by Galen Winter
* * * * *
Major Peabody answered the knock on his door. “Ah, Stephanie,” he exclaimed, “you look radiant – radiant and wonderful.” Then he turned to me. “And you young man,” he paused, surprised. “You look terrible. Good Heavens man, whatever happened to you?”
“I’ve had shome very bad luck,” I answered through clenched teeth. “My jawsh musht remain immobile for at leasht shix daysh. After driving you home yeshterday, I shlipped in the bathroom and fell againsht the shink. I fracshured my jaw. I had to have it shecurely wired shut.”
Things were going fairly well for me. The lovely Stephanie was filled with sympathy and concern. Phrases like: “Oh, you poor dear” and “Can I do anything for you” fell from her sweet lips. She even offered to change the bandage on my jaw. Of course, I bravely declined. Had she done so, she would have easily seen through the charade. There was neither bruise nor fractured jaw because there had been no accidental fall. My jaws, however, were tightly wired together.
When he was young and a bit naïve, my dentist told me, he was inexperienced in recognizing the snares and pitfall of the world. He was talked into taking a bite of a baked Woodcock. The experience left deep scars upon his psyche. He agreed to aid and abet my plan to avoid eating Woodcock by installing the wiring that caused my cheeks to puff out. It also affected my speech and made it impossible for me to eat solids. He told me he would remove it all in a week. Six days of minor discomfort was a price I was willing to pay. I would be on a liquid diet and might lose a few unwanted pounds, but I wouldn’t have to eat the Woodcock.
“What unfortunate timing,” Peabody said as he led us into his dining room. “The Gourmet Gods must dislike you.”
The Major’s table was adorned with candles and covered with a lace table cloth. On it, chateau bottled red and white wines, wheat crackers, Brie and Camembert, whitefish caviar, a slab of smoked salmon and an entire smoked Pheasant were predominantly displayed. Had my jaw not been wired, it would have dropped. “Major, you old dear,” said the lovely Stephanie and she gave him a peck on the cheek.
“One of Doc Carmichael’s friends is an avoid smoker,” Peabody explained. “I don’t mean cigarettes or cigars,” he said as he knocked an ash from his H. Upmann into a convenient tray. “I mean game,” he said. “He loves to smoke wild game,” and he waved toward the salmon and the pheasant laid out on the table. “He caters fancy weddings and the like. Can you believe it? He likes Woodcock. I traded him a dozen of the vile things for this spread.”
Of course, I couldn’t enjoy the dinner at Bookbinders either.
Gun Control
It was nearing the end of the month and I expected Major Nathaniel Peabody would be in his usual unacceptable financial condition. I was, therefore, surprised when he not only invited me to a dinner at Bookbinder’s, but volunteered to pay for the dinner. It wasn’t the only surprise I received that evening.
Throughout the meal, the Major’s eyes as well as the conversation sparkled. We were enjoying a Spanish brandy and he was in process of lighting an H. Upmann cigar when our pleasures were interrupted. A man approached our table and addressed Peabody with a hearty, cordial, but patently insincere greeting. Then, uninvited, he sat at our table and our pleasant conversation was put on hold.
We both knew the man. We had often seen him on a local evening television news program. He read the canned news reports that were placed before him. He did his very best to sound like David Brinkley and look astute. He failed to achieve either goal. On Saturday mornings, he hosted a program devoted to local Philadelphia events. He impressed neither of us.
After watching those Saturday morning programs, any one with an analytic ability better than that of a garden slug would immediately conclude the man would never die of conservatism. He supported anything that could be labeled “liberal”, no matter how insane. That support was as automatic and predictably as the movement of a compass needle seeking out magnetic north.
It was understandable. In the television news commentary business, being liberal is a condition precedent for promotion from a rural to an urban and, finally, to a national television news position. Conservative newscasters have a high hurdle to jump. Anyone seeking advancement had better be liberal.
Peabody was quite aware of the newsman’s bias. The television station’s sportscaster had interviewed the Major on the occasion of the opening of the duck hunting season. After the segment had been taped, Peabody watched as, off camera, the newscaster chastised the sportscaster for favorably publicizing what he referred to as a “horrible blood sport designed to drive all waterfowl into extinction”.
Now, at our table in Bookbinders, the newsman gave no hint of his animosity toward hunting. “People are interested in you, Peabody,” he said. “The station got quite a bit of mail after your interview with our Sports Department.”
“Oh?” was the Major’s cautious response.
“Yes,” the newscaster continued, “quite a bit of mail. The viewing public’s interest in a personality like you is a newsworthy event and news is my business.” Major Peabody wondered if the man’s business was coloring the news or reporting it. However, he just smiled and, with difficulty, kept his mouth closed.
“The station has scheduled a program to investigate the societal effects of the development of hunting,” the newscaster announced, smiling his phony TV smile. “It will be taped on Saturday afternoon and it would be a privilege to have your participation. We do want the input of a hunter with your reputation. Will you join the panel?”
The Major accepted the newscaster’s invitation. His acceptance of the invitation was my second great surprise of the evening.
When the newsman left the table, I expressed that surprise. “Surely you know he has a long record of open antagonism to guns and hunting,” I said. “Surely you must be aware of what you’re letting yourself in for. Surely you know he’ll do everything possible to show the societal effects of the development of hunting are similar to the societal effects of atomic warfare.”
“Of course,” Peabody answered. “I know his record, but I couldn’t refuse him. He put me in an untenable position. If I didn’t accept, he’d claim I was frightened. During his show I’d be the empty chair he and his friends would point to. If I didn’t accept his invitation, no one would be there to defend hunting and gun ownership.”
* * * * *
On Saturday afternoon, I drove Peabody to the television station. When we arrived at the studio, the crew, the host and his other guest were waiting for us. The Major was quickly ushered to the set where the taping would occur. Brief instructions were given, someone counted backwards from five and the host introduced the program.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of our viewing audience,” he began. “The steep rise of gun crime in both urban and rural America is one of the most serious problems facing our nation. At an alarming rate, mothers and innocent children are being maimed and killed in drive-by shootings and during the numberless other senseless crimes involving firearms. This morning we will investigate ways to eliminate gun crime and return to a more civilized society.”
I noticed one of the television cameras was constantly trained on the Major. If he ever burped, scratched his nose or showed an unattractive reaction, that portion of the tape was sure to appear when the telecast aired. Peabody, however, showed no outward reaction to the sandbagging.
The host’s introduction of the other panelist, an anti-gun activist, was lengthy and embarrassingly favorable to him. Peabody wasn’t treated that gently. With a subtle touch of contempt in his voice, the host described the Major in three short sentences.
“Nathaniel Peabody is here to try to defend gun owners. Peabody has developed a reputation with people who hunt. He is reported to have killed more of our birds than any man in the State.”
The next fifteen minutes were disgraceful. Peabody wasn’t given any opportunity to engage in the discussion. The host threw softball questions at the activist who quot
ed questionable statistics and painted frightful pictures of atrocities involving the use of weapons. In response to the question of how to reduce gun crime, the activist presented his plan. It consisted of five elements.
First, the importation for all firearms into the United States would be outlawed.
Second, the federal government would be given the exclusive right to manufacture firearms.
Third, the federal government would be given the exclusive right to sell and distribute firearms.
Fourth, all weapons currently owned by anyone other than military or the law enforcement personnel would be registered.
Fifth, a federal agency would be created for the purpose of collecting all registered weapons and storing them in government armories to be built at various strategic locations within each of the fifty States.
In deference to the hunting fraternity, the gun control activist was willing to allow a modification to his draconian measures. People planning a hunting venture could get their guns from the armories by filing a written application at least seven days in advance and by passing a background check. If there were no disqualifying results, a government employee would deliver the hunter’s weapon on the condition that it be returned to the armory within 24 hours.
The TV newsman, after nodding affirmatively during the gun controller’s explanations, agreed that the plan would certainly eliminate all gun crime and lead to world peace. Then he turned to the Major and asked: “That looks like a reasonable plan, Peabody. What do you think?” The Major’s response was immediate.
“I am deeply moved by my colleague’s passionate report of guns slaughtering infants as they lay helpless in their tiny cribs,” he said. “The spread of gun crime in the United States is a cancer deserving more than mere serious attention. It deserves action. I am pleased to announce my own interest in supporting my colleague’s five point plan.”
The Major’s statement was more than merely an unexpected surprise. It was a shock. The gun control activist’s face clearly showed the extent of his astonishment. The startled TV newscaster straightened up, knocked over his coffee and dropped his pencil. Standing off-camera, I couldn’t believe my ears. I’m sure all three of us shared the same thought. Major Nathaniel Peabody had gone mad.
Peabody disregarded our reactions and repeated his approval of the program. “I’m pleased to offer my support for your admirable plan to save humanity from the outrage of gun crime,” he said. “If gun owners and gun controllers can agree to work together to accomplish common goals, no force in this grand Republic can defeat us. Together, our two groups can eliminate not only one but another equally serious scourge of mankind.”
Peabody looked directly at the gun controller and said: “I believe gun owners will support your program to eliminate gun crime if gun control enthusiasts will, in turn, support the hunters’ five point program designed to eliminate venereal diseases from the face of the earth.”
While both opponents were still wordless, the Major described the five elements of the hunter’s venereal disease control program.
“First, all gun control people shall be registered and fitted with male and/or female chastity belts.
“Second, the keys to the devices will be deposited in a vault located in the same government armories where hunter’s firearms have been deposited.
“Third, those of the gun control persuasion who want to commit sex must fill out an application, giving seven days prior notice.
“Fourth, both parties to the application must go to the appropriate armory for blood tests and background checks.
“Fifth, if the tests and background checks show no disqualifying result, a government employee will meet with them at the home, motel or Chevrolet back seat identified in the application. He will unlock the devices, wait for half an hour, re-lock them and return the keys to the armory vault.
“If both of the programs my colleague and I espouse are adopted, we can all be assured the hunters’ program for eliminating venereal diseases will be just as effective as the gun controller’s program for eliminating gun crime.”
The taped program never appeared on television screens.
Misdirection
It was a beautiful autumn day. As the chlorophyll drained from the trees, the leaves showed their various yellow, orange and rusty red colors. There was a hint of crispness in the air. Pessimists would interpret it as a warning of what would come in January and February. I suspected Major Peabody would be hunting somewhere. Nevertheless, I telephoned him and was half surprised to find him at home. I invited him to a drive through the countryside. I was sure he’d enjoy it.
During this particular drive, however, the Major seemed vaguely pre-occupied. He stared out of the automobile window and initiated little conversation. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I wondered why. I respected his wish for privacy, but the reason for his introspection attracted my curiosity. The ‘why’ of it became obvious when, in the late afternoon, we returned to the Major’s apartment.
Peabody didn’t bother hanging up our outer clothing. He dropped our coats on a convenient chair and I immediately attended to my usual assignment - the task of preparing a libation. I noticed the only Scotch under the sink in Peabody’s kitchen was an almost completely depleted bottle of The Macallan. The absence of a back-up supply of aged, single malt Scotch whisky was an unmistakable signal that Major Nathaniel Peabody was again devoid of funds.
I guessed it was the Major’s miserable financial condition that explained his unaccustomed silence as well as the reason why he wasn’t hunting. The accuracy of my guess was further confirmed minutes later. When I brought his drink, Peabody was reaching for a cigar. I noticed there was only one H. Upmann left in the humidor. No Scotch and no cigars? Undoubtedly, Major Peabody was flat broke.
The Major is a proud man and would never admit he was in a desperate financial circumstance. I sincerely wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how to do it. If he were to ask for an early delivery of his monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance, I would have to disappoint him, just as I have had to disappoint him so many times in the past. The terms of the Trust are clear. He has to wait until the first of the month. That meant Peabody had to wait four more days before getting his check.
I’ve known the Major for some years and during that time I have never heard him ask for a loan. If he ever borrowed, he knew he probably wouldn’t pay it back. Peabody would not stand for being called a welsher. I presume this is why borrowing is strictly against his principles. He wouldn’t accept an offer of even a short-term, non-interest bearing loan.
If I attempted to give him a few hundred, he would call it “charity” (unless, of course, he ‘earned’ it through some thoroughly unscrupulous deception). Accepting charity would be an admission that he had become dependant on others. Such an admission was an anathema to Major Peabody. Moreover, he would despise me. By making such an offer I would be telling him I considered him incapable of managing his own affairs. I believe he must have had at least a vague suspicion that it was the truth, but he would never admit it.
With those avenues to immediate financial assistance closed, the Major’s only alternative was to resort to chicanery. Peabody has often (too often) maneuvered me into a card game or some ridiculous wager that consistently ended in a reduction in the width of my wallet. I’m tired of delivering his monthly remittance to some hunting camp in some distant and terrifying place inhabited by bears, snakes, unshaven men and other wild animals, only to be greeted with the words: “Major, your patsy has arrived.”
Many, many times I have promised myself I would never again be taken in by Major Peabody’s crafty maneuverings. This time I was forewarned. I knew he was broke and I suspected he would be planning some outrage designed to separate me from my money. No, I didn’t want to be bamboozled, but, I will admit it, I did want to help him out.
Associating with Major Peabody is an educational experience. You learn misdirection and duplicity. You learn how to allow a per
son to mislead himself. I took a page from the Major’s book. I put my mind to it and found a way to help him without him knowing it. The Major won’t accept money, but he would accept cigars and Scotch whisky. I acted before he could spring whatever trap he had envisaged.
“The Macallan,” I said appearing to savor the highball. “I thought you preferred The Glenlivet.”
“I did,” he answered. “I did until I found out the company was owned by Frenchmen. I’ll be damned if I’ll buy any of their products.”
“Well, that’s lucky.”
“What’s lucky?”
“You preferring The Macallan,” I answered. “There’s a sale on the stuff. If I had known, I would have laid in a supply. I don’t think it’s too late. I’ll be back in a minute. I picked up my coat, drove to the nearest liquor store and bought a case of the Macallan. I wish it had been on sale. I also wish the Tobacco Shop had a sale on the H. Upmann 48x6 ring Corona Brava cigars. After the tobacconist quoted the best price he could offer for a box of twenty five (a hundred and fifty dollars) I must have turned pale. He asked me to sit down and brought me a glass of water.
* * * * *
I set the case of Scotch on the floor and placed the box of cigars on top of it. Peabody took my coat, started for the closet and then changed his mind. He dropped the coat on a chair and opened the case of The Macallan. He handed me a bottle and suggested I prepare a drink, saying: “We should taste it to make sure some scoundrel hasn’t mislabeled it.”
I performed the duty. When he took a sip and informed me it was, in fact, legitimate, I suggested we celebrate the cigar and Scotch sale by having dinner together.
