Hits and Misses

by Simon Rich

  “Yes.”

  I held my breath as the king deliberated.

  “Okay, fine, whatever,” he said. “You’re the jester.”

  I was so overcome with joy that I began to dance, clapping and rhyming in ecstasy.

  “You should go to the cottage now,” said the king. “You should move there right now and just start living over there.”

  The rest, as the French might say, is l’histoire! (The history.)

  The next twenty years were happy ones. Yes, it can be lonely to live by yourself in a small cottage without any family or friends. But I did have one regular visitor. Her name? Sweet Lady Wit!

  By day, I drafted limericks. By night, I practiced jigs. And every Sunday I tended to my fool’s cap, darning the purple fabric and buffing the golden bells until they shone.

  I was engaged in this happy pursuit the night my world turned upside down. There was a knock on the door, and there he was.

  The dwarf.

  Before I continue with my tale, it is important to note that I am tolerant of dwarfs. Some view them with bigotry and prejudice. But I have always found the monsters friendly, and I don’t see any reason for their capture. As far as I’m concerned, they should be free to live in peace, provided of course they refrain from magic.

  That said, there is a difference between accepting dwarfs and inviting one into your home.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Name’s Umphrey,” he said.

  Before I could respond, he shuffled past me and sat down on my bed. He was odd-looking even by dwarf standards, with a hard, distended belly and a red beard that hung down to his waist. He was completely naked except for a coarse brown rag, which he had loosely tied around his genitals.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Rich man took me,” he said. “Said I work for him now.”

  I smiled indulgently. He was a simple creature and clearly very lost. “I believe you want the stables,” I said.

  The dwarf picked at his beard, his bushy red eyebrows furrowed with confusion. “It was something other,” he said.

  “Whatever job the court has granted you,” I assured him, “this is not where you belong. This is the jester’s cottage.”

  The dwarf flashed a smile, revealing two rows of brownish teeth. “That’s it!” he said with relief. “‘Jester.’ I’m the jester now.”

  That night, as the dwarf snored aggressively, I tried to process what had happened. There could not be two royal jesters. And therefore, Umphrey’s appointment could mean only one thing. After twenty years of backbreaking service, of sacrificing everything to bring joy to the court, I had finally been awarded an apprentice.

  I was proud to have been promoted to a position of management. But I was also somewhat anxious. Teaching the dwarf would not be easy.

  I rose at dawn and paced around the hedge maze, plotting our curriculum. There was much to cover (puns, jigs). But if the dwarf applied himself, I saw no reason why he couldn’t learn to jest within two decades.

  I marched back to the cottage, eager to begin our first lesson. But when I opened my desk drawer, I was startled to find that it was empty.

  “What happened to my limericks?” I asked the dwarf. “I had at least fifty in here!”

  The dwarf averted his eyes. “Apologies,” he said. “I thought it was ass paper.”

  “You thought it was what?”

  “Ass paper,” he said. “For wiping me ass.”

  “My God,” I said.

  “I am always doing this,” the dwarf said with shame. “Thinking something be ass paper when it be some other kind of paper and then wiping me dirty ass with it.”

  “Couldn’t you see that the pages were covered in words?”

  “I never learned me letters,” he said. “My mother, she be thinking me was cursed. So she sold me to the grave man for a farthing. I helped him dig his corpse holes, and he beat me something awful. It was a rough go.” He hesitated. “There is something else to confess.”

  I eyed him nervously. “What is it?”

  “I think I maybe broke yer indoor toilet. I took me shit in the hole, but it didn’t go down any place.”

  “Umphrey,” I said, “I don’t have an indoor toilet.”

  I followed his gaze to my stove.

  “Heyo,” he said, hanging his head. “Heyo.”

  I shook my head in consternation. How on earth was I going to teach this poor creature about comedy?

  Later that week, the dwarf was summoned to a royal banquet.

  When I saw his invitation—a wax-sealed envelope doused with scent and stamped with gold—I was heartbroken. It’s not that I was in any way envious of the dwarf. (I harbored no grudge for my own invitation’s evident misplacement.) No, my upset was rooted in sympathy for my poor apprentice. It was criminal of the court to expect him to perform so early in his tutelage. He was so unsophisticated he could not even read his letter from the king.

  “Havershire, please,” he implored me. “Tell me the words.”

  I took the letter from him and patiently read it out loud. “‘Dearest Umphrey, the crown requests your presence at a private ball. Please do not bring Havershire. He will say that he is invited, but he is not. Please come alone. Do not bring him. Come by yourself, and do not bring Havershire. Sincerely, the king.’”

  The court’s intentions were clear. They wished to subject the dwarf to a “private exam”—to see how he would fare without his tutor’s expert supervision.

  “Do not fear!” I told the dwarf. “A mentor never abandons his protégé!”

  “Heyo,” he said.

  My plan was simple. While the dwarf entered through the castle gates, I would sneak in by cleverly shoving my body through the sewer hole. Once inside, it was an easy four-hour crawl up to the royal privy. If the dwarf ever needed my assistance, all he had to do was request to use the facilities, and there I’d be to offer him advice.

  Unfortunately, my journey through the sewer took considerably longer than I anticipated due to several unexpected faintings. By the time I emerged from the toilet and rubbed myself off with a towel, the banquet was already in progress. I ran to the door of the privy and peeked through the keyhole to check on my pupil’s progress.

  I was horrified by what I saw. The dwarf had been placed directly beside the king—a cruel test to be sure. Needless to say, the poor creature was out of his depth. He did not understand even basic social etiquette. The waiters had served a course of walnuts and he had no idea which cutlery to use.

  I watched as he whipped his head around, trying to get his bearings. Eventually, in desperation, he began to imitate the king, grabbing a cracker, wedging in a nut, and jerkily slapping it against the wooden table. It was around this time that I heard a peculiar noise: a loud, high-pitched cry. It was the princess. She was pointing at the dwarf and laughing.

  Obviously, as a professional jester, I am no stranger to the sound of laughter. I produce it at will, through my wit barbs. But there was something unusual about the princess’s reaction to the dwarf. Typically, in my experience, when something amuses the royal family, they demonstrate their pleasure by flaring their nostrils, shaking their heads, or frowning with joy. The dwarf’s imitation of the king, though, had elicited a different sort of laughter—a loud, unhinged spasm unlike anything I had ever heard.

  The princess asked the dwarf to imitate more members of the court, and he obligingly went around the room, copying everyone’s mannerisms. By the time he was finished, the entire court was laughing, including the king himself.

  “Do another!” begged the princess.

  The dwarf looked around the room. “I did you alls,” he said.

  There was a long silence and then the king’s lips curled into a smile. “What about Havershire?” he said.

  The dwarf glanced at the privy where I was in hiding. We locked eyes through the keyhole.

  “I don’t know how to do him,” Umphrey said.

&nbs
p; “Oh, come on,” said Lord Béarnaise. “Havershire should be easy.”

  I was confused. Why would imitating me be easy?

  The nobles began to chant. “Havershire! Havershire!”

  The dwarf turned away from me and whispered to the group. He spoke so softly I could barely hear him.

  “It is not nice,” he said.

  “Who cares?” said the king, throwing a piece of bread in his direction. “He’s not here. Just fucking do him already!”

  The dwarf nodded glumly. “Heyo.”

  The nobles cheered as the dwarf launched into his impersonation. I had trouble understanding it, because it so little resembled myself. First, he shrieked loudly and waved his hands like a spastic imbecile. Next, he bowed deeply at the waist. Lastly, he turned around and mimed someone reacting to the performance—his face blank with misery and boredom. As the nobles started cheering, I finally grasped the meaning of the impression.

  (The joke, in case you missed it, is that they do not consider me amusing. The joke is that they don’t think I’m so good a jester.)

  I know the nobles meant no harm by their laughter, but it was hard not to feel, as the French would say, a little bleu (a little blue). Another way to put it is that my heart was breaking.

  I began to retreat back through the sewer hole. But then my sorrow gave way to resolve. I could still restore my reputation. All it would take was the performance of a lifetime.

  I took a deep breath, kicked open the privy door, and threw both my arms up in the air.

  “Hey nonny-nonny!” I cried. “Prepare to be jested!”

  The king closed his eyes and covered his face with both his hands. “Oh my God,” he said to no one in particular. “This is my nightmare. This, right now, is my nightmare.”

  I could tell I was off to a somewhat rocky start. I decided to jump straight into my “A material.”

  “It is time for a roast!” I shouted. “And I don’t mean a dish of cooked meat! I mean a situation where I make jokes about those present. The term for both is ‘roast.’”

  The courtier hurried toward me, a stern look on his face. “Havershire,” he said. “Can I talk to you in the hall?”

  “I don’t know!” I said, using my silliest voice. “Can you?”

  “Please stop doing the voice,” he said, his eyelids heavy. “Listen, I’m sorry, but it’s over. You’ve been replaced.”

  My mouth went dry and my eyes filled with tears. Somehow, though, I managed to force a smile. “I did not know a courtier could jest!” I said.

  “It’s not a jest,” he said. “And please stop doing the voice. Just speak in a normal voice.”

  I realized with shame that I was crying. That wouldn’t do, of course. A jester’s role is to entertain, not sadden. I took off my fool’s cap and roughly wiped my eyes. I was about to put it back upon my head when the courtier gently pulled it from my hands.

  “No,” I begged him.

  But it was too late. He had already walked back to the group and placed it upon the dwarf’s scalp. I glanced at Umphrey. He was staring at the ground to avoid meeting my eyes.

  “Please,” I begged the courtier. “I know my jokes haven’t always landed. We all have hits and misses. But I can be better! I can change my act!”

  “Havershire—”

  “I didn’t know that you liked impressions!” I protested. “But I can do impressions too!” I crouched down a little. “Look, I’m Umphrey! I’m Umphrey!”

  The crowd murmured softly.

  “Yikes,” said the princess. “So offensive.”

  The duke nodded. “Talk about punching down.”

  All at once, my sadness turned to rage. I had given my life to this court and did not deserve such rough treatment. If I were to leave, I decided, I would do so with a verse so barbed it would pierce the king straight to his heart!

  “Attention, King!” I screamed.

  The king took a swig of ale and reluctantly turned to face me. “What?”

  “I will take leave of thy court!” I said. “But first hear mine wicked rhyme!”

  I cleared my throat, determined to eviscerate him!

  “Although my jests thou do like not. To me, your taste is foul as…as…”

  To my embarrassment, I realized I was having some trouble coming up with a good rhyme for the word “not.”

  “It’s okay,” said the courtier, laying his hand upon my shoulder. “You don’t have to finish it.”

  I shook him off. “Just give me a second!” I snapped. “Okay…I need to start again.”

  The crowd groaned.

  “I’m starting again!” I said. “Okay. Here it goes. I’m starting again.” I cleared my throat. “Although my jests thou do like not, to me your taste is foul as…as foul as…”

  “How about ‘snot’?” suggested the courtier. “Foul as snot?”

  “Yes,” I said, blinking away some tears. “That’s where I was going. I would have gotten there.”

  I gave one final bow, then walked through the castle doors alone.

  It wasn’t easy getting used to life outside the court. I enquired around the village, to see if anyone was in need of jesting. But all I received were blank and baffled stares.

  The only job I could find was digging ditches in the village graveyard. There was an opening, now that the dwarf was gone.

  I moved into his old straw hut and took to drinking ale. A gallon would convince me that the court had made an error—that their poor taste in comedy was to blame for my dismissal. But every day at dawn, when the cock crowed me awake, my head would pound with the awful truth. It wasn’t the court’s fault. It was my own.

  Years passed. My voice grew thin from underuse.

  Sometimes at the tavern I’d overhear gossip from the court. How the dwarf had been awarded a piece of polished silver or had another ball thrown in his honor.

  And then one day came the strangest rumor yet. The princess had given birth to a suspiciously small baby, with a bright mane of coarse red hair.

  Several days later, I heard a soft knock on my hut.

  I opened the door, and there he was.

  The dwarf.

  He’d been stripped of his finery and was naked except for a strip of sackcloth, which he’d tied over his genitals.

  “Can I live here now?” he asked.

  “Absolutely not,” I told him. “You ruined my life, and I despise you.”

  The dwarf nodded. “I am always ruining things,” he said. “Speaking of which, I think I have broke your outdoor toilet.”

  “I don’t have an outdoor toilet.”

  I followed his eyes to my drinking well.

  “Heyo,” he said, hanging his head.

  I tried to shut the door, but he blocked it with his stubby foot.

  “Please,” he said. “I have nowhere to go.”

  “There are rooms to let at the tavern.”

  “I have no money.”

  “Then make some.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know! People seem to like you. Put on a show, sell tickets…”

  “I don’t know me letters,” he reminded me. “Maybe you can help me do a show?”

  I froze. For the first time in years, hopeful images flashed inside my head. Laughing fans, cheering crowds.

  “Of course!” I whispered. “The two of us! Performing side by side, as a duo!”

  The dwarf turned pale.

  “I was thinking you would be more in the ticket-selling area,” he said. “But if that is the price I must pay for your help, to be forced to perform by your side. If that is the ‘devil’s bargain’ that I must make…the cross that I must bear…then I suppose I will endure that hell.”

  “Great!” I said. “I’ll stand center stage, reciting verses. And after each line, maybe you can ring a bell or something?”

  “I fear this show will fail,” he said.

  “Then you don’t have to be a part of it!” I said stiffly. “Good day!”


  The dwarf nodded sadly. “Heyo.”

  It wasn’t until he turned to leave that I noticed the baby on his back, tied in place by a crude but careful knot. She was roughly the size of a potato, with curly red locks and large bright eyes. She babbled and laughed as her father trudged on, oblivious to their dire situation.

  My thoughts turned to the royal hedge maze. In all my years at court, I had never been able to crack it. The course seemed unsolvable. But whenever I climbed up a hill and looked down at the labyrinth, I could easily see the proper route.

  As I watched the dwarf shuffle through the graveyard with his baby, it occurred to me that I had lived my whole life as a man stuck in a maze, sprinting headlong down some futile trail. And now, for the first time ever, I was standing on a hill, watching myself from above, and all my years of struggle seemed so foolish, so absurd, that I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I don’t need to be in the show,” I said.

  Umphrey turned and beamed at me. “Are you sure?” he said. “If you want, you can come onstage for a minute at the start. And when people become angry, I can come up and save it?”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just sell tickets.”

  He swallowed nervously. “I might be needing help with more than tickets.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Building the stage. Making the signs. Selling the ale. Counting the moneys. Holding the moneys in a special place, so I don’t think the moneys is ass paper and use it by mistake to wipe me dirty ass. I’m sure there is other things too, but those are the main things weighing on me.”

  “I can help with all of that,” I said.

  He threw his naked arms around my waist.

  “There’s no need for that,” I said, blushing. “Anyone can plan a show.”

  He looked into my eyes. “Not anyone.”

  It is embarrassing to admit it, but the truth is, I’ve developed what the French might call une reputation. But such is a stage manager’s lot! The Great Jester Show is a hit, and I am determined to keep it that way.

  All day long I bustle around the theater, ensuring that everything is up to a high standard. First I scrutinize the stage, making sure the slats are level. Then I write and proof and print the evening’s program. I make sure the props are set, the lamps are lit, and Umphrey’s costumes are all fully mended. I uncork the ale cask, cue the musicians, and let in the general public. And then comes my favorite part. As the house fills up, I slip behind the curtain and gather silently with the cast and crew. Umphrey stands beside me, waiting for my signal. And when it’s time, I whisper, “Places, people,” and all of us go where we belong.