. But if I noticed any of those Tories, or anybody that seemed particularly interested in the meetings, I was to let them know. The signal was that I would just go right through the doors and say, “Just checking the spittoons,” and they would know that they should be cautious.

 

I had to do it more than once too, and the fellows always appreciated it, because they would slip me a few pence afterwards.

 

It was funny to hear them change the subject. Sometimes they would start talking about tobacco raising, or the weather, and one time they started talking about the tall blonde wench down at the Dead Fish Tavern.

 

When I hollered out “That’s my ma,” they laughed at first, but Sam let them know it was true. I didn’t even know that he knew her, but I guess he did.

 

Old Sam knew a lot of stuff like that.

 

 

 

The fellows got kind of brave, or maybe they was just getting madder and madder at King George. So, they decided to have what you call a Continental Congress.

 

A Continental Congress is what you have when you get all the fellows to stick together, so that they can get their way.

 

They all came to the Hall, and it was a real group of characters.

 

I remember George Washington telling the fellows something like, “I am but a humble farmer, and a servant to the colonies. You’re wish that I might lead the troops, in the notion that we might one day seek to take up arms against the King, has never entered my consideration.”

 

Then somebody, I think it was Pat Henry, said “Then why do you wear that old uniform, and that sword, everywhere you go?”

 

Even John Adams had to laugh at that one.

 

The fellows still had peace on their mind.

 

But that don’t mean that they weren’t cranky, cause they was.

There was more of them now, more than fifty. There was fellows from far off lands that I hadn’t really heard much of before. Virginny, for sure, but Connecticut too, and a couple of Carolina’s. Also, there was fellows from Delaware. I had heard of Delaware, but I didn’t know it was close to Philadelphia.

There was not a single man that come up from Georgia, and that made a lot of the fellows sore. Some wanted to kick them out of the whole deal, but some said it was England’s fault they wasn’t there. Of course, everything got blamed on England back then.

 

That was about the time that the snake picture got started, for which I have never got much credit.

 

All of the fellows was talking about having to stick together, I heard it all of the time. Well, that got me to thinking about something I seen in Dr. Franklins print Shoppe. Down in the cellar there was a hunk of wood with a picture of a cut-up snake. Now, back then, I didn’t know what the words said, but the picture made it pretty clear.

I was telling one of the fellows about it, I think it was Mr. Gadsden, and he was pretty interested in it. So, I went over to the shop to get it. Dr. Franklin was still over there in France, but I didn’t think he would mind. When I brung it over to The Hall, the fellows caught the meaning right away.

They told me the words said “Join or Die.”

Dr. Franklin was something, the way he didn’t mince words.

Well, says I, if you cut up a snake, it ain’t gonna do no biting, and the fellows had to agree with me.

So, they had copies of it printed up.

I guess that was one more way that I done my part for liberty, but I’ll tell you more about that later.

Mr. Jefferson wasn’t at that meeting at all, and it wasn’t till Thom showed up that I got all wrapped up in it, just like I was one of them delegates.

 

You know, to this day, I don’t trust people from Georgia that well.

 

When the next meeting started, it was fall; I remember that.

 

I was there every day, sweeping and polishing and the like. The big room, where they would talk all the time was the cleanest, because that’s where I tried to be most of the time. Sweeping, polishing, and listening. I even ran some errands for the fellows. Buckets of beer from time to time was one of them, and water.

They talked about freedom some, and liberty, and words like that, but I can tell you that it was about money too.

 

It’s funny about money. Poor people like me don’t have much of it; but what we get, we spend. This is mostly because somebody is waiting for it, or we need something right away, like to get some food.

 

Rich people don’t think like that. They don’t want to spend it, but more than that, they sure don’t want to give it away.

And that was the whole rub with England.

 

I don’t know why old George over there in England didn’t see it that way. I have seen pictures of him hanging up around town, and he looks like a rich fellow to me. He should have knowed how the fellows wouldn’t cotton to sending money off across the ocean, for no reason. If he had got that, that would have solved the whole mess. I always would wonder how come he didn’t understand that, if somebody like me could. But I guess that’s cause I’m no King, and never will be.

 

For the folks that wasn’t there, like I was, England was asking for money, and the fellows thought that they should have had a vote on it. If they could have, they would have voted no, that’s for sure.

 

It wasn’t like they passed the hat for money. At least no one passed a hat to me, but they probably wouldn’t have, because I didn’t look like I had any money, and I sure didn’t.

 

England would put a tax on things that people needed, like tea, and stamps, and things like that. That seemed pretty sneaky to me.

The fellows said that they couldn’t afford it. The truth was that they could, but they was sore because nobody asked them.

 

They would always say that when they got their way, that there wouldn’t be no taxes at all. After a while, they began to say that there might be a little tax, but just enough to take care of things.

Now that the fighting is all over, and England has lost their say, the people in America can thank those fellows that there will never be taxes like that to pay any more. Americans have proved that they just won’t pay taxes that ain’t fair, and I’ll bet that won’t change, even in hundreds of years. You can bet on that.

I’ll bet that they are so sick of wars that there won’t be any more of them either. What’s the point, if now we can be in charge of ourselves, and we know what it feels like when some other place tries to tell you what to do, from far off? It just don’t make sense to meddle that way.

 

So, what they did for those days, was to argue over what they were gonna write down and send over to the King.

 

To boil it all down, it was pretty much that that if England thought that the people here should pay tax money, they wanted to have a say in it.

 

There was a lot of talk saying that England would never go for it, and the King was a bully. You just can’t reason with a bully.

Some of the fellows wanted to begin just telling the soldiers to go back to England, and some wanted to just start wiping them out.

 

The Tories got wind of this talk, I know.

 

But they didn’t hear it over at The Hall. I was always on the lookout for them Tories, and they was snooping around more and more. I had to give my spittoon speech almost every day.

When I did, the fellows would always say nice stuff about England, and say that the King was “a becoming figure,” and things like that, until I let them know that the coast was clear of Tories, then they would all have a big laugh. Me too.

 

Some said that they even heard that the new Governor, a fellow named Sage had even poked his head into the hall once. If that was true, I didn’t know it.

 

What they did think, was that he was sending spies, and that’s who I was to be on the lookout for.

 

I remember telling the fellows that being a spy was a low-down thing to be, and they laughed when I said it.

 

Then they explained that this is what I was. I told them that I was just trying to help out the fellows, because they seemed like a pretty good crowd of guys, and they was nice to me, even though I was no gentleman.

I also admitted that I appreciated it when a shilling would come my way.

 

John Jay clapped me on my back and said, “You are a good man, Mr. Burgess.”

 

I appreciated that.

 

Sometimes, one or another of the fellows would teach me things, and I was glad to learn them. That’s how I learned about William Penn.

 

Even though I had heard of him, I didn’t really know what he was famous for. After I heard them talking about him in their meetings, I asked some questions.

 

Mostly I found out that William Penn promised that everybody that came to Philadelphia, would be left alone, and so that was a good reason to leave England and go to America. I don’t know much about that, because I was born here and so was my ma and pa.

 

But Mr. Penn had some ideas that those fellows kept bringing up, to remind King George of.

 

Mr. Jefferson helped me to read about that, after I learned how.

 

I have it in a book that Thom give me, that I still read from time to time. Here is what Mr. Penn said.

 

"You shall be governed, by laws of your own making, and live a free, and if you will, a sober and industrious people. I shall not usurp the rights of any or oppress his person.”

 

I can see why the fellows would get all upset when they brought that up.

 

Nobody likes a broken promise, that’s for sure.

 

 

So, after a lot of arguing, the fellows got their paper all written out.

 

They were glad that they did, I remember that, and some of them were anxious to get back home. Some of them had harvests to look after, and it was getting to be that time.

It was funny how it all ended up, to me anyways.

 

I can remember that I stood by that door at The Hall and said farewell to each and every one of them.

 

Some of them looked happy, and some of them were pretty scared. You could see that.

 

They had decided to not buy the stuff that come from England.

 

I don’t rightly know how the paper got over their to England, I always wondered about that. I guess somebody sailed over there with it, but that seemed like a dangerous expedition to me. I know I wouldn’t have done it.

 

But they did what they did, and said what they wanted to say, in real fancy language. Sometimes I would hear them battle with each other all day long about the right way to say something. There was a lot of crossing out on the paper, I can tell you.

They also said they had to figure out what to do if the King didn’t see eye-to-eye with their propositions.

 

By the time they left, they had decided to come back to Philadelphia in the springtime, if King George didn’t go along with their ideas.

 

I admire them for trying to be peaceful, when I think back on it. I can remember some of the fellows saying that they were “certain that Great Britain would listen to reason, from reasonable men.”

 

But the truth was that most of them knew that they would be back in the springtime, to figure out what to do next.

 

When they came back to Philadelphia, I was happy to see them all.

 

Things really began to boil when they got back, that’s for sure. For a while, I was worried that they had forgot who their enemy was, that way that they went after each other and all.

 

Gentleman fight different that plain folk like me, but I witnessed the fact that when they got angry enough, they sounded an awful lot like those pirates that you would see down by the Delaware River.

 

King George didn’t like their ideas about not buying stuff from over on his side.

 

 

 

 

That spring, they were all back in Philadelphia.

 

They called it the second continental congress, and this time there was more of them. This time it was more serious, too.

 

It was the day before things was supposed to get going, and I was sweeping and wiping. I liked it to look good for the fellows. When they weren’t there having a meeting, I still had too look after the place. There were people in and out of The Hall, what with the figuring out of how to build buildings, plus the merchants were there that sold cloth and such.

 

When the fellows was there, it was very different for me. I mean, it was exciting with my spy work and all, plus they slipped me money for errands, and when I tipped them off about certain visitors. It was probably a little bit of money to them. But it was a lot to me.

I kept some of this money a secret from my ma, and stashed it away. Some, I wasted in ways that she wouldn’t have approved of. I was a young man, and all.

 

So, there I was, sweeping, when this tall gangly fellow walks into the hall. It was just him and me. He had reddish hair that was tied back in a knot, the way those Virginny fellows did it. He stood there, taking off a pair of gloves. I remember wondering why you would wear gloves in the springtime, and assumed it must have been an upper-class thing.

 

He says to me; “I have a trunk in the coach.” I nodded.

He continued with, “They are necessary implements for my work here.” I just nodded again, wondering why he was telling me.

“Can you organize someone to fetch them? I was starting to notice that he spoke softly, and kind of like a woman.

 

I told him that I didn’t know anybody who would do that.

 

“Be a good man,” he says, “and fetch them. I have not brought along a manservant.”

When he said this, he pushed a coin into my hand, which caught my attention right away. I put the broom in the corner, and headed out towards his wagon, which was pretty fancy.

 

He walked out with me, and I was glad that he was gonna help when I saw the size of the trunk. As I started yanking on it, I noticed that he was heading up the street. “I am staying on Second Street. Bring the coach there when you are through.”

 

By then, I could see that he was one of those gentlemen that was used to having darkeys, which I sure wasn’t. However, I was a man who would do chores and such, for coin.

I have to say though, that I didn’t much care for him at first, the way he just expected that somebody else was going to haul his grip, and tie his horse and all.

 

And that was how I met Thom Jefferson.

 

It sure was loud in there the next morning.

 

The fellows was all there, and they were assembled in little groups. There was some arguing, some whispering, and over in one group, there was a lot of laughing. I should have known without looking that Dr. Franklin was back in Philadelphia. He always looked full of the mischief, especially for an old man. I was so happy to see him that I charged right over there to the group and stuck my hand right out to him.

“Hello, Doc,” I said, “Remember me?”

At first I didn’t think he did, the way he was looking at me. Then he said, “Of course I do Clyde. How is your mother?”

“Good,” I said. “How was France?”

He said something that sounded like “OOO la la,” which made the fellows laugh, but not me, as I didn’t speak any French.

“Are you still employed here at The Hall, Phineas?”

 

Before I could answer, Mr. Middleton spoke up and went on and on about what a great help I was to “the cause,” and how I looked out for all of the fellows. “Clem is a fine boy, and a patriot, Ben.”

 

I appreciated all of the nice words, but I didn’t feel like a boy by then, that’s for sure. “I spoke up right away and said, “I believe I’m eighteen years old by now,” which I’m pretty sure was right.

 

Dr. Franklin looked right and me and said, “You are a man indeed.”

 

After that, he excused himself from the group and took me by the arm, for a little privacy.

 

“Does your mother ever come down here, to The Hall, Seth?

 

I replied that no, she never had. I was wondering why he was asking that, and then he said, “Did she ask about me while I was gone?”

 

I told him that I didn’t reckon that I had ever brought up the fact that I even knew him, to her. He seemed surprised to hear this, and looked at me over them funny little eye spectacles that he had made for himself.

 

“Maybe that’s best,” he said. He started to say something else, something about some wild filly, when the whole place stopped talking and turned around to see what John Adams was rattling on about.

The redheaded fellow that I had met yesterday, had taken all of this writing stuff out of his trunk. He had set it up, and was sitting at a desk, with feather pens and bottles of ink, and a pile of paper. He was just sitting there, wearing a frilly shirt, with his hands folded in front of him.

 

John Adams, was ten paces away, hollering to George Washington and Pat Henry, and Mr. Lee, while he was pointing at Thom Jefferson, who didn’t seem to know what was going on, or didn’t care.

 

It seems as though they were explaining that Mr. Jefferson was going to be the man to write down what had to be writ.

 

Mr. Adams kept saying that this was supposed to be his job, and when George tried to calm him down, he started hollering, “You’re not the boss of me!” and screaming about Harvard, and being brilliant, and being a founder, and getting no respect, and many other things of that nature.

 

It went on like that for some time, until Sam Adams told him to “Stop acting like a little turd,” which turned John Adams from loud to speechless.

 

That Sam Adams always had a way with words.

It stayed pretty quiet, up until Dr. Franklin got gassy, which broke the silence, and the tension.

 

After a long time of getting acquainted, somebody with a hammer called them to order. I wasn’t sure if I should stay or not, but I did anyways.

In them days, it was hard for me to tend my duties, and miss the goings on, but I did the best I could.

What did they expect for a shilling a week, anyway?

 

At first, they all sat in little groups, with the fellows from their own states. As time passed they began to move around from spot to spot. Everyone, that is, except for Dr. Franklin. He always sat in the same place, and stared at the fireplace an awful lot. Sometimes he dozed off too, but it is the truth to say that many of the fellows fought for the chance to sit for a spell, next to the great man.

 

It started off slow. Mr. Jay took some time to remind them of the dangers that they might be getting themselves into. I guess I didn’t realize at first what they was up to.

They was planning to tell the King to get out, and that they were taking over. I may not know much, but I understand treason, and I was noticing more and more Redcoats around the city.

The fellows had asked me to be extra nosy about who was hanging around The Hall, and to be on the lookout for Tories.

That was easy, you could always tell a Tory by his snootiness.

 

When they was talking about the danger, I heard Dr. Franklin say that if they didn’t “Hang together, then surely they would hang separate,” or something to that effect. It was funny and scary at the same time. Dr. Franklin always knew how to lighten the load that way.

 

As I said, they had given the job to Thom Jefferson to write out their thoughts. He would spend the daytime, listening to what the fellows had to say, and then at night he would work on the writing.

 

He didn’t talk that much, maybe because his voice was kind of soft, like a girl. Every time he tried to say something, there would always be somebody in the back, hollering, “Speak up!” You could see how nervous it made him.

 

After about the third day, Thom says to me, “Would you be so gracious as to deliver my drawing table, and inks, pens and paper, to my room on Second Street?’

 

“No thanks,” I told him, mostly because I didn’t feel like hauling it all the way over there. Plus, he was way taller than me; he could have handled it if he tried.

 

You could tell by his surprised look, that he was used to telling everybody what to do, but made it seem like they had a choice in the matter. I guess that’s what you call good manners.

 

Well, he thought about it for a while, and then he tried asking me in a different way, which included a few coins. So, I did it for him.

 

It was kind of comical to see him the next morning, walking in, all sweated up, after hauling his stuff back to The Hall. He was mad as a hornet, and he kept staring at me.

 

I heard him inquire to one of the fellows from Philadelphia as to where he could pick up a darkey for the duration of his stay. Of course, it got explained to him that they didn’t “do the darkey thing,” in Philadelphia. He said that if he knew that he would have packed up a slave or two, but he assumed that they would be provided.

 

That night, me and Thom come to an agreement. I made sure that he knew where I stood on the whole “I ain’t no darkey slave,” matter, and he said he understood.

 

The truth is that sometimes I had to remind him that, “this ain’t Virginny,” which he caught on to over time. Still though, you could see that he didn’t like it.

 

So, I went to work for Mr. Jefferson.

 

I still had to act like I was the sweeper over at The Hall, because they needed someone with my “cunning nature,” that was “committed to the glorious cause,” and “didn’t have the aristocratic carriage of a delegate.” That was the way that Tommy Paine explained it to me, and I have to admit that I was flattered.

 

I know that Mr. Jefferson became famous enough for everyone in the whole wide world to know about, but back then, it wasn’t the case. Pretty much all that people knew about him was that he was smart, and educated, rich, and a good writer. He had worked himself into the inside circle back home, with some of the stuff that he wrote.

 

He was also easy to pick out of the crowd. He was taller than most, and had that red hair. Plus, he talked like a girl.

I knew all about his farm back home, because he talked about it all the time.

I got a pretty clear picture that people like Thom was given lots of stuff by their family, and they wasn’t anxious to give it up.

He had thousands of acres, and a bunch of people given to him, but apparently, the land didn’t come with a house, because he had built his home. The way that he told it, it made his house sound as big as The Hall, but I’m sure that couldn’t have been true. One day I knew different.

Thom was used to slaves and servants, that’s for sure, but you didn’t dare call them slaves around him. He always called them “my people.”

You could tell about the servants thing, because he expected to just spend his time reading and writing and taking walks, and then he would be surprised when his dirty socks was still under the bed where he left them. At first, he thought that I would be doing his washing and such, but I refused. We came to an agreement, within a day or two of my starting in his employ.

 

“Clem, my laundry is dirty.”

“True enough, I guess that’s why you stopped wearing it, right?”

“The point is, that it needs cleaning.”

“I catch the point Thom, I do indeed. Your dirty clothes are dirty.”

“When you tend to your laundry Clem, would be so kind as to tend to mine?”

“You would have a long wait. I don’t do laundry, at least not so far in my life.”

“Then what do you do when your apparel becomes soiled?”

“If you paid a little more attention, you might notice that when my clothes gets dirty, I keep wearing them.”

After giving me a brief up-and-down, he said that he got my point.

 

It took a few more minutes before he caught on to the fact that once I took my clothes off, I was nekkid as a newborn, and that I didn’t have no back-up outfits, like he and the fellows did.

 

I did allow that I did swim in my britches, out there in the Delaware River, when the britches needed it.

Otherwise, the clothes would lay on the bank of the river.

“Yes, I see. My people go about their cleansing in this way also, I believe.”

For a man that knew a lot, he sure knew only a little bit about some stuff.

 

When Thom asked where I lived, I said it would be easier to show him, than tell him. So, me and Thom walked over to the Dead Fish Tavern together.

 

The Dead Fish Tavern is on Filbert Street, which has it’s own cobblestones. When we walked in, I could see that Thom was enjoying taking in the sounds and the aroma. I could also see that he was giving a tall blonde the old up-and-down.

In time, I come to know that old Thom liked the ladies almost as much as Dr. Franklin did, but he was more of a gentleman about it.

Anyways, he was giving me the elbow, while he was nodding his head towards her.

“That’s my Ma,” I said, which caused his face to turn something like the color of his hair. “She’s a serving wench here.”

“C’mon,” I said, “I’ll show you where we live.”

 

Up top of The Dead Fish Tavern, we had a room. It was just Ma and me, I explained, what with my father being dead and all.

He surveyed the room carefully, and asked about the sleeping arrangements, having noticed that there was only one bed.

I explained that I would climb in with her, unless she was on “wench duty,” in which case I would sleep on the floor over yonder.

“Wench duty?” I can remember clearly that when he said it, it sounded kind of bad.

“A girls gotta make a living Mr. Jefferson.”

That was the way that my Ma always said it to me anyways.

 

On that very day, me and Thom went to Silas Burkes’ Tailor Shoppe, over on Third Street, and he ordered me two suits of clothes. Two.

I found it all very interesting when Mr. Burke started measuring me. I had only seen that done by the coffin maker before.

All of the clothes that I ever had, my Ma had made for me. Once in a while though, I would find a left over article of clothes in our room, which I kept.

 

After the tailors, we went back to Mr. Jefferson’s place, and he rented me the room right next to his. He never asked me first, just like he didn’t ask about the new clothes.

 

Then he sat me down and explained about the “see to it,” rule. He didn’t expect me to do the things that he needed done, he just wanted me to “see to it.” That meant that he expected me to find somebody to wash his clothes, but I didn’t have to do it myself.

 

I thought this arrangement was just fine, and I don’t ever think that I let him down.

 

I was moving up in the world, that was for sure. At about eighteen years of age, I had a room that nobody slept in but me, and two suits of clothes. Nice ones, which got laundered sometimes.

I looked kind of like a delegate now, and a lot like Mr. Jefferson, although not as tal,l and with different colored hair, and I sure never talked like him. Kind of like him just the same.

I knew that I had to careful not to get like those snooty Bacon people, and I don’t think I ever did, although I had a right to, what with the help I was to the fellows and all.

 

I went back that night, and told my Ma about the arrangements. She seemed to approve right away because she said that she “was beginning to be afraid that I was gonna run away from home at the age of forty.”

 

She asked me if I was gonna come by and visit her on occasion, and after I promised that I would, she just said, “knock first.”

 

So there we was, me and Thom, settled in together, right downtown. I can tell you now, he was no city boy, that’s for sure. He couldn’t take all of the hubbub. He complained about the garbage smells, he hated all of the noise, and he whined constantly about the view. Yessir, all of those things that I had gotten used to about the city, old Thom hated.

 

Many was the time he would stare out the window, and say something like, “how do they expect me to write anything of note, with the absolute lack of an view to inspire me?”

 

Sometimes, I would look out the window to see what was bothering him. Usually I would see something like, “Check out the waif with the brown hair,” or something like that to cheer him up. It usually didn’t.

 

Over at The Hall, Mr. Lee had made it pretty clear that independence was the only way to go, and the fellows took to the idea. They added a few more fellows to the committee to get the paper wrote, but it was pretty much all Thom’s work. Me and Thom, that is, although there wasn’t much credit for me. I guess there never will be.

 

These were the fellows on the committee. First of course, was Mr. Jefferson, and also John Adams, Dr. Franklin, Roger Sherman, and Robert Livingston.

 

I can’t remember Mr. Sherman or Mr. Livingston helping out that much, but Thom enjoyed the help from Dr. Franklin.

 

John Adams mostly just waited until Mr. Jefferson had put a lot of work in, and then start to carve it up in little nit-picky ways. It didn’t matter though, because all of the fellows knew how Mr. Adams was. John that is, not old Sam, who was always all right in my book.

 

So, Thom would set down that writing table that I had to haul everywhere, get his pen and ink and paper all set up, and then start to pace.

He would mumble on about stuff, then he would check into books for ideas and stuff, and them mumble some more.

Sometimes it was like he was just torturing himself, so I would suggest a walk over to the City Tavern, which he usually turned down, but not always.

 

He was having trouble getting it going, that’s for sure. He kept saying that the paper was going to have to “unfurl like a flag.”

 

I liked my idea best, but Thom said it wouldn’t impress the fellows, and impressing the fellows was as important as everything else, as I came to see it.

 

I wanted to kick it off with “ Out with the stinking Redcoats and Tories,” but Thom was looking for something more flowery.

 

I can remember him to this day, walking around, mumbling lines like:

 

“When we have simply had enough,” and “when, for the common good,” and “when in the course of history.” And things like that. Sometimes, it would turn into “When I was a little bitty baby, my Mama used to rock me in the cradle.”

 

Then Thom would get all perturbed and start to say stuff like, “how am I expected to draught greatness, when every day, dozens and dozens of people can be heard shouting from the city?”

 

That was the first time that he took me up on the offer to spend the afternoon at the City Tavern.

 

I can tell you, Thom relaxed a little when he got a few under his belt, but he was not exactly what you would call a heavy drinker.

 

One time he was slurring away, and started dancing with one of the wenches. When he asked her if she would like done to her what Big George was doing to the colonies, I knew it was time to heave him over my shoulder and head back to the rooms.

 

All the way back, he kept repeating something like “accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer,” in between barfing on the back of my new pants. We laughed about that later, although I will admit that I thought it was funnier than he did.

 

I was really becoming fond of old Thom by then, and I knew that something had to be done, or else neither of us would be allowed back in City Tavern.

 

I had this friend, name of Peter, who had work as a bricklayer. I knew that he had helped build a fancy new house for his boss a few years before, name of Mr. Graff. Jacob Graff if I recall correctly, but it could have been Jedediah, it was a long time ago.

 

I had run into Peter, and was telling him about old Thom and how he wasn’t doing too good with city life, and Peter suggested that we inquire as to whether Mr. Graff was still renting out rooms. Petet said maybe getting Thom out to the country again would help matters.

 

The next day, me and Thom headed out to Mr. Graff’s place, and he liked it right away. It was clean out on the edge of the city. We took Market Street all the way out to Seventh Street, which was hardly a street at all back then.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Graff had heard of Mr. Jefferson, but was not acquainted with me. They allowed as how they had two rooms to let, and Mr. Jefferson said that this would be fine for himself and “his manservant, Clem.” I chimed in with, “We’re buddies, really,” which made Thom scowl for some reason, but we were friends by then, and he knew it.

 

They haggled on price for a while, as Mr. Graff kept reminding Mr. Jefferson that the rooms was furnished, and that he would have a nice view of fields all around, and a fine stable across the street to look at.

 

I shouldn’t have chimed in with “we’ll take it,” but I did. I guess the idea of getting out of the city was exciting to me. I recall Mrs. Graff looked right at me and said, “No shenanigans after Vespers young man, my room is right down the hall.”

She was funny that way, but she sure made good biscuits, I can tell you that.

 

Thom sent me right back to town to get our stuff, as he took a walk around the fields and stuff. It was funny to me, how he would stop and study every tree, bush, plant and flower, take it in through his nostrils, and then call it by some funny name that didn’t sound like English to me.

 

I got the stuff loaded up over at our old rooms, and on my way out, they started bothering me about settling the bill. I told them that Mr. Jefferson would have to see to that. I’m not sure if he ever did, because they brought it up to me all summer. After a while, I just stopped walking that way. When I brought it up with Thom, he would mutter something about their “contribution to the noble cause.”

 

Things were better out there at the Graff’s that’s for sure. Mr. Jefferson really got into the swing of writing, and I have to admit that I did too. After a while, we stopped going out The Hall, at all. I guess we labored over that paper for a fortnight, maybe two.

 

Once Thom got the flag unfurling beginning of “When in the course of human events…” things went better and he got into a pretty good mood.

 

From time to time, Thom would complain about the flies coming from the stable across the street, and I would say “I guess they don’t have flies in Virginny,” which would stop the whining for a while.

 

It’s funny what rich people can complain about, I’ll tell you that.

 

One morning when Thom was out walking, he come back to find me swatting flies, which I thought he would appreciate.

I guess I didn’t know that I had rolled up the very first draught of the declaration as a fly swatter. He was not too happy, I can tell you, even after I had smoothed it out and got all the fly wings and flyguts off of it. When I tried wiping off the blood with a little spit, I will admit that it did smudge the ink a little, and he just kept on saying “This will never do, Clem,” and, “now I must start anew.”

 

If he had known how much the fellows was going to make him scratch out, when it was first read to them, he wouldn’t have been so sore. Every time he had to re-write it, he would complain about Boston.

 

“Could you not tell that this was my working document?” he asked me. I said there was no telling which was the good stuff, because there was half-wrote papers, and pictures of buildings, all over his room.

 

He kept after me about this, and it come as a big surprise to him, after knowing me all this time, that I was no reader of words, or anything else, for that matter.

 

I have to say that I really come to appreciate Mr. Jefferson for what he done for me, when he learned that.

 

To me, it was no surprise that I couldn’t read. I didn’t really expect to be able to, as nobody had taught me, and all.

Mr. Jefferson seemed to think that everybody ought to be able to enjoy what was in books, and I have to say that he was right about that.

I come to really love reading that book by Mr. Paine that was causing all of the distraction for them British. Mostly, I have read the newspapers, and I have Thom to thank for that.

 

Everyday, starting with the “flyguts on the declaration” day, Mr. Jefferson become my teacher, and he was a good and patient one at that. By the time he left Philadelphia that summer, I was getting pretty good. It is for that reason that I can write this today, and all of the folks can know what really went on back then, even if it was a long time ago.

 

With my fancy clothes, and my new education, I even considered chasing after that handsome Priscilla Bacon for a while, but I didn’t need no snootiness from her brothers, which I am sure I would have got.

 

I will admit that sometimes I would read a newspaper in public, just to impress the women.

 

Once, I was telling my Ma all about it, and she seemed proud. She had me write out a “Please knock first,” sign for her door, which I was proud to do.

 

Some words never really sunk in, I will admit, like usurpations and despotism, even though Mr. Jefferson did his best to explain them. The problem was that sometimes he would use words that I didn’t understand, to explain words that I didn’t understand. He didn’t know it though, and I didn’t tell him, because he was trying so hard.

Sometimes he would say, “just focus on words like ‘cat and kettle,’ for now,” and so I did. He was good to me that way. Bless his memory.

 

I was getting worried, when he would read what he wrote to me, that maybe he was being too hard on King George, and would get hisself into Tory trouble. He would say something about “the spirit of the document needing to be forthright.”

For a guy that talked like a girl sometimes, he could be awful bold.

 

One part that he was struggling with, I remember helping him out with. He had been saying one sentence over and over, as he paced back and forth, and couldn’t get it just right. Once I caught the gist of it, I suggested saying, “for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.”

 

He sure was happy when I spit that sentence out, cause he said that it “went directly to his meaning and intent.”

When he asked me how I come up with it, I told him “manly firmness and invasions,” was often spoke to the wenches down at The Dead Fish Tavern.

 

He smiled at that, and then asked me if my Ma ever asked about him.

 

 

It was sure was hot that summer. Around the time of June, it could take your breath away. Some folks said they minded the humility more, but I didn’t get the connection.

Me and Thom had been making pretty good progress on the document, so he took it into town to let the fellows have a peak at it.

 

While he was gone, I did some of his errands and whatnot, and then headed back to the room.

I heard him when he come in, that’s for sure. He was stomping around in his room, and mumbling up a storm.

I just laid there in the bed, thinking that I would wait for the storm to blow over a little.

 

After a while, he knocked on my door and asked if I could come on over to his room.

So, I sat right up in the bed and went over. The door was left open for me, so I just went in. When he saw me, he sort of put his hand over his mouth, and gasped.

 

“Clem,” he says, “Your midriff is exposed!” Now I knew that I had been lying in my bed without a shirt on, on account of the blasted heat, but I got embarrassed right away when he said that.

I reached down to get everything back in its place down there, and to fix my buttons, but there wasn’t nothing exposed at all, and that’s what I told him.

 

He laughed a little, and then he told me what a midriff was, which I had guessed wrong about.

After that he said, “Kindly return to your room, and come back looking less like a field hand.” I went back to the room and patted down my hair a little in the looking glass, and pulled my socks up tight before I went back.

 

“Your shirt Clem, put your shirt on,” he says, and then he continued with “a gentleman would not appear before others without his shirt on.”

 

“What does a gentleman do then, when they is so hot that they feel like they are making their own gravy?”

 

“They endure, Clem, and observe the proper protocol.”

 

“Mr. Jefferson,” I said, “You could of just told me to put my shirt on, in regular talk. I would have done it.”

Sometimes I had remind old Thom that the flowery talk didn’t do so well on me.

 

It was good that I had give him something to smile about though, and to change up on his mood. Later, he told me that the fellows had worked him over, on the paper that we had worked so hard on.

 

We didn’t have supper that night. Mr. Jefferson had started in on drinking some of the France wine that he like so much.

I followed in his footsteps pretty good, I have to admit.

 

After the wine began to make Thom a little more relaxed, he began to talk a little less like him, and a little more like me.

He was pretty unhappy the way that the fellows had tore into the declaration paper.

Some wanted him to bash old Georgie a little more, and some wanted to take it easier on him.

Thom had to sit there and take it all in, because, what with the way he talks and all, somebody else with more of a boom to their voice did the reading.

 

I asked him if they left my part in about the “manly firmness and invasions,” and he allowed as how that part seemed all right with everybody. I was pretty happy about that, I must admit. Proud too. In case you don’t know it, that part stands to this very day. You can read it for yourself.

 

It being so stinking hot and all, me and Thom got into the out-of-doors, when the sun set. There was some breeze, so we walked over by the horse stables, and eventually we sat in a pasture. Thom had a wine bottle hooked onto the end of his finger, and by now he didn’t seem to mind about the protocol of wine glasses. We just passed it back and forth, and when it was empty, we ended up lying on our backs in that field. The sky was real starry, but where I saw stars, Thom saw a lady in a rocking chair and a hunter. I guess he must have had the bigger share of the wine, although I had more than enough, and maybe even more than that.

 

Thom was still complaining about the guys wrecking his paper, but then he told me a good story, that Dr. Franklin had said to him that day.

 

Dr. Franklin had a friend who owned a hat shop.

He was telling his friends that he was having a new sign made up that said, "John Thompson, hatter, makes and sells hats for ready money," and a picture of a hat. The hat man was showing the sign to some friends to see if they liked it. One man tells him that if he has the words, "makes and sells hats," then he can leave out "hatter.” Another man says that  "makes" could be scratched too; nobody would care who made them. The third said that nobody give credit to nobody else, so he could scratch out, "for ready money.”

So now the sign says, "John Thompson sells hats." Another guys says that any fool knows that hats ain’t for free, so he can scratch out that he sells them. Plus, if you have a picture of a hat already, you can scratch out that word too.

So, the sign ended up saying, "John Thompson,” and the picture of the hat.

 

We both laughed about that longer than we normally would, and then we took to laughing about how funny and gassy Dr. Franklin was. Mr. Jefferson took to imitating him by making noises on his arm with his mouth, but he didn’t mean nothing by it.

 

I can tell you, old Thom told the hat story for years and years, and lots of times he would whip out the original declaration, to show them how it was better than the one they carved up.

Generally, he would tell them about it until they agreed with him.

 

He never did explain to people what them red stains was.

 

Later that night, when we stopped giggling so much, I asked Mr. Jefferson what was gonna happen, once we got the paper writ.

 

Mr. Jefferson said that we would have a war with Georges soldiers, and that America would win, and he could go back to farming in Virginny.

 

I asked him if he planned on soldiering himself, and he didn’t hesitate to say that delegates ain’t soldiers, except for Mr. Washington, who seemed to have his heart set on it.

I said that if he wasn’t gonna soldier, than I wasn’t going to either. He asked me if I was afraid to, and I told him no right off. I didn’t have no knowledge of shooting and marching, so what good would I do?

 

I think he could tell that I was scared, though. I could tell that he was too, but he was brave for writing that declaration, I’ll give him that.

 

What if all of the fellows got in a pinch, and said that they didn’t know why Thom Jefferson would be writing such foolishness? It would have been bad for Mr. Jefferson, cause he couldn’t deny it.

Come to think of it, neither could I.

 

It was a few more weeks, and then it was all done. We put the finishing touches on it, and I helped a lot with one more line.

 

Mr. Jefferson made it out to be that when Kings act up, then the other fellows have the right to throw off the government.

I got him to add, “their duty,” in the middle of it, because that makes it sound like we just couldn’t help it. And he stuck with it.

Bless his memory.

 

Me and Thom was back to spending our days over at The Hall, now that all of the writing was done. 

 

I took note that he didn’t seem too happy with John Adams.

Once, I seen Mr. Adams sticking his tongue out at Mr. Jefferson, behind his back. I didn’t say nothing to anybody, but I did laugh when Mr. Adams found them flies at the bottom of his teacup.

 

When the Fourth came around, and the declaration paper was ready, and there was the big hoorah, everybody was friends again, and happy as can be.

Of course, the shooting had not started yet.

 

It wasn’t long before Mr. Jefferson had skeedaddled back to Virginny, and The Hall wasn’t the same for me after that.

With my two suits of clothes, I just didn’t reckon that I wanted to be a sweeper no more.

 

With the reading skills that Mr. Jefferson give to me, and with some more help from Dr. Franklin, I went back into the printing business, over at Dr. Franklins Shoppe.

 

Something that very few people know, until I tell you now, is this.

 

After all of the signing, and the reading of our Declaration of Independence, I got a last look at it. Mr. Jefferson was admiring it, and now I could see that all of the fellows had signed it.

 

So, I says, “How come they got to sign it Thom, when they didn’t write it?”

He went on about all of the fellows being in the same ship, and that they all did their part.

 

I said, bold as bold can be, “I guess I done my part too.”

 

You don’t get much past Mr. Jefferson; he caught my meaning directly. That’s why he told me that only the delegates could sign it. Protocol, and all such as that.

 

But when nobody was looking, he handed me the pen, and if you look down by Mr. Jefferson’s name, you can make out my X.

 

I don’t know what became of that declaration paper. If I know Mr. Jefferson, he held onto it himself.

 

We done more together over the years, me and Thom. I have been to his house in Virginny, that looks like a palace.

I have slept at the White House, and I have been over to France with him.

Sometimes I used to tease him about us taking a trip over to England, and he would always make that face like he was being hung by rope, and hang out his tongue and all.

 

I could tell you a lot about me and Thom. I could indeed. And maybe one day I will.

 

But for now, bless his memory.

 

 

Clem Burgess, circa 1774

 

Jane was nondescript, and she knew it. Actually, in a way that she didn’t fully understand, she preferred being nondescript. Plus, she liked the way that the word nondescript sounded.

 

Her job as a paralegal earned enough money for her to keep the little apartment that she loved, the constant supply of books that she required, and the yearly fabulous vacation that she demanded for herself. Her annual two weeks away was always an extravagant affair, and in those two weeks, it is fair to say that she was an entirely different person. She even had a different name. No one would have described her as nondescript during the first two weeks of August. No one who met Desiree would have suspected that she was actually Jane.

 

Her Psychiatrist would have been as surprised as anyone. Jane liked her Psychiatrist. He was kind, and gentle. Dr. Westphal had long ago encouraged Jane to end the weekly therapy sessions and just “go out and find a bit of adventure.” Jane, who once feared that she was depressed, and perhaps a bit schizoid, had sought out Dr. Westphal. He listened to her acutely, and had diagnosed her as healthy. Jane knew that she was paying for his company, and she knew that she didn’t want to discontinue her 5:30 weekly visit because, well, because she didn’t want to disrupt her schedule.

 

When she came to Philadelphia to live, it was because she had received the promise of a free education from Temple University, which she accepted. Temple University was a long way from her home, near Evansville, Indiana. She went through the education process easily, but the change in her life was far more difficult. Not that she left behind friends and lovers, she did not. Her relationship with her single mother was quiet, and somewhat detached. When she returned home for Christmas in her freshman year she found the fact that her Mother had moved to a tiny apartment to be excruciatingly difficult, and so she just didn’t bother to go home after that. Home, after all, was gone. It was in a different apartment. The apartment where she had lived everyday, before leaving for Philadelphia, was her home.

 

When Jane came to Temple, she was assigned a dorm room with a roommate named Debbie. Jane did her best to replicate her share of the dorm room into the bedroom that she had left behind. The same pictures hung on different walls, but in the identical places.

 

After fours year of college, she had to choose between leaving there, and accepting their kind offer to completely finance her time at the law school where she had become accepted.

 

Jane, not knowing exactly where she would sleep, or how she could fit into the apartment where her mother now lived, chose law school. The dorms there were quite suitable to her. Although the fact that she had to move three blocks away was arduous, she accepted it as the best choice. The move only took four trips, each with her arms around a large box.

 

At the end of the first year of law school, when Jane’s mother died, she found herself with a check for $25,000.00, and so she got her own apartment. Jane wanted her own space, and she was tired of having to avoid conversations with roommates.

 

For the first few weeks, the apartment included Jane, and her four boxes of stuff. When she tired of sleeping on the floor, she decided to go furniture shopping. She walked the streets looking for a suitable furniture store. She settled on the one that had a sign that said “Free Delivery,” in the window. Jane knew that she required delivery, and she preferred free.

 

The actual furniture shopping was so unusual, in the mind and experience of the furniture salesman, that it was the story that he chose to tell at his dinner table that night. He always would have preferred to tell more stories about his customer’s around the dinner table, but his family had limited him to one customer story per day.

 

In his many years of selling furniture, Joe had never encountered anyone like Jane. Since Jane had never actually bought any furniture before, she just did what seemed right to her.

 

When Joe greeted her with his very best “Good Morning,” she responded by asking “Free Delivery, right?” to which Joe replied “And 90 days the same as cash.” Jane, who couldn’t really see the connection between her question and his answer, asked again “Do you deliver for free?” Joe replied, “Yep, with a wide selection, and full financing.” Jane could see that she could quickly tire of being in a conversation with Joe, and since she didn’t know how far it was to the next free delivery furniture store, she made a quick decision to endure him by ignoring him. It was because of sales people like Joe, that she had long ago decided to buy as many of her clothes as possible in thrift stores, and second hand shops. They didn’t have the sales pressure that she abhorred.

 

She said, “I need a bed and a dresser. Also, I need a small kitchen table with two chairs. In addition, I need one comfortable chair for reading, and a coffee table. One lamp, floor standing.”

Joe wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed, so he said “Anything else?” Jane, who thought that she had been clear in stating her needs in a comprehensive manner, replied by saying, “I’ll look around.” As she was selecting her comfortable chair, the one that she would use for reading, Joe made mention of a wide selection of fabulous sectionals. When she ignored him, Joe thought it best to just follow her around, and say things like “That one’s a beauty”, to every item that held her gaze for more than four seconds. They had no further discussion until Jane said “I’ll take those”, and Joe understood that she meant the items that she had placed a blue post-it note onto, as she walked around. Joe visited each of the items, calculating a total as he went. When he had finished, he saw Jane standing near the cash register, with a white envelope in her hand. He inquired about bedding and Jane replied with only a quizzical look.

“Do you need bedding?” he asked again.

She walked back to the single bed that she had selected, which had bedding on it, and said “I want this one” to which Joe replied that the bedding on display was low-end and that she might find it uncomfortable. Sensing a sales pitch, she said firmly “I’m sure it will be fine.” It was.

 

When Joe asked her if she wanted to hear about her financing choices, she said, “What is the total?” When she heard $1142.00, she counted the money out from the envelope wordlessly. Arrangements were made for delivery the next day, and on her way back to the apartment, Jane bought new sheets, and an inexpensive comforter. She already had a pillow of her own.

 

Later that day she made a list of everything else that she thought she would need, and one trip to the Goodwill store provided her with 2 plates, a minimum of silverware, and the barest of essentials regarding cookware. On the way home, she considered a coffee pot, which she put off buying for a few months.

 

She began to cook simple meals at home. She would cook for herself about as often as she would order take- out. Jane ate little, and without much variety.

She was happy in her little apartment, which had a strong resemblance to her dorm rooms, and a bedroom in a small apartment near Evansville, Indiana.

 

The building next door to Jane’s apartment had a law office on the first and second floors. A tasteful sign in the window advertised for a paralegal. Jane applied for this job, and was hired easily, as she had the credentials, and their need was immediate. On the day that she first began working there, she knew that she had chosen this job as a replacement for her classes at Temple Law.

 

She simply stopped going to one when she began the other. This seemed like the simplest solution to her.

 

She thought about getting a cat, but dismissed the idea because of its potential messiness. Also, she had read far too many stories about people who lived alone and spoke to their cats, which seemed ludicrous to her.

 

 

Jane knew about vacations. Her father, whom she had adored up until the time that he had silently died in his bed when she was fifteen, and he was fifty-five, loved “getting away”.

 

He had been a military man from the time that he was eighteen until he was thirty-eight. He had married Jane’s Mother in his thirty-ninth year and her twentieth. It is fair to say that he doted on Jane, and often told her about his adventures, and travels, as a sailor. He now worked at the Post Office and it was a well-known fact that every week, money would be put away for the family two-week vacation, during the first two weeks of August. The austere life that they lived all year long supported trips to places like Paris, and, London, and Tahiti, and Hawaii, and Mexico, and Venice, and Hong Kong. Everything was first-class on these trips, which was in clear opposition to the other fifty weeks of the year, which could only be described as “plain.”

 

Jane loved the way that her parent’s behaved during those two weeks. They were alive, lively, and dreamily romantic. At home, they only had routines. Since Jane’s mother, who would only describe her youth to Jane by saying, “I always wanted to be an artist,” disdained the very premise of television, they listened to music constantly, and everyone read. They always had the most recent technology for listening to music, and the music was wonderfully varied. Anyone could put on whatever music they craved “next,” which might be the Beatles, or Reggae, or swing music, or the Mothers of Invention, or Celtic harps. Sometimes Jane’s mother painted. Usually, they all sat in the same room, listening to music, and reading. When Jane became thirteen, if she thought that her current reading selection would not meet the approval of her parents, would read in her room. Jane would disappear into what are often called trashy romance novels, but she also read the classics, and books that she would find in the used book store that she knew to be dirty.

With her allowance each week, she was encouraged to buy books and music, which she usually did. Occasionally though, she would buy deep, rich, dark chocolates, the very expensive kind. These she savored, having only one piece per day.

 

The family two-week vacation got its own photograph album each year, and it would be marked in simple way, for instance “1982-Istanbul.”

 

It was Jane’s point of view that the transformation that her family made each year was so complete, and so wild, and so delectable that she described it in her own thoughts as if they had, for those two weeks, exploded.

 

 

Jane was, by choice, devoid of suitors. She had learned that indifference will keep men of any age away, and so she had perfected her skills at ignoring men. Some of the men were more persistent than others, which amused her somewhat, but it made no difference. Once, while in college, she had accepted, after much deliberation, an invitation to dinner with a young man who sat next to her in one of her classes. He took her to the Striped Bass, which is certainly one of the more prestigious Philadelphia restaurants. She food the found to be excellent. The rooms, and accoutrement clearly impressed her. She described them to her date as being similar to a particular restaurant in London, named Hillary’s. He said “Oh,” with such a deflated smile that she knew that he had misunderstood her approval. After that, she dropped any other comparisons. When he began to engage in small talk that included frat parties that “he knew she would love,” and opportunities to get “really wasted”, she clicked off the part of her brain that did the listening, and she pretended to herself that she was in Hillary’s restaurant in London, immersed in conversation with a man that strongly resembled Johnny Depp.

 

They taxied back to her place, with a few comments about how good the food was. She was aware that he was having a deeper reaction to the wine than she was, and his tiny lisp amused her, so she listened to him. Not the words as much as the sounds.

 

She was surprised that he dismissed the cab when they got to her apartment, but then assumed that he must live nearby. In point of fact, he didn’t. He had simply made the wrong assumptions about the depth to which she had enjoyed the meal, and his company. When they got to the door, she said, “Thank you for dinner.” He correctly translated this to mean “goodnight,” so he left, deciding to walk the twelve blocks home. When next they saw each other in class, he reacted to her presence in a way that was more familiar than she was comfortable with, or expected. Her chilling way soon gave him to know that there would be no future dates, or conversation for that matter.

 

That was her one and only date, outside of the first two weeks of August.

 

Jane worked hard at her new job, and was rewarded for it. She had gotten the attention of the youngest of the partners, a handsome and articulate, hard working man, that she guessed to be his late thirties. Everyone in the office knew that he was “divorcing,” and the process seemed to be going on for some time. She could often overhear the legal secretaries describe, in great detail, what they would do with him if they had the chance. Jane suspected that this was a chance that they would not get, but was amused by it nonetheless. His name was Kerry, which can be pronounced in a variety of ways, but he pronounced it as if it were Indian food. His last name was Riley. Together, Jane thought that they sounded melodic.

 

Kerry, as he often did, asked Jane to join him, in his office. She did a great deal of research for him, and he always found her work to be superior to that of most of the young lawyers. She came prepared to take notes on whatever topic that she assumed that he would be assigning her. He noticed this, and re-directed, by saying that this conversation would not require notes.

 

Knowing that she was a taciturn person, he spoke to her economically.

“Jane, we were hoping that you could upgrade your attire to something a bit more, well, professional.”

She responded “All right.”

He was a bit taken back by the quick and emotionless agreement, and was not quite sure what to say next. She helped him with her question.

 

“What did you have in mind?”

 

“I’m not really sure, something, I guess Lawyery”

 

“You want me to dress like a Lawyer?”

 

“Yea, like that, I guess.”

 

“All right.”

 

Not having any clue about what to say next, he asked her, “Do you like it here?”

 

“Very much.”

 

Kerry was surprised at her seeming lack of interest in conversation. When he reflected on this, he couldn’t say that he had ever noticed it in the past, but then again, he had never had a conversation with her that hadn’t regarded a case.

 

As silence overpowered the room, Jane rose, saying, as she walked from the room “All right.”

 

The next night, at the most upscale thrift shop that she knew of, she bought two suits, one black, and one blue. They were nearly identical. These she rotated as her dress attire, every day in which she went to work. Each night, as she went to her apartment, one door away, she would begin unbuttoning the suit immediately upon opening her door. She would quickly change into what she thought of as “her” clothes. Jane knew how to endure things.

 

At lunchtime, Jane always ate at her desk. A sandwich that she had prepared, a piece of fruit, and coffee. The other girls had already stopped inviting her to lunch, which she appreciated. When her food was consumed, she would either read, or search the Internet for inspiration regarding her next vacation.

She had kept up the tradition to have her two weeks of adventure. In those years, it was never abroad, which she would have preferred. Her finances restricted this. Still, she always got away, having seen New York City, San Francisco, and Seattle, which were O.K., Las Vegas, which she abhorred, and New Orleans, which she adored.

 

This August, she would have the ability to leave the country and go first-class. After much thought, she decided on Monte Carlo.

 

As she perused the travel sights, it appeared to Jane that she could make all of the travel arrangements on her own, thereby avoiding the travel agent altogether, with their disingenuous interest in her vacations, and offers of fabulous package deals. She learned that she needed a credit card to make online travel arrangement, so she procured one. That was its only purpose.

 

To prepare for her trip, she began shopping in June. She bought expensive leather luggage, the best that she could find. She bought outfits, never items. She fussed over an exact look that she wanted until she found it as an ensemble. She purchased just the right amount of clothes to suit the activities that she planned to, and hoped to, engage in. She bought bathing suits and shoes. She was extravagant, and she paid in cash. She spent two weeks wages inside of Victoria’s Secret.

 

These clothes, and the luggage, and the toiletries that she purchased, were sacrosanct. They were carefully put away, to be used only for vacation. She had things monogrammed, tastefully. The initials were D.I.S.

 

Jane had created for herself a perfect haven, inside of her apartment.

She bought used books. They were everywhere, and not one was on a shelf.

 

She had indulged in the finest music system that she could find. Now, Jane could play records, or tapes, or CD’s. Her CD collection was a mixture of new and used, and wildly enigmatic. The CD player held 400 CD’s and it was full. In total, there were thousands. Stacked, without shelves, in alphabetical order by artist. All of the components of the new music system sat on the floor in a neat soldier row.

 

Jane had begun to enjoy wine, and learned about her preferences by purchasing some of everything. She went to the liquor store twice a week, usually on a night when she went out for take-out food. She consumed, as she read and listened to music, a bottle of wine every two days. There was no television, nor any need for one.

She had researched cameras, believing that she would take an album of photos in Monte Carlo, but decided, in an unusual break from her past, no camera.

 

When vacation time came, she was certain that all of her work was in order. As she stepped out of the office door at precisely 5 P.M., Jane was in vacation mode.

 

Her vacation clothes were laid out on the bed, where she had placed them at 5:30 that morning. They consisted of a cashmere top, which hugged her body in the same fashion that the black silk skirt did, and a pair of smart Italian open- toed sandals. As she changed, she placed the suit and blouse that she had worn to work on a hanger. She placed her bra and panties, white cotton, in the hamper. She did not replace them.

She applied the make-up from her traveling bag, which was the only make-up that she owned. She was liberal with the application of Red perfume.

After placing the contents neatly into the cosmetic bag, and the bag into the suitcase, she placed the suitcase, and the slightly larger leather valise, by the door.

She removed a nicotine transfer patch from the pack of twelve that she had purchased a few days before, and placed it into the fashionable and small handbag. Jane did not smoke.

She put on trendy sunglasses, and a beautifully colored silk scarf, loosely around her head. She double-checked to be sure that she had the novel of her choosing in the bag, which she did. Having done all of this, she stood by the door.

 

 

At 5:35, the cab appeared, five minutes later than she had requested it. A woman of mysterious beauty stood by the open door, and waited for the cabbie to retrieve the bags, which he did, mouth agape.

 

At the curb by the airport, the cabbie and the curbside attendant fussed over who would help her more. Soon she was third, in the line reserved for those who travel first-class. She engaged the man in front of her in conversation by saying, in a somewhat squeaky voice that her work mates would not have recognized, “Don’t you just adore Monte Carlo?” When the man said, “First time,” Jane responded, “You will just adore it,” and went on to describe Monte Carlo in great detail. The man was enraptured; not knowing that although Jane had traveled extensively, the closest that she had ever been to Monte Carlo was on the Internet.

When a pause came, she trilled, “Forgive me, my name is Desiree Inez Simone, what’s yours?”

The man could hardly recall his own name, but as the ticket agent hollered “Next” for the fourth time, he was able to say “Lucas DeCarlo” as he left her.

 

Lucas waited for Desiree to finish checking-in, at the bottom of the escalator. He did his best to impress her, as they went through security. When he saw that she had noticed the wedding ring, which he had removed to place in the tray for X-ray along with his watch, he looked at her in a boyish and sheepish way. She smiled in a way that was beyond demure and said, “Don’t you worry about that.” Lucas’ heart was racing.

 

Moments later, they sat in an airport bar, where Desiree drank the first of what would be many glasses of vacation champagne, none of which she would pay for herself.

 

As it turned out, there were six rows in first class, two seats on either side of the aisle. Lucas was in seat 6A, which was by the window. Desiree was in 6D, by the opposite window. Seated next to Desiree was a tall man, who clearly was planning to sleep through this long and overnight flight. His hat was down over his eyes before take-off. Also, before take-off, Lucas had begun sending inviting smiles toward Desiree, regarding the empty seat next to him. She moved there silently soon after the fasten-seat-belt sign permitted it.

 

Lucas began some small talk, which Desiree engaged in, but deflected most of his questions. They had drinks, as many as could be brought to them. Food came, which they ate quickly. Several times, as they talked, Lucas put his hand on Desiree’s arm, and she began to do the same. When his hand rested on her thigh, she was careful to demonstrate permission, and pleasure.

 

As the movie started, the first class cabin became quiet and dark. The crew was off to themselves, and most of the other passengers had begun to sleep.

 

Desiree mentioned to Lucas that she would never be able to endure such a long flight without a cigarette. Lucas only smiled in response. He found smoking to be repulsive but decided to keep his thoughts to himself. Desiree said that she had a nicotine patch, just for such occasions. When she fumbled to open it and handed it to Lucas for assistance, he laughed as he said, “I didn’t know that Trojan made nicotine patches.” Lucas had a look of embarrassment on his face as Desiree said, “Dear me”, and snatched it back, replacing it with the nicotine patch, which he opened quickly. Desiree was pleased that she had orchestrated this little piece of drama just as flawlessly as it had occurred in the novel “Wild at Heart” that Jane had once read.

 

“Could you be a sweetie and put it on me?” she asked, which Lucas agreed to readily, now that he had fully transformed into a puppy dog.

 

“Where?”

 

Desiree half stood, sliding her skirt up, fully exposing a cheek of her behind, toward Lucas.

 

“Here.”

 

As his breathing became noticeably heavier, he placed the patch on her and smoothed it with his hands far more times than was necessary for good adhesion. As he did this, they smiled at each other.

 

She slid back down into the seat, anticipating that Lucas would spend the rest of the flight with his hands stroking her skin, under her clothes, to her low, and well-placed moans of approval.

 

She was not disappointed.

 

Desiree was happy that vacation was off to such a good start.

 

 

When they arrived at Monte Carlo, there was a uniformed man holding a sign that read: “Ms. Desiree Inez Simone.” As he ushered her to the limo, she was pleased that her instructions had been carried out so clearly.

 

Lucas stood at the curb; quite surprised that their whatever it was, was over. As she nestled herself in, and he stood at the curb, Lucas said, in a voice that was too loud, and too pleading, “Desiree, what about us?” She replied in a voice that was at once caustic and flirty, “Oh you silly man, go home to your wife.” And off she sped.

 

She was expected at the Meridien Beach Plaza Hotel and she did not disappoint them. Later that evening though, she did disappoint two French businessmen by deserting at them at the bar, after many glasses of “Champagne, the best in the house.” They had called her “coquette,” and she had allowed one of them to kiss her neck. When this caught the attention of an incredibly handsome man across the room, she smiled, caught his return smile, and left the two Frenchmen, and her bar bill.

She knew that by saying, “I’ll see you two tomorrow, right?” that they would forgive her, and they did. Forgive her, that is. They never saw Desiree again.

The new man’s name was Jean, or so he claimed. Within an hour, they were in her room, and there they remained, largely sleepless, until morning. When she had asked to see his suite, he obliged, and it was from there that she ordered an elaborate, and expensive breakfast. She drank tea on the balcony until the food arrived, at which time she flirted relentlessly with the room service boy. She paused in the middle of breakfast to make love, resumed breakfast, and then resumed the lovemaking.

 

She left an exhausted Jean at 10 A.M., repaired to her room, and slept until 6 P.M.

 

Monte Carlo, of course, is a principality devoted to the garish life style, and gambling. The wealthiest people in the world feel at home there, and with wealth, go beauty. Monte Carlo has an abundance of beautiful women.

 

Nevertheless, it was as if she were the only female in the Hotel Mirabeau Casino, when Desiree entered. Most described her beauty as somehow encapsulated into her walk. She sat at a table alone, in the elegant bar room, adjacent to a baccarat table. Philippe joined her soon enough, and was only too happy to meet her request her for “Champagne, the best in the house”. Philippe offered to teach her baccarat. She agreed to learn, losing piles of Euros in the process, to Philippe’s seeming delight. He was a bit distracted by her hand on his thigh. When she yearned to try a new game, they tried roulette, which she “learned” slowly but became bored. They found a card game with an odd name that she had trouble saying, probably due to the Champagne. It was there she caught the attention of Esteban, a Spanish hotelier, who won her love by sliding thousands of Euros her way, so that she could play on her own.

She played, until 1 A.M. at which time she took her considerable winnings with her to Esteban’s room, where she delighted him until dawn. She ordered breakfast, flirted with the room service boy, and ate her breakfast on the balcony, to the considerable accompaniment of her snoring lover. On her way out, she did her best to arouse him, but he was clearly incapable of amore’, and so she left.

 

Returning to her hotel, she changed quickly into a bathing suit that concealed considerably less than the accepted standard. She was careful to carry her bag, and her towel away from her body, and she was getting the feeling that the walk that she had worked so hard to perfect in long nights in an apartment in Philadelphia, was worth the effort. She got little resistance as she asked for someone to, “Smooth a little oil on Desiree.” She spent the day lounging, sleeping, and attracting stares from European men in too-small bathing suits, all of whom received her room number when it was requested. All of the numbers were bogus, save for the one that she gave to Robert, who later bought her dinner along the Mediterranean, and who was mightily disappointed when she never returned from the ladies room, following coffee.

 

The weeks sped along like this for Desiree. She was gambling with the money of others, and winning. She slept with whom she desired, including two men on a secluded beach, and a Norwegian woman and her paramour. It was her idea to alternate between them, in opposite ends of their suite. She drank Champagne. She acted out those things that she had committed to memory from her trash novels, scene by scene, once even calling her lover by the characters name in the book, to his surprise. He was, however, far too busy to dwell on it.

On her last night, she kept her promise to a bellboy at midnight, and a handsome Maitre’ D at 2 A.M.

 

For her last morning in Monte Carlo, she rose at dawn, swam nude in the pool, ordered breakfast poolside, and charged the breakfast to a man whom she thought was named Alec. She paid the hotel bill in Euros from her gambling winnings, and changed the rest into dollars. About $3300.00.

 

The flight home was different than the flight over, but in keeping with her plan. She flew to New York first class. On the flight, she agreed to meet Gilbert later that night for dinner in lower Manhattan, being careful to write down the time and place. She trashed the piece of paper with a small giggle, when she changed into jeans and a labeled sweatshirt, in the ladies room at J.F.K Airport. She had begun decompression.

 

The flight to Philadelphia was in coach, where she sat next to a balding machine tool salesman with lousy jokes for all forty-five minutes. When she reclined her seat and closed her eyes, she was aware that he was still talking to her, and so she feigned a light snore, which finally encouraged him to shut up.

 

She needed this time. She needed to think of this vacation. She needed to think of vacations when she was a young girl, with her parents. She recalled how her parents were in love while they were on vacation, a randy, rampant love, and for the rest of the year they hibernated.

She recalled the words of her father, on the year that they returned from partaking of all of the opulence that was available in Southern Greece, including a small island.

 

As they made the drive from the airport to their apartment, he had said. “You know dear heart, you need vacations like this. They define who you are the rest of the year.”

 

It was Friday night into Saturday morning when the bus dropped her off a block from her apartment.

 

She sank into the bed, fully exhausted. On the way from the bathroom to the bedroom, clad in a shabby, too large, ancient Eagles sweatshirt with the name Bergey across the back, she said “Perhaps Australia,” out loud.

 

On Saturday she slept in, shopped, and did the laundry. She went through the mail.

 

On Sunday, she read Camus while she listened to Scottish folk music for most of the day. She considered getting a goldfish, dismissing it because she wasn’t really up to the responsibility of a pet.

 

When Monday morning came, she was back to normal.

 

When they asked her how her vacation went, she said “About as I expected,” with a sly smile that seemed new to those around her.

 

Tim was thoughtful as he pulled his car out of the parking lot from work and onto the highway. He was mildly angry.

For the first time since he came to work at Canfield Industries 4 years ago, he had gotten a Christmas bonus. It was a bank envelope with a wreath on the outside, and a one hundred dollar bill on the inside.

Everybody at the plant knew that it had been a banner year for Jeff Canfield. Business was great and you could see it in the ever-expanding collection of Jeff’s toys. First one new car, a huge thing that was sometimes in the parking lot on Friday mornings, complete with a brand new boat behind it. Then the new sports car.

Tim would notice how Jeff often pulled out of the parking lot at 2:00 on Friday afternoons to begin his weekend, while he was forced to sit behind his tiny desk in the shipping department, wishing that he could leave at 2:00, and get some golf in.

As he took the envelope from his shirt pocket, he checked to see if perhaps there wasn’t something more, and there wasn’t. "A hundred stinkin’ dollars" Tim said out loud, and continued with, "And I’ll bet he’s got millions."

As Tim drove toward home, he found himself glancing over at the envelope that now rested on the car seat. He knew that his wife would be happy to see it, and that it would quickly disappear as she put it to "good use". Brenda handled the money, so Tim was always certain to cash his check on the way home. By doing this, he was sure to get the money for his weekly round of golf. He knew that he was entitled to more, as the major breadwinner, but that was as much as he could get past Brenda.

Tim often wished that he could play a few times a week, like the other guys, and he often wished that he could have a new set of clubs, like the other guys.

Each year on his birthday, again at Father’s Day, and again on Christmas Day, Tim would hope to get the "Big Daddy" driver golf club that he longed for, but it was never there. And he knew that it wouldn’t be there this year either. Tim knew that the "Big Daddy" would improve his game, but he also knew that it would stop the boys from making fun of the ratty, twenty year old club that he had been using forever.

Tim was thinking all of this as he drove down Route 202 toward home. By the time he had reached his exit, he had stared down at the envelope on the seat enough times to convince himself that he was entitled to something for himself, for once.

When he got to the bottom of the ramp, he turned left, instead of his usual right, and headed directly to the mall, and the golf shop that contained so much that he coveted.

Tonight, he would have "Big Daddy". After all, if Jeff Canfield was entitled to toys, why wasn’t he? Tim even rationalized that if the bonus were of a decent size, he would have been happy to share it.

The wind pushed hard against him as he walked quickly across the parking lot. He had the envelope in hand as he pulled up the collar on his coat, and cocked his hat downward to keep the wind from his face. He was looking down as he bounded over the curb, and so he had no idea who had said, "Merry Christmas, Tim". He raised his head and looked around, but it was not until Frank said it again, that Tim could identify him. Frank worked for Tim on the loading dock.

Tim was surprised to see that Frank was wearing a red vest, and standing next to a huge Salvation Army pot, bell in hand. It wasn’t that Frank wasn’t the kind of guy who would do such a thing. Tim just had trouble figuring out why anyone would brave the cold for such a thankless chore.

Not knowing how to avoid the situation, Tim stuck out his hand to Frank and wished him a Merry Christmas in return. He continued by saying "How long are you stuck doing this, Frank?" Frank smiled awkwardly and answered "Until ten, when all the stores close."

"You going to be able to stand the cold that long?" Tim asked. Frank answered by saying "It’s a colder night for all of those people without warm homes to return to".

Tim felt no sympathy for those folks. He mostly thought that guys like Frank were irritating with those kind of comments. He turned to walk away, but was obstructed for a moment by a man who was reaching into his pocket and putting a five-dollar bill into the pot.

Frank rang the bell, and said, "God bless you, sir" but it seemed to Tim that Frank was looking at him as he said it.

Not knowing how to get out of it, Tim reached into his pocket and was disappointed that he did not have any change. Grudgingly, he grabbed a dollar, and shoved it into the pot, all the while staring at Frank.

Pulling his hat back down, Tim said, "See ya’ later", with his back to Frank as he headed toward the golf shop. He really didn’t appreciate the way that Frank said, "God bless you!" as he walked away.

It didn’t take Tim very long at all to find his prize. He had stared at this particular club for so long that he knew that this was exactly what he wanted. Lovingly, he removed it from the cardboard, slid the plastic off of the grip and took a practice swing, right there in the aisle, with a broad smile on his face. He whispered "Merry Christmas, Tim" to himself.

He carefully placed the club back into the box, folded all of the flaps neatly back into place, and strolled toward the front of the store.

When it was his turn at the checkout, he was careful as he placed the long box onto the counter. The young man rang up $91.20, as Tim reached into his pocket for the envelope.

It was empty.

"Hold on", Tim said, in a voice that did not belie his feeling of alarm. He checked his pants pockets, and found only a dollar. Then he checked his jacket pockets, to no avail. Then he checked his wallet, even though he knew there was no chance that the hundred-dollar bill would be there, and then, as he began feeling edgy, he checked them all again.

Tim stopped and thought, and then brightened up a bit, as he realized that it must be on the seat of his car.

"Be right back", he said to the young man, and ran to his car.

There was no hundred-dollar bill on the seat.

Events in our life unfold in ways that are unplanned and messy. We often seem to make foolish decisions in those times that wisdom should be our ally. This was to be such a time for Tim.

Resigned to the fact that he had lost the money, he pulled the car door closed, started the engine for warmth, and sat there. Being sure that he had dropped the money, he wondered if he could find it if he re-traced his steps. As he watched the debris being windswept across the parking lot, he knew that searching was probably pointless, but he decided to give it a try anyway.

Four steps out of the car; he heard the bell ring and looked over at Frank. Now, in full realization of what had happened, he was staring at Frank, who hollered "Merry Christmas, buddy!"

Reaching slowly into his pocket, he pulled out the single, one-dollar bill that he knew he had left the house with that morning. To his immediate horror, Tim knew that he had slipped the hundred-dollar bill into the Salvation Army Christmas pot.

He stood there, consumed with the thought of getting it back.

Striding purposefully toward him, Tim decided to explain the terrible mistake to Frank. To his relief, providence provided an even better solution.

Before Tim could say a word, Frank said, "I’m supposed to get some relief every hour or so, to take care of necessary things. It don’t look like I’m going to get it tonight Tim, and I need a break." For effect, Frank performed a very brief version of the "pee dance". "Can you help out a friend? I just can’t leave this pot of money all alone."

Tim tried to remain calm as he said. "Sure, take your time. I can help out."

As Frank was slipping out of his vest, he said, "If I could just get fifteen minutes, I could get some coffee and warm up a little."

"No problem, take your time." Tim said, with all of the sincerity he could muster.

Tim put on the vest, and Frank handed him the bell, with the words "Merry Christmas, buddy."

Tim was uncomfortable as he stood there. He eyed the large pot, and studied it long enough to see that it had a lid that funneled down to a small hole. It appeared as though the lid was not secured to the pot in any way. As he was testing it to find out, an eight year old boy slid a hand full of change into the pot. He looked at Tim, and then his mother, who smiled approvingly. The he looked back at Tim, who smiled nervously, as the boy stared at him. The mother broke the silence by asking Tim if he could ring the bell.

"Oh, sure", said Tim. He did so with relief.

When the boy's mother said, "Merry Christmas", Tim just nodded, and looked away until he was sure they were gone.

Scanning the area, Tim saw that he had a moment, and so he quickly lifted the lid. His hunch was confirmed. There, in a sea of change and dollar bills of varying denominations, sat a single hundred-dollar bill.

As Tim sized up the position of money in the huge pot, he concluded that he could reach it. He was preparing to act quickly when a voice said, " Bless your soul, out here on a cold night like this." Tim only nodded, as he slowly lowered the cover back into place. Then he stood there as the woman wheeled herself close enough to put two careworn five-dollar bills into the pot. "Merry Christmas." Tim said, impassively.

"Merry Christmas to you. You people do so much for people like me." The older woman, who was pushing the wheel chair, paused just long enough to smile, and drop her own contribution into the pot.

Tim found that he was happy to have the bell to ring, so that he didn’t have to speak.

At their leaving, he stood stoically by the pot, waiting for his chance to recover what was his. As he waited, he took the lone dollar from his pocket and offered it to the pot in exchange. Tim was becoming aware of his own guilt.

For the next five minutes, Tim observed and noted how many people quickened their pace at the sight of him and the huge cauldron. He was aware that they looked away, avoiding eye contact, just as he had always done.

He could not help but see that the folks who gave, did so in a humble fashion. He began watching their faces and noted that they gave with an unmistakable look of gratitude on their face. He saw that it was the well dressed that hurried by, or would throw in a coin or two. He watched an apparently wealthy woman separate the pennies from the rest of her coins, and throw only the pennies into the pot.

He was aware that he was ringing the bell steadily now, and that this seemed to call more people toward him. He was hugged three times, god-blessed seven times, had his hand shaken twice and received innumerable "Merry Christmases."

Tim was learning that those who seemed to have the least to give, gave the most, and with a happy heart.

"I’m surprised to see you here!" a voice bellowed toward Tim, and he was surprised to see Jeff Canfield. "Aren’t you freezing?" he asked Tim.

Tim surprised himself when he answered honestly, "Not really." He was feeling too embarrassed, and far too emotional, to say anything other than "Merry Christmas". He watched Tim peel off one dollar from a sizeable roll and place it in the pot.

He said, "You sure surprise me, Tim" before walking off. Tim was considering all that this meant, and felt shamed by it. The shame increased as he recalled why he was there. He began ringing the bell again, and the procession that passed him seemed to be aware of the warm tears that rolled down his cheeks.

And then Frank returned. The cup of coffee in his hand was steaming as he handed it to Tim, with a word of gratitude.

Tim was aware that Frank had noticed the tears, so he tried to wipe them quickly away.

They were alone now. Frank lifted the lid of the pot and stared into it.

"Look at that Tim. It sure reminds you how wonderful people are doesn’t it?"

Tim found himself unable to look. He slowly removed the vest and handed it to Frank, and then followed with the bell, wordlessly.

"Hey, it gets to me too, buddy. Sometimes it makes me feel ashamed when I watch folks giving that seem to have so little. And then the other folks…" There was no need to finish the sentence, and so he did not.

Tim said "Merry Christmas" to Frank, and he was aware that he meant it. Perhaps for the first time ever.

By the time Tim returned home, he was later than usual, but not by much. He told Brenda that he had a little shopping to take care of, and when his voice wavered a little she asked "You O.K?" He nodded yes.

The next day, being Christmas Eve, was a busy one for Tim, as he worked through all of the items on Brenda's list. When he told her that she "sure put a lot of thought into Christmas", she seemed surprised that he would say such a thing. Tim was quieter than usual throughout the day and the evening. Emotionally, he was seesawing between guilt for who he had become, and the epiphany that he experienced alongside a black cauldron. He was surprised how little he now cared about that one hundred dollar bill.

Tim welcomed bedtime when it came, and he slept thoroughly.

Christmas was always the same at Tim’s house. Since he always refused to go away, family met at his home. It was their three grown children, a few grandchildren, one brother, one sister-in-law with her husband, one mother-in-law, and Eileen. Eileen was a friend of Brenda’s that had no family in the area.

But this year, Tim was different. He sat silently, and felt real joy at watching the others open their gifts. He watched Brenda open the Mixmaster that he told her to get for herself and wished that he were more thoughtful. He promised himself that next year he would do better.

At Brenda’s insistence, Tim opened gifts that included two shirts, a sweater and a wallet. He noticed that Brenda had gotten him a new tape measure, and realized that she did so only because he had mentioned that his had broken, a few weeks before.

He watched her as she walked across the room, and toward him with a long slender package and a huge look of anticipation. She kissed him as she handed it to him.

Tim wordlessly unwrapped the Big Daddy golf club. He was aware of how acutely Brenda was watching him. He knew that she was waiting for a reaction, but Tim was fighting to keep his emotions bottled. He removed the club from the box and laid it across his lap, until he slowly rose, and hugged his wife in a way that had become distant in his memory. He began to cry softly as he held her.

He choked out the words "Thank you" as he released her. Brenda pulled him back in after studying his face with the words "I know how much you wanted this. I’m sorry you had to wait so long."

Tim smiled and said "Did I mention it?" to which everyone in the room replied "About a million times!"

An hour later Tim sat in quiet disbelief when Patrick, his oldest son, arrived, and came immediately to him with a long slender package, and the words, "You’re gonna love this, Dad."

As Tim opened it, Brenda explained the reason for all of the laughing and joking to Patrick. They all howled when Tim put the identical golf clubs next to each other, alongside the tree.

Patrick displayed a look of pure shock when his father hugged him.

Several times that day, Tim was heard to say "What a Christmas…"

Tim did not actually have to go to work on the following day, but it was his habit to check in, just for an hour or two, to make sure everything was O.K. in the shipping department that he managed.

Around 2:30, he walked through, and was pleased that things seemed to be in good order.

He stopped for a coffee from the machine and headed toward his desk. From ten paces away, he saw the Salvation Army vest on his desk. It was brand new. On it was a post-it note that read, "Merry Christmas, buddy. See you next year?" It was unsigned because it did not need to be signed. Tim folded the vest carefully, fully intending to use it next year.

Tim had no reason to stay longer, but he remained for a few minutes, deep in thought about all that had happened, before he began to walk toward his car. Tim considered how he was feeling, and settled on the idea that he was not just happy, but that he felt content also.

As he drove home, he was wondering how he would explain the vest to Brenda. Perhaps he didn’t need to, he was thinking.

As he slowed into the driveway, and switched off the ignition, he sat for a moment, staring at the vest. He decided that he would tell Brenda the story, but he was not certain if he would reveal everything. He felt O.K. with that decision, at least for the moment.

As Tim grabbed up the vest, he noticed that the little post-it note had fallen, and was lying on the floor, almost under the seat.

It was stuck to a one hundred dollar bill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As told by Vinny

The thing is, I can't really say why it ended up that way, unless I tell you that the day started off funny.

 

It was funny for me anyway, maybe not funny for youse.

 

I started off by waking up. That ain't funny by itself but it is when you consider that I ain't heard a school bus in a long time, maybe even years. In my line of work, things don't really get going until nine, ten o'clock at night and can last until two, three o'clock and sometimes more than that. It could be less too, but it all depends.

 

The thing is, I get in late, and so I like to sleep until I wake up, which is usually because I'm hungry and that is around noon or lunchtime or so.

 

I don't know if I woke up because I was hungry or because I heard the school bus blowing its horn, or maybe both, but I know I was hungry.

 

First I tried to ignore it, but then I heard Antoinette screaming at little Vinny to stop eating his breakfast cause the bus was waiting, but he wouldn't. Sometimes that kid really pisses me off, but he sure eats like me. Everybody says that, especially my mother. She says we can't help it because we all got fat genes, but how would I know, I'm no doctor, but neither is she. But that's what she always says, all the way back to Ritner street.

 

Since I felt like I was all the way woke up anyways, I got up and hollered down for little Vinny to get his fat ass on the bus. I guess he did because I heard the front door slam right away.

 

I thought I was helping out, but I guess not, because Antoinette started yelling that I shouldn't holler, and so I says, "You want me to come downstairs in my boxer shorts?" That shut her up because she says I shouldn't be around food in my boxer shorts, or around little Antoinette, now that she's a teenager and all.

 

So I guess she knew I was right to holler. Anyway, now I was awake and hungry and so I went to the diner.

 

Angelo that owns it laughed when he seen me, because he said he almost didn't recognize me in the daylight. I told him maybe it was my sunglasses and he laughed but I didn't think it was that funny.

I ordered my regular, and the daytime waitress, that don't really know me at that time of day said, "What's your regular?" and I said "Angelo knows" and she said "But I don't". I told her that was all right, and she says "So what do I write down?" and I said "Angelo knows" and so she finally left until she came back and told me that Angelo said it's too early for veal scaloppini. 

 

I said,  "No, I can eat veal scaloppini anytime" and she said "that ain't the point". Angelo said he was gonna make peppers and eggs and some sausages for me.

Since I was hungry, I said O.K.  I like peppers and eggs, but not as much as veal scaloppini, but who doesn't?

 

So, I had breakfast, and it wasn't even hardly 9 A.M. in the morning.

 

I decided to head over to the club. It was locked up tight, cause nobody was there at the hour of the morning, what with it being early and all. I decided to leave because I didn't know how long to wait anyway, because it's always open when I get there at night and that's usually around ten or so.  I don't know how long before that, maybe eight o-clock.

 

I was gonna give Rocky a call, but like me, and the other people in my line of work, we aren't up yet, except for today, which I was. So I drove to A.C. 

I was guessing that Atlantic City would be open and I was right, cause I got right in. You couldn't hardly move in there, what with all the old ladies playing the slots. I accidentally bumped into one pretty hard, and the old broad hit me with her cane and called me a goombah, which I don't usually take from nobody but I guess I had to take it from her, cause she was so old.

 

I knew she was old because it didn't hurt at all when she hit me with her cane, even on my bad knee. The doctor says I'll have to get it replaced if I don't lose weight, but I ain't gonna quit eating if bum knees are easy to fix, but I get his point anyway. The doctor also says that I have to watch my weight because a lot of people in my family catch high blood pressure.

 

I cleared away from the old ladies at the slots because I'm a craps and blackjack man. I don't care how mean those old ladies get; they sure love their slot machines.

 

I gotta tell you, I don't think that gambling is a daytime activity, at least not for me anyways. It only took me about a half hour to lose five hundred bucks at the crap table and another hour to lose five hundred at the blackjack table winning it back, which I didn't. So I was down a grand in no time. 

 

I figured it wasn't my lucky day, so I left to save money, which I guess I did, but I still didn't have nowheres to go and I didn't want to go home because I was afraid that Antoinette might be there. Sometimes she wants me to do something ladylike, such as go to the mall.

 

So, I went to Pat's for a cheese steak because I went to Geno's last time and I try to be fair. Plus, I was hungry.

Since I wanted to take a nap, I decided to call Antoinette on her cell phone to see if she was out. When she answered, I was happy, so I asked her where she was, and she said "Home". I said I thought she would be out if she answered her cell phone. She said that if I wanted to know if she was home I should have called the house phone. I didn't think of that.

 

So she says, "Why did you call anyway, Vincent?" which she always calls me so that I don't get confused with Little Vinny. I just told her that I didn't want to go to the mall, to which she says, "Then don't" to which I replied, "Good, then I'm coming home to take a nap". I guessed I showed her, because she hung up right away.

Sometimes I have trouble sleeping in the daytime unless I start at night. I got up out of bed, and got a plate of ziti to calm me down about rustling around in the bed in the middle of the day. Plus, I think the traffic was bothering me, but not as much as that school bus did.

So after I got something to eat, I took a drive over to the club, which hadn't opened yet and it was still closed. So I left.

 

I was driving past St. Eugenia's school where my daughter little Antoinette goes.

It was around three o'clock, and they were open. I thought that little Antoinette would get a kick out of it if I surprised her with a visit at the school.

The surprise was on me, as they got plenty a rules that forbid a man from visiting his daughter in the classroom. They said that the rules apply to me no matter who I am, and I said I was her father. They said they understood that, but that wasn't the point. Then they said my reputation didn't make no difference at the school.

I didn't know if I should if I should be proud of that or not, so I left. I guess they remembered me from when I went there, but they didn't say it like that. Plus, that was a long time ago.

 

So I went over to Estelle's, who I figured would be up by now, it being three o-clock and all. She wasn't, but that was okay because I have my own key.

A girl like Estelle is what you have when you have a wife like Antoinette, if you know what I mean. Antoinette wasn't always like that, especially before we was married.

So Estelle stayed in bed and so did I. Estelle is always happy to see me, and not just because I pay her rent and all.

 

So I finally got to sleep, right afterwards. I wanted to sleep, but not for so long.

 

It was ten o'clock when I woke up, and ten thirty by the time I got showered. I had to make a collection and get it to Uncle Nicky before midnight.

Uncle Nicky don't like to be up past midnight, because he's up in years and everybody knows that, but he's the Boss, so that's how it is.

 

Even if he is my Uncle.

 

So, it was eleven by the time I got to Freddie's house and this is the last day he has to pay up, and I mean everything, just like I told him before.

Freddie tried to act like he wasn't there, but I heard the T.V. and so I let myself in, the hard way. It sure surprised his wife when I busted the glass on the kitchen door.

She started screaming and I told her it was Freddie's own fault, to which she says, "Freddie's got a gambling problem, its a disease". to which I said "Then I guess I'm the doctor" which I thought was funny. She didn't laugh but at least she shut up.

 

Freddie told me he had the money but he has to go get it, to which I say, "What do I look like?" He tells me his friend at the liquor store is going to lend him the last $1500.00. I said, "Good"

Freddie wanted to go by himself and I said "No way", because I was running late I didn't have time for any nonsense, and I told him that. Freddie started swearing on his mother's eyes, and so I said "O.K., but I'm driving".

I couldn't take any chances on being late for Uncle Nicky.

 

When we got to the liquor store, Freddie says, "I'll just run in", but I knew better than trust a degenerate gambler like him, so I said, "I'll go too". Plus, I was running late and all.

 

Well as soon as we got in there, all hell broke loose, because Freddie starts to rob the place, and he has a gun and all. I didn't really have time for a robbery, plus, I'm no thief, and you can ask anybody.

 

I says "Why don't you just get the money from your buddy?", and Freddie gave me a funny look, so I guess he wasn't there. He started waving the gun around saying, "I'm a desperate man", but the guy behind the counter wouldn't cooperate.

Freddy started shooting the ceiling, and I'm looking at my watch, and I could see that Freddy wasn't getting nowhere.

I was out of time by now, and I knew it, so finally I shot at the clerk. If he hadn't moved at the last minute he would be alive today. I never shoot innocent people, you can ask anybody. At least not on purpose.

 

Freddy was just standing there like he couldn't believe it, so I had to say, "Get the money Freddie, I'm running late".

 

All that was there was about four hundred bucks, and so I asked Freddy what was he going to do now. If I was him, I would have called his buddy, but by then the cops were there, and I didn't know it.

 

So you can see, your honor, I had nothing to do with robbing that place. I'm no thief.

 

You can ask anybody.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vinny attempts to clear things up, regarding one particular day.

http://www.denniscoleman.net/Short Stories/As told from Vinny's point of view.doc