The Journals of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  Peabody persisted. “Hear me out, Bob. You and John can’t miss. This lawyer is a patsy. He has all the card sense of a garden slug. I’ll bet you a hundred dollar you’ll come out better than the lawyer.” Then Doc Carmichael checked in. “And, John,” he added,” I’ll give you the same bet.”

  * * * * *

  Though John and Bob lost eighty dollars and sixty-five dollars at the poker table, they came out better that the Philadelphia lawyer. He lost a hundred and five dollars. That meant they lost their bets with Peabody and Carmichael plus the eighty and sixty-five they lost at the table. Between the two of them, they lost three hundred and forty-five dollars.

  Of the one hundred and five dollars Peabody and Carmichael won from the attorney, they had to reimburse him with a hundred. They made a net of five dollar from him.

  All in all, Peabody and Carmichael won three hundred and fifty dollars. Not a bad night’s work.

  Allergies

  Major Peabody looked a bit peaked. I inquired into his state of health and was surprised by his answer. “I suffer from an acute allergic reaction,” he told me. “It is particularly debilitating and, at times, I am barely able to withstand the potency of its attacks.”

  “Good Heavens, Major.” I exclaimed. “I had no idea. Have you sought medical attention? What does Doctor Carmichael say.”

  “On occasion, I’ve discussed the problem with him. He always tells me to take two aspirin and call him in the morning. It’s his way of telling me modern medical science cannot help me. No one can alleviate my affliction. I can do nothing except wait until it subsides. Novembers are particularly trying months and this attack is coming close to doing me in.”

  “Autumn is bad for allergies,” I agreed. “What kind do you have? Is it corn smut? Or Goldenrod? Or some kind of pollen? They’re bad this time of year. I certainly hope it isn’t dog hair or bird feathers or gun powder.”

  “Nothing like that,” he answered. “Bird hunting gives me my only real relief. It helps me take my mind off what has become my terrible autumnal sickness. Unfortunately, the relief afforded by hunting is only temporary.”

  This was indeed disturbing, but I still had no idea of just what was causing the Major’s discomfort. “Just what is causing your discomfort?” I asked him. As soon as he began to answer, I realized I should not have asked the question.

  “I am allergic to BS,” he confessed, and I knew I was in for a lecture.

  “When it comes time for the citizens of this grand Republic to exercise their sacred franchise and determine the character of their government, the powerful and ubiquitous odor of BS - propagated completely by politicians - fills the air.

  Its pungency can be estimated by multiplying the number of candidates seeking office by the total amount of money expended on their behalf, multiplied by the number of their acolytes speaking for them on television programs, multiplied by the number of self-proclaimed television pundits who insist on getting into the act.

  “Given the pervasive deceit of office seekers and my virulent allergic reaction to BS, you may be able to appreciate the extent of the agony I experience whenever an election season sneaks up on us. This year it has been particularly bad. I’ve suffered mightily. Listening to political speeches, commentaries and analyses has made my eyes water to such an extent, at times, it becomes nearly impossible for me to see. Just last week I missed a Ruffed Grouse.”

  “Of course, politicians will resort to the use of any conceivable amount of BS if they think it will fool the electorate into returning them to Washington and, thus, protect them from their greatest fear - that of having to engage in honest labor.

  “Still a few defeated politicians are given government jobs, but only on the condition that they leave the country - ambassadorships, for example.

  “Others are made presidents of universities. Such appointments do not unduly harm the students. The quality of the educational system is so poor, even defeated politician can do little to cause additional damage.

  “Political con artists who have mastered the ability to adopt a phony look of sincerity and emotionally declaim ‘I care’ or swear they are going to balance the budget are particularly offensive. They will promise anything. Politician’s promises and the truth are sworn enemies.

  “I do take a degree of solace from my belief that politicians have no intention of performing on the majority of their promises. One of the greater perils we all face is the possibility these mountebanks may actually try to pass laws in support of the insane positions they have espoused.

  “There are a number of politicians whose constituents are mostly city people who have never worn out a pair of boots in their entire lifetime. They believe we will do away with crime and achieve universal peace and find everyone holding hand and singing Kum-ba-ya, if only the Congress would pass strict gun control laws.

  A few years ago, some politicians misread the polls and tried it. Hunters and people with common sense got together and threw a lot of them out of office. Since then they’ve been fairly quiet, but they’re still out there. We should all give thanks to the NRA.”

  I raised an eyebrow, when the Major added: “Give thanks to the lobbyists, too.” Peabody saw my reaction and I began to interpose an objection. Before I could say ‘bribery’ the Major stopped me.

  “Would a law outlawing lobbyists make Senators and Congressmen honest?” He asked. He didn’t expect an answer. “For every man who offers a bribe, there is a politician who will take it. For every politician who demands a bribe, there’s a lobbyist who will pay it. Tell me, who is to be blamed for bribery, the one who offers it or the one who takes it.” I couldn’t answer, but I could see his point. If politicians were honest there would be no bribery.

  “Yes, “Peabody repeated, “Give thanks to the lobbyists. If it weren’t for them, who would undertake the monumental task of trying to educate a politician? The man you elected to Congress - what does he know about how the economy operates? I don’t mean on some college campus. I mean on Main Street. What does he know about foreign trade? Or foreign policy? Or the world’s new communication system? Or national security? Left to his own devices he’d pass legislation even worse that what he passes now. The lobbyists’ attempts to educate him often keep him from passing some stupid law.

  “Luckily, most legislators are wimps and seldom make decisions all by themselves. (Unless of course, they think it will help them get re-elected.) Once elected, they can look forward to a lifetime of squandering the taxpayer’s money. It is nearly impossible to throw them out of office.

  “Proven insanity is no cause for failure to secure re-election. Committing some morally reprehensible act - or, rather, being caught committing some morally reprehensible act might be enough to do the job. I saw ‘might’ because, given enough money and a crafty campaign manager the electorate can be led to approve and applaud their action.”

  “Oh, come now Major,” I objected. “There may be some elements of truth in what you say, but don’t you think you are overstating you case just a bit? There are 435 Representatives in Congress and 100 Senators. Surely, they’re not all thieves.”

  The Major became pensive. He stared at his Scotch and water. “Of course, you are correct,” he admitted. Not all of them are frauds and demagogues. Perhaps as many as…” he thought for a moment “…perhaps as many as 10 of them - oh give them the benefit of the doubt - perhaps as many as 15 could be accused of being honest.”

  “Then I presume you are not going to vote come Election Day?” I ventured.

  “Of course, I’m going to vote. I would miss it for the world. I’ll vote against the candidates who worry me most. I’ll sit up all night watching the election return. When it’s all over, for a few days I’ll feel like I’ve given birth to a set of broken dishes. I won’t be satisfied with the result, but I’ll be glad it’s over. Soon, my allergic reaction will disappear.”

  It Ain’t Necessarily So

  Major Nathaniel Peabody was in Wisconsin. It w
as the end of the month and I had to go there. I didn’t look forward to the trip. I’m accustomed to indoor plumbing, but I can put up with cabins with outhouses. The Major’s grouse camp consisted of a few tents pitched on the bank of a remote stream with neither of the above-mentioned amenities.

  Though the hunters used paper cups and paper plates capable of being burned in camp fires, I was told they washed the pots and pans by allowing the hunting dogs to lick them clean. I didn’t want to think about it. Moreover, Wisconsin has wood ticks and that means it has Lyme’s Disease and Rocky Mountain Fever. Moreover, Wisconsin has mosquitoes and that means Malaria and Yellow Fever and the Nile Disease.

  I am convinced there are more deadly germs and viruses in Peabody’s grouse camp than there are in an urban hospital. I am convinced the sanitary condition in any of Peabody’s hunting camps compare, unfavorably, to the horse dung filled streets of London’s nineteenth century Gin Alley. I viewed the trip to Wisconsin with fear and trembling.

  When I arrived at the scene, Peabody informed me the hunter’s had already dawn straws. He drew for me and picked the long straw. I had won. I would have preferred to allow someone else to have that good luck. The winner’s prize consisted of the responsibility of performing bartender service while the Major and his friends sat around the camp fire, telling stories and enjoying a libation, or two, or so.

  I also won the right to become camp cook for the evening. I would supervise the cooking of the steaks on the charcoal grill, serving same and, after the meal, burning the used paper ware and cleaning the other pots, pans and utensils. I immediately assumed the duties of my office. The burning charcoal was ready for the steaks. I added the condiments and put them on the grill.

  I inquired about the location of the water supply and was informed one of the dogs had knocked over the plastic water container and dumped most of its contents on the ground. I suspect the “dog” may have been one of the hunters who over-imbibed during the previous evening’s frolic. I used most of the remaining water to wash all non-paper kitchen items. I thought there might have been some truth to the dog dish licking report.

  The Major prefers a splash of water on his Scotch and there wasn’t much left in the water jug. I picked up a tin pail, intending to go to the stream to fill it. I would put it on the grill and boil it to get a supply of sterile water for the Major’s drink. I saw him at the stream’s edge and watched as he filled a plastic cup. He turned and came toward the table where beverages were stored. “Major,” I warned, “You shouldn’t drink water from the stream. It could contain e-coli bacteria or liver flukes. It could kill you. I saw it on television just last week.”

  Peabody adopted an unmistakable look of disapproval. “I’ll bet you once bought a kit to measure the level of radon in your apartment.” he said as he poured a bit of water into a second cup and added a generous amount of single malt. Then he added Scotch to the other cup of unsanitary water and handed it to me. I immediately set it on the table and moved a step away from it.

  “How did you guess?” I wondered.

  “I’m psychic.” he answered. “My sixth sense also tells me you gave up beef during the Mad Cow Disease scare.”

  “Who told you? It must have been the lovely Stephanie.”

  Peabody ignored me. “It is my considered opinion,” he said after tasting and approving his drink, “that the amazing ability of the uncritical public to delude itself is older than dirt. Throughout the ages, the genus Homo sapiens has developed and maintained a marked predilection to believe the un-believable.

  “I can recall when bearded crackpots marched up and down the streets proclaiming the gods had finally had enough of us and intended to wipe us out. They carried sandwich board signs demanding we all repent in a timely fashion because the world was coming to an end. Thousand of people, previously suspected of being rational, believed them. Those folks are downright disappointed when the sun and moon stubbornly continue their celestial revolutions without missing a beat.

  “Now global warning will polish us off. A few decades ago, global cooling was going to do the job. All Madison Avenue has to do is hang a stethoscope around the neck of some white coat clothed actor. Once done, any product he hawks is automatically presumed to be not only effective for a joyous sex life, but absolutely essential. If anyone with any sort of ridiculous nostrum promises to make you lose weight or scares the hell out of you by reporting some largely imaginary infectious disease, he can sell anything - including peach pits.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “Science,” I argued, “has transformed the world. When you first traveled to South America, I’ll bet you had to be vaccinated against smallpox, typhoid, para-typhoid, typhus, yellow fever and malaria before you could get a visa.” Peabody sipped and nodded.

  “In your lifetime, Medical researchers have reduced those hazards to the point where inoculations are seldom required in this hemisphere. The scientific community has a good track record and you should heed its warnings.”

  Major Peabody pretended he didn’t hear me. “The most advanced scientific minds of the Dark Ages,” he said, “were convinced they could turn the baser metals into gold. They spend a lot of time searching for the Philosopher’s Stone - that panacea that would cure all sickness, including old age and death. Most of those scientists believed the sun orbited the earth.” He paused, looked at me and asked “What assurance do you have that, in another hundred years, we won’t look back at today’s scientific pronouncements and giggle at the stupidity?”

  Inadvertently I picked up my Scotch and stream water and drank from it. Then I recognized my error. Peabody saw my look of horror. “Don’t worry Counselor,” he reassured. “Single malt Scotch whisky will not only remove the disagreeable taste from water. It will also kill all bacteria, fungi and germs that might be present.” With that guarantee, I took another drink and the Major continued to present his thesis.

  “To justify federal government funded studies, college professors produce treatises claiming the universe will be sucked into a black hole in a billion years. Inexplicably, people with a life expectancy of only 83 years become terribly disturbed by the report. Some of the experts foresee collision with an asteroid while others claim San Francisco will slide into the Pacific. Still others threaten us with the probability of a volcanic eruption in Wyoming destroying all life on earth - with the possible exception of the cockroach.

  “There are those nuts who, abetted by the news media’s desperate attempts to increase viewer or readership count, feel they must periodically frighten the living bejaysus out of the simple minded.” Peabody shook his head and mumbled, “Killer Bees from Brazil, Horse Encephalitis, Asian Bird Flu.

  “Can you remember whatever highly publicized and unavoidable cataclysm frightened you last year? - Or last month? - Or yesterday? Have the last few years’ forecasts of increased hurricane activity come to pass? Has the construction of the Alaska pipeline destroyed the Elk migration patterns and led to the extinction of the species?

  “If you take the alarmists seriously, you’ll spend your lifetime scared to death by whatever disaster-of-the-month fright is popular. You’ll be surrounded by more pills than are in a Wal-Mart pharmacy. Remember, this, young man. The quality of the ride is more important that the length of it. Life should be enjoyed, not spent cowering before an unbroken succession of largely imaginary fears.”

  As he turned to join his companions at the camp fire, he made one final comment. “If you paid less attention to global warming and more attention to the grill, perhaps the steaks you are supervising would not be cooked beyond the medium stage.”

  The Grasshopper and the Squirrel

  Major Nathaniel Peabody stared out the kitchen window of his Philadelphia apartment. Even a casual observer would notice the lack of any sign of his usual buoyant disposition. He was concerned. His expression and his body language confirmed it. A wallet, a few bills and some coins lay on the counter before him. He picked up the wallet and shook it, hoping to disc
over some loose change still hiding within it. There was none.

  He looked down at the entire extent of his financial resources and slowly shook his head. It was the morning of the thirtieth day of January and he knew his Spendthrift Trust wouldn’t help him until the first day of February. Moreover, the attorney charged with the responsibility of delivering that check was out of town. He was trying a case in Harrisburg and wouldn’t return until late that evening. He could be conned into providing tomorrow night’s dinner. Tonight’s dinner was another matter.

  It was going to be a difficult thirty-three hours and seven-teen minutes - the time until the clock would strike midnight on the 31st of January. Major Peabody often claimed he never missed a meal. He did, however, admit to having postponed several of them. Today, he faced the prospect of another set of postponements. And it wasn’t only a matter of a lack of ready cash.

  Peabody’s refrigerator was less than well stocked. It contained an opened can of coffee, a potato, an onion, a partial loaf of bread and a half filled, small jar of domestic caviar. The caviar had been opened in November. It was used for Thanksgiving Day party hors d’oeuvres. The bread was not quite that old, but it had developed a grey/green mould. He threw it away. After a closer inspection of the potato and the caviar, they both joined the bread in the trash can.

  The Major’s dry goods larder was in even worse condition. It brought Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard to mind. Condiments and a can of mushrooms kept it from being entirely bare. Like the grasshopper in the Aesop fable, Peabody (as usual) had made absolutely no provision for his easily foreseeable future needs.

  Peabody again counted the money lying on the kitchen counter and again shook his head. He could afford a McDonald’s hamburger and a side order of fries. He had two dinners, a breakfast and a lunch to go until the cavalry arrived with his February 1 remittance. He might be able to squeeze by, but “squeezing by” was a distasteful activity.