The Journals of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  As Major Peabody unpacked his gear, he reviewed the results of his most recent poker game. It occurred the evening before he left Philadelphia for this hunt. Those results were not entirely satisfactory. Those results were in no way satisfactory. The results were terrible. Peabody had been nearly wiped out.

  It was the twenty-fifth day of the month. The Major would be back in Philadelphia one day before the end of the month when his grossly inadequate supply of money would be replenished. In the meantime, however, the Major had to have enough cash to buy shotgun shells, pay for personal expenses and give his Uruguayan guide and the Lodge staff their expected tips.

  Even if Peabody limited his shooting and exercised unaccustomed good judgment with regard to non-essential spending, he would still fall far short of the amount he needed. His tiny supply of cash could not be stretched to cover even his absolute minimum projected expenses. “Well,” he said aloud, “I wonder if I could get a bit of help from my friends.” Those prospects were dim, indeed.

  Sandy Hausman owned an automobile dealership. Sandy did not have sandy hair. As his surname indicates, he was not a Scot. He was a German. He was not a blond Nordic. He was the black haired, Baltic kind of German. He got the nickname “Sandy” because of his super-frugal nature. The most conservative, close-fisted Scotsman would admire him.

  Sandy Hausman was a stingy man. He was often described as “tighter than the bark on a paper birch tree”. He was very good at accumulating money, but an abject failure when it came to disbursing it - any of it. For example, while the three hunters were enjoying libations during their four hour stop-over in Miami, not once did Sandy’s hand find his wallet.

  Nevertheless, Major Peabody admired Sandy. He and Sandy once came out of a Minnesota woods and found themselves on a dirt road close to a country tavern. Smelling a bit un-bathed and with a beard grown during a four day Ruffed Grouse hunt, Sandy convinced the bartender he was a man of the cloth and, thus, entitled to what he called “the usual clergyman’s fifteen percent discount on drinks”. You have to admire a man who can do that.

  Admirable or not, Sandy Hausman’s record of making loans was perilously close to being completely non-existent. He was known to occasionally - very occasionally - engage in wagering, but only when the potential for loss was minimal. Actually, less than minimal - infinitesimal would be a better description. (And, if possible, less than infinitesimal.) To attempt to pry money from Sandy Hausman was a heroic, Herculean labor.

  The other hunter, Steve Gress, was a successful personal injury attorney. Successful personal injury attorneys are experts at scaring the living bejaysus out of casualty insurance companies and doing enormous damage to the reserves established for claim payment. Steve Gress was an expert con artist. He knew all the tricks of deception because he practiced every one of them.

  The Major appreciated Gress’s ability to mislead and defraud - characteristics common to all good damage attorneys. He knew the lawyer was very careful when it came to betting. Steve would be a man difficult to outsmart.

  When it came to wagering, Peabody, the used car salesman and the personal injury attorney were three of a kind. Each one was cautious. Each one was schooled in duplicity. Each one always assumed his associates had something up their sleeves. Each one was hard to fool. The Major knew he would not have an easy time of it.

  Peabody sighed and resigned himself to a week of austerity and, perhaps, some unpleasantness when it came time to pay the bill. “We live in an imperfect world,” he said to himself as he unpacked his gear. He left the room and began to walk to the lodge patio just as Sandy Hausman came into the hallway from the adjoining room.

  “How goes it, Major?” he asked, “Ready for tomorrow’s hunt?

  “Ah, Sandy, my boy,” the Major answered, trying to find a palatable explanation for his lack of funds. “I’m afraid misfortune has visited me.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Oh, no. Nothing serious - merely a temporary inconvenience.” The explanation came to him. “All that jostling and crowding in the airport at Montevideo. I’m afraid someone picked my pocket. He got my wallet, credit cards and all.” Peabody hoped Hausman might offer temporary relief from his predicament. It was a forlorn hope. Sandy limited himself to saying “A pity, Major. A pity. You have my sympathy.” (Sandy was known for his generous offerings of sympathy to those in financial distress.)

  The Major and Sandy sat at a table on the patio and awaited the arrival of Steve Gress. Hausman ordered a drink - for himself. Then a thought occurred to him. He leaned forward in his chair. “Major,” he said. “I may be able to help you out. Suppose I were to advance the price of, say, four cases of shell. Suppose I were to bet Steve I’d get more birds that you. What would you think of that?”

  Major Peabody had a number of thoughts. One of them was: Providence was smiling upon him.

  “Two things occur to me, Sandy,” he answered. “The first is: What’s in it for me? I noticed you used the word ‘advanced’. Second: I presume you intend to somehow take advantage of our attorney friend. Correct?” Sandy nodded. “Well, then,” Peabody continued, “if you bet Steve you’ll take more birds than I will, Steve will wonder why you haven’t bet with me. He’ll know something is up. We’ll have to be more subtle.”

  Sandy puzzled over the problem. He wanted to tap Steve, but the thought of actually paying for the Major’s shells was dreadful. The Major watched Sandy struggle with the dilemma before coming to his rescue.

  “Suppose,” Peabody suggested, “you were to give me six cases of shells.” The word ‘give’ was emphasized. “Suppose you were to bet me a thousand dollars you’d get more birds than I would. Suppose - just between ourselves - we agreed any debt that might be owed as a result of our bet would automatically be cancelled. What would you think of that?”

  Sandy looked shocked. “I think I’d be crazy to accept that one. I’d be sure to lose the price of six cases of shells.”

  “Don’t be too hasty, Sandy,” Peabody said. “Let me explain. Steve is cagey. If he hears me take your thousand dollar bet, I think he’ll bet another thousand I’ll outshoot you. If he bets with you, you could win a thousand from him. What’s a case of shells worth down here? Ten bucks a box? Six cases? That’s six hundred dollars. You’ll make four hundred, net, if he bites.”

  Sandy smiled. It sounded good to him, but he wanted to make sure. “How much money do you have?” he asked.

  Peabody admitted to having thirty-two dollars and sixty-three cents.

  “That’s it?” Sandy asked.

  “Yup.”

  “If Steve doesn’t bite, we cancel our bet and you owe me for the shells. Right?

  “Right.”

  “If Steve does make the thousand dollar bet, we cancel the shell debt and our own thousand dollar bet. Right?”

  “Right’”

  In order to make his proposition “suitable”, Sandy proposed some additional agreements. “First, we agree to reduce my investment from 6 to 4 cases of shell and you agree to shoot them all in the first two days. Right?”

  “Right.”

  Sandy’s final condition was: “You agree you won’t shoot more birds than I do during those first two days. Right?”

  “Right.”

  They shook hands. Peabody was pleased. At the very least, he got Sandy Hausman to provide four cases of shotgun shells. He might have to re-pay Sandy for the shells, but he’d gone a long way toward solving his cash flow problem.

  Sandy was also pleased. He wouldn’t lose a cent if Gress didn’t bet. Peabody would have to pay for the shells. If Steve bet, Peabody would not outshoot him during the first two days and Peabody would be out of shells and with no money to buy them for the last day of the hunt. Sandy couldn’t lose. When Steve came to the patio, they were ready for him. They watched until he got close to the table - close enough to hear the Major say: “You’ve got a bet, Sandy.”

  “What kind of a bet?” Steve asked and he learned Sandy bet a
thousand dollars he’d drop more birds than the Major during their three day hunt. Steve had seen them both in action. He knew Major Peabody could outshoot Sandy any day of the week. Sandy was clever about it. He acted as if he was a bit reluctant to agree to Steve’s thousand dollar bet on Peabody.

  At the end of the second day, the Major did well with the Perdiz, but fired injudiciously at the pigeons. He managed to shoot two birds fewer than Sandy Hausman. Peabody was out of shells and Sandy Hausman was happy.

  * * * * *

  During the flight back to Miami, it was Sandy’s time to be unhappy and Steve was gloating. At the end of the second day, while they waited on the patio for Sandy to join them, Peabody told Steve he was out of shells and out of money. Steve offered to give him two more cases for the next day’s shoot. The Major agreed to accept the shells, but only if Steve paid the tips owed to his guide and the lodge

  Sweet Charity

  It was one o’clock in the morning. The Coleman lantern shone through the window, giving a bit of outside light to a raccoon busily scattering the content of the garbage bag left next to the kitchen door. Inside the cabin, two men slouched in their chairs. A third had his elbows on the poker table and his head in his hands. They appeared to be dispirited and quietly contemplating some painful experience. The fourth man, Major Nathaniel Peabody was smiling and stacking the chips piled up before him.

  “Gentlemen,” he said as he rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass, “Look upon it as a learning experience. When you compare the instruction you’ve received tonight with the costs of university tuitions, the lessons have been quite inexpensive.”

  The silent hunters regained their voices. One of them snorted and complained: “The only thing I’ve learned is to avoid decks of cards that refuse to help me when I hold four card flushes”.

  The man at the ice chest, now refilling Peabody’s glass, said: “The Poker Gods are the ones who failed to smile upon me. They’re the ones who have done me in.”

  Without looking up, the hunter with his head in his hands muttered: “We should replace that Beware of the Dog sign with one that says “Beware of the Peabody”.

  The Major showed no reaction to the unkind statement. “For nearly a century,” he explained, “psychiatrists have insisted personal responsibility no longer exists. They believe the ax murderer, who attempts to solve the world’s over-population problem in his own special way, is not responsible for his acts. Blame, they tell us, should be assigned to someone else - usually the killer’s parents who must have engaged in forcing him into potty training at too early an age.

  “Ever since our prehistoric progenitor, Homo habilis, developed the opposing thumb and, thus, was able to shuffle a deck of cards, gambling losses have been blamed on bad luck. Shooting both barrels and missing every one of the ducks in the flock wheeling over your decoys has also consistently been blamed on bad luck.

  “Yes,” he continued, “when things go wrong, it is the well established and time honored practice to point the finger of blame at someone else. However, I must disagree with you. I believe you err in blaming your collective misfortune at the poker table on bad luck, on the perversity of a deck of cards, on the Poker Gods or, for reasons I am unable to comprehend, on me.

  “Anthropologists believe the dinosaurs evolved into modern day birds. Think of it. It’s truly an amazing feat. However, the genus Homo sapiens has accomplished an even more amazing achievement. It developed the concepts of Faith and Hope and Charity, the three most admirable qualities found in the human being. The facility to believe - to have faith, the ability to hope and the capacity to extend charity distinguishes mankind from the lower animals.

  “It would appear the biblical pronouncement promoting Faith, Hope and Charity has not fallen on deaf ears. Tonight each of you has confidently confirmed your belief in those three admirable concepts. In spite of odds that would cause most men to muck their cards, you have displayed a surprising hope that the card needed to fill an inside straight or change two pairs into a full house would be dealt to you. Still, in spite of many disappointments, your faith in the delivery of the card has not wavered.

  “I am particularly thankful for your faith and hope. Of course, it would be unkind of me not to mention my appreciation for the charity you have shown in following and, on occasion, raising my bets. I acknowledge my appreciation for the funding your faith, your hope and your charity have brought me. You have all been very kind.”

  Peabody paused while his audience snorted and groaned and someone asked: “Can’t anybody shut him up?”

  The Major allowed a faint smile to cross his face and continued. “I won’t criticize your acceptance of faith, hope and charity because I must admit they, too, has been the rule and guide of my life. Only through the exercise of unbelievable self control have I been able to disregard them while seated at the poker table this evening. Most men could not disregard the driving urges I have felt to contribute to your welfare. However, my strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure”

  Peabody’s admission was duly acknowledged by his companions. Their comments were: “I think I’m going to throw up” and “Please stop. I’m allergic to bull by-product” and “Sanctimonious son of a female dog”.

  Peabody paid no attention to them. “This evening, my charitable urges have been overwhelming and I have nearly found myself deciding to give each of you twenty dollars. I’ve tried to convince myself such a gift would be an appropriate rebate for your kindness and generosity at the table. After the most careful of consideration, I have rejected the thought. I know you are all too proud to accept charity.”

  Murmurs of protest began and one of the three hunters stood and said: “I’m not” while another yelled out: “Just try me.”

  Peabody quickly held up his hand to quiet them. “No. No,” he said. “I’m sure not one of you would stoop to accept an outright gift of a part of the money you had honorably lost at the gaming table. At the same time, the charitable urge within me is so strong I cannot deny it. You see my problem, don’t you? I want to give and you are too proud to accept. Whatever shall I do?”

  The Major thought for a moment and then cried out: “Eureka. I believe I have found a path around my dilemma. Suppose you were to make a bet with me. If you won, you would not be humiliated by receiving charity and my urge to soften your poker losses would be honorably satisfied. I would not have offered charity. You would not have accepted charity.”

  Peabody’s statement was greeted with skepticism and distrust.

  “Look out. He’s got something up his sleeve.”

  “I wouldn’t bet with Peabody if he was the last man on earth.”

  “I would bet with Peabody - but only if he was the last man on earth.”

  Major Peabody went to the ice chest, opened it and removed an orange. He placed it in the center of the poker table and slowly shook his head in disappointment. “So much for good deeds,” he said. “Out of the generosity which is so characteristic of my being, I was going to bet each of you twenty dollars that I could tell the exact number of pips inside this orange.”

  Abrupt silence followed as the three hunters showed unmistakable signs of interest in the proposition. They huddled and softly analyzed the bet.

  “Is it one of those seedless oranges?”

  “No. The one I ate had lots of seeds.”

  “Do you think he opened that one and counted them?”

  “You don’t think he’s telling the truth, do you?”

  They looked at each other and found agreement.

  “You’ve got a bet,” one of them said, “but we get to select the orange. OK?”

  Major Peabody nodded his agreement. With a smile of Christian charity, he began to peel the substituted orange. “I’ll tell you the number of pips,” he said, “just as soon as I open this thing and count them.”

  His fellow hunters screamed imprecations and called him a cheat, a swindler, and an unmitigated scoundrel. Peabody calmly denie
d their accusations. “I am, in fact, a true devotee of sweet charity,” he protested and then added, “As you all know, charity begins at home.”

  Rain

  The shack covered an area no larger than eight feet by sixteen feet. It was located between a forested plot and twenty acres of incompletely harvested corn. If there had been a finished ceiling, the room would have been seven feet high. The structure housed a broken bunk, a table, chairs and a wood stove made out of a fifty-five gallon oil drum. Major Peabody said he thought the roof had to be older than the building. It allowed a number of leaks. One of them dripped directly onto the stove. The water sizzled when it landed on it.

  A window graced the south wall. Three of its panes were glass. The other was a piece of weathered corrugated paper. The door had seen better days. Binder twine was threaded through the hole where the door knob should have been. The other end of the twine was tied to a bent nail driven into what was left of the door jam. It nearly held the door shut. No one knew when the place had been abandoned, but it wasn’t a recent occurrence.

  In addition to the Major, the shack also contained three other hunters and two dogs. They were all very happy to be there. It was raining outside. Not drizzling. Heavily raining. Had it been drizzling, the men would have been in the field, watching their dogs enthusiastically wagging tails and snuffling the ground in search of pheasants. Now, the dogs sat with their muzzles on their owner’s laps, getting their ears scratched and filling the small room with the special perfume coming only from wet dog hair.

  When four hunters and three dogs are crammed into a small shack, they’ll talk about hunting. (The dogs won’t talk. They’ll sit, get their ears scratched and listen in the often disappointed hope of learning something intelligent.) As surely as the night follows the day, the men will recount their own experiences.

  Major Peabody slid a shingle into a slivered rafter in order to funnel the drips away from the stove and Tom Rosenow took the floor.