by Paul Hawkins
"You know what that means?" the boy continued. "It means there's tons of free stuff to eat and drink going to waste!"
"Well, what are we waiting' for?" the second boy said. He sprang up and threw a napkin on the table.
"Not yet," the first boy said, "I got more folks to tell." He pulled his head back out of the door and tore off down the street, angling for the Oddfellows' Hall and the Woodmen of the World Lodge.
Word of the party had also reached the Normal College in the county seat. Luke Stringer, a lazy academic with purposefully unkempt yellow hair, sat on the concrete steps of a dormitory and plucked at his guitar. He stared soulfully at the sky while two young ladies sat at his feet on the lower steps, their skirts swept neatly back toward their ankles.
He crooned an original composition:
"Going to stand with my brothers,
The workers of this land,
Til hope and freedom,
find the strength to make a stand.
Gonna build me a castle,
That lets everyone inside,
Where the rich man's tyranny,
Aint got no place left to hide."
"Oh Luke that's awful," the blonde girl said without much conviction. "A man's got a right to make as much money as he wants in America. That's what freedom means."
"I – I don't care!" Luke shot back earnestly, "There's folks out there going without so Vanderbilts and Rockerfellers can wear minks. It aint right." He shook a fist at the sky.
" ‘Aint’ aint a word," the other girl said. "We're having a test on that Thursday."
Suddenly a fellow student stuck his head out the dormitory door. "Luke, someone's on the phone for you."
"Who?"
"I think it's your kid brother."
"Go tell him to talk baseball or frogs or whatever with someone else."
But the man persisted. "He says that some guy named Mr. Perfect is back in town. Some sort of big party going on tonight – everyone's invited."
Luke's eyes suddenly brightened. "Ladies," he said, "we have an event to attend."
"Are we talking the Mr. Perfect, that guru guy who used to be big?" one girl asked.
"The same indeed. Reformed of course, or retooled or dissipated or something, but the same in the flesh, come home to retire. But if he still has even a little of what he once had, then he'll throw a heck of a party."
Their eyes lit up.
"So get off to your dorm to change and I'll pull around to pick you up in five minutes!" He ran a hand through his hair, flung his guitar down on the grass, and bounded up the steps to get ready himself.
*
Inside the town auditorium, Otto stood uncomfortably in a shiny new tuxedo while Port Gil stood next to him in a motheaten one. Maye Weather wore a shimmering purple gown that made her look like an ethereal grape, and she had worked herself into a state of nervousness. The hall was decked out fabulously in bunting, ice sculptures, flowers and balloons, but the lack of a crowded unsettled her.
"Any sign of anyone yet? I thought I saw some headlights go by."
"They just went on past."
"Maybe they're looking for a place to park."
"There are ten acres across the road to park in," Otto said. "I think they were just driving by."
"Ah, fashionable fashionable," Maye said. "I expect they were looking to see if there were other cars already pulled up, not wanting to be the first to arrive."
"I'm sure that's it." Otto said.
"Look! I see headlights approaching - and this time they're turning in!"
"Yes, I see them."
"Well, would you mind going to greet them? I am going upstairs and won't be coming down for a while – I want to be fashionably late."
Otto agreed and got to his feet. He flung the hall's doors open. In walked a handful of people who introduced themselves as a life insurance salesman, his girlfriend, the town's mortician, and his mother. They gave Port their hats and coats, and he smiled, turned, and dumped them in a pile in the corner.
"...and he's already got the nicest casket all made up for me. Isn't he the sweetest boy!" the mortician's mother screeched while lighting a stemmed cigarette.
"Only the best for you, mother," the tall, thin man intoned in a deep baritone. "Now don't go shrinking anymore on me, or I'll have to add more padding."
They laughed and pushed toward a table full of bottles and hors'de'ouvres.
Soon afterward came the town's divorce lawyer, then its other divorce lawyer, a hat check girl, three calicoed farm girls with burly escorts, and a Pentecostal preacher two hellfire sermons into his smallest schismatic congregation yet. In the dark behind them stood another group waiting to get in.
The flow of faces continued steadily for about an hour until the hall was filled with people carrying on. They stood in shifting small groups, laughing and gossiping and enjoying the free drink and food while a local band played bluegrass favorites and made an occasional foray into some popular tune.
Maye’s niece Birchola stood away to one side in a pretty dress that she hated. Her Aunt Maye had made her wear it. She sipped a cup of punch and glared out from underneath her dark locks to warn anyone away, but a persistent boy about her own age found excuses to frequently position himself in front of her. He was tall and lanky but with a broad frame he would someday grow into. It added to his youth a potential for leadership and dashing. He walked up to her.
"Fancy affair," he drawled, but he wore a hawk-like scowl. "Where's this Mr. White guy?"
"Not shown yet," she said. "Not much for introductions, are you?"
"Beg pardon," he said. "My name's Az Sweet."
"And mine's Birchola Park."
"Birchola's a soda."
"My mom knew that but chose it anyway. What's Az short for?"
"Azimuth. Azimuth Sweet. My mom thought it was the most beautiful word she'd ever heard, and my old man went along with it."
"So we both have parents we should rightfully despise."
"Not me," he corrected her, and his eyes kindled a little. "My old man wants me to get some news on this Mr. White. ‘Mr. Perfect’ he used to call himself. My old man thinks he's up to no good."
"Why should your old man care what White's about?"
"Dad says it's to protect himself – he's a self-made man brought himself up from nothing, and he'd hate to have to claw back up again at the whim of some rich lazy no-account."
She fixed him from under her locks with a dark suspicion. "That don't answer anything."
The boy threw out his hands. "Look – I don't know. He just don't trust this guy is all."
"They go way back or something?"
"Dad didn't say."
Birchola lidded her eyes sagaciously. "That means they do."
The young man's face reddened. "Now don't be ascribing motives. Anyhow, I'm just doing this to keep in Dad's good graces. What my old man thinks won't mean squat to me once I can leave."
"Running away? Such weak men these days..."
"I aint weak."
"Sure you aren't."
He gave her a hot, intense look that almost took her breath away, though she didn't want to show it. "I always mean what I say," he said.
"Well, then, you got one up on your old man, anyway, who aint told you the whole truth," Birchola riposted. She then turned away so that she no longer faced him, but she cast an ear to hear him seethe.
He stomped off, but not before excusing himself with a perfunctory bow like he was some knight from another century. All the rest of the evening Birchola wore an indifferent look but set one eye scouting for him across the sea of heads. She thought he was tall and angry and fine.
*
Otto stood beside the door as a crowd of fifteen or so young people came in. One had a rakish shock of yellow hair and wore a guitar slung across his back. "Friends of Mr. Perfect, from the college," they muttered as they streamed by en masse. One moved over to a radio and fired it up
. Its tubes warmed and big band music filled the air. The hired band sent scowls out instantly from their corner of the hall.
"Now that's more like it," the blonde college girl said, and she grabbed the town mortician by the hands and began leading him through dance steps. To his own amazement his stork-like limbs began to comply.
"...Oh my... Oh my!"
"Go son go!" his withered mother shouted.
Otto was going to ask them how they knew Mr. Perfect when a crowd of grey-haired seniors approached the door. All the women held foil-covered casseroles.
"You really didn’t need to bring any food," Otto said.
"Nonsense!" the foremost woman, a hefty and sensible type, retorted. "It’s the way good country people welcome people home. Now tell us – exactly what kind of trouble did Mr. White run into in Europe?"
Otto’s jaw dropped slightly, but before he could answer more people pushed in, then more, and the oldsters had to move on, unsatisfied.
A few minutes later Maye Weather descended regally from the upstairs office, trailing a feathered boa and beaming a saturnine countenance.
"The party looks marvelous!" she said.
"But none of the A-list folks we invited have shown up," Otto corrected. "Mr. White's not going to like this."
"But you will see to it that he comes?" she asked with sudden nervousness.
"I'll see what I can do," Otto said. He excused himself, went out to his car, and drove through the night back to White's house.
While the party had been unfolding, Mr. White had been seated in his favorite red leather chair, sipping brandy from a big snifter and spinning his favorite yellowed globe that featured the boundaries of countries that no longer existed.
He was studying Arabia when heard Otto come in. "How is that annoying party going?" he called over his shoulder.
"Oh fine, fine," Otto muttered as he hurried past.
"I suppose I'll have to make an appearance to keep in good graces," White called after him, trying to sound put-out.
"Hold off a while," Otto advised. "Build up anticipation."
Mr. White's eyes flashed in appreciation of this, and Otto excused himself and ducked quickly into a small room off the kitchen. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket – it was a list of the names and phone numbers of the "A List" of people who had been invited but hadn't shown up. The mayor, councilmen, businessmen, leading preachers, old family names. Otto picked up the phone and went through the names on the list one by one, and one by one he received their excuses. When he had scratched the last name off he shoved the paper in his pocket and stuck his head around the corner again.
"Well, Mr. White, I'm not going to tell you it's not a spirited crowd, but I have to warn you..."
He did not finish his sentence. When he looked in the room he saw that Mr. White had already departed.
*
When Otto got back to the party he began navigating the crowd to find his employer. After a few moments he cocked his ear and to hear a voice confidently intoning:
"...so there I was, face to face with the beast. To this day no one knows what a Siberian tiger was doing in Australia. But there I stood, suddenly realizing my rifle wasn't loaded, and him staring straight at me not ten feet away, teeth bared and saliva running from the corners of his mouth. I could feel his hot breath upon me and...why, hello!"
Otto poked his head into the crowd and was astonished to see a man who was not Mr. White but who was dressed almost exactly like him. This man, however, was shabbier and thinner, with a crazy glint in his eye. His middle-aged face wore experience, defeat, and cunning in its creases. His off-white suit was threadbare and filthy.
Otto nodded to him, and the Mock-Perfect nodded back.
"But what happened next with the tiger?" someone asked.
The Mock-Perfect raised a forefinger significantly. "Why, that's for you to figure out."
There was a stunned silence.
"What the hell kind of story was that?" a farm boy asked. "How'd you kill it?"
"Did I kill it?" the Mock-Perfect asked. "Did I? Or did something else happen?"
General grumbling broke out. The Mock-Perfect sat back and smiled.
Finally a pale earnest boy spoke up. "I think what he is saying is that the tiger is the avatar of our better selves. It seems terrifying until we realize that what we currently are is a mere collection of frailties that have to be shredded away, by tiger's claws if you will, before we can become our true Selves. We are the tiger."
A coarse strumming of a guitar broke out, and everyone turned away from the anemic lad to see Luke Stringer. "No!" Luke barked, "He's saying we need to overturn the economic system that defines all things as survival of the fittest and makes us compete for scraps from the plutocrats' tables when we should be sharing a feast."
"Am I?" the Mock-Perfect asked.
"Watch out fer the Japs!" one of the VFW men hollered. "They want the world for their oyster!"
The old soldier sat back satisfied, and his fellows congratulated him.
The Mock-Perfect smiled serenely, and Otto turned away and to look for the real Mr. White once more.
*
In another corner of the hall a middle-aged encyclopedia salesman in a green suit shared a spittoon with an old dirt farmer. The salesman looked at the farmer's red gnarled hand curled around a delicate punch cup.
"Encyclopedia's aint selling," the salesman said. "Don't know why I thought it'd be any different here."
"You was just following the dam money, same as everyone else. Government plunks down $23 million dollars in the middle of nowhere, folks show up. You wait til some of these people start working and building families – they'll want their kids to have it better than they did, and nothing says that like good books. Encyclopedias are prestigious. I own one myself. 'S'."
The salesman nodded. "That's what I'm counting on – hope for a better tomorrow. Well, that and sales on approval. Since you've been here for years, tell me this – how'd this Mr. White get all his money?"
The old timer turned and looked at him. "You never heard? He inherited it. Folks think it started with the oil, but that came later. His uncle was an inventor. It was like this: in 1909 these three college boys decided to guide a homemade houseboat down the Verdigris River and survey the valley for a college project. The valley had been settled for years but nobody had ever measured it before – not in the way engineers like things measured. So the boys took the task upon themselves, to mix studying with a little adventure. During the day they'd sail as far as the river would take them, and at night they'd stop wherever they happened to be, pitch camp, and consolidate all the notes and measurements and observations they had taken."
"As they sat around the campfire one of them said, 'I'd like to run this valley someday.' That boy was Bill Larr, who, as you may know, is now congressman – he's coming soon to kick off this dam project."
"‘I’d like to turn this valley into a lake,' the second one said. That boy was John Sweet, who ended up selling drygoods up and down the valley and has seen his fortunes rise and fall."
"‘I’d like to get rich and get the hell away from it forever,' the third, one said. That boy was Mr. White's uncle, Chris White.
"One night they stopped at a farmhouse and asked if they could impose on the family for some supper and a place to sleep. The family obliged but the farmer had to excuse himself because his new generator wasn't working and he was trying to fix it. Chris went off with him out of curiosity, looked over his shoulder and said he couldn't believe they had designed the fuel metering system the way they had. He looked around the barn, found an old scrap of sheet metal, bent and prodded and twisted it, then fit it into the engine, and sure enough, it worked better than ever before. The farmer slapped his back in gratitude and they all slept well that night."
"When their survey was done, their teacher was more interested in Christopher's invention than the notes about the river. He helped Chris White patent the thing. Six m
onths later the boy received a check for six figures from some automakers in Detroit. A few months after that he got a call from Ford's people, and after that he never had to worry over money again. His investments grew faster than anyone's had a right to, and yes, he got the hell out of there. He married a gal who was even more frivolous than he was, but they died in an accident and left their money to Ernest and his family. Ernest was due to inherit his share when he turned eighteen, but he figured out how to get at it sooner than that, with the help of some lawyers."
The salesman man nodded. He looked around at the gaudy decorations. "Makes you jealous, doesn't it? This Ernest White's been raised on easy money. I can't respect a man who's never had to work for anything."
The old man frowned. "That's not for you to say, not having known him. He may have been through more than you think he has."
But the salesman said nothing more, feeling satisfied with his conclusion.
*
Otto had walked from one end of the hall to the other and had not sighted his employer. He emerged from a pack of bodies and started walking toward Maye Weather at the her station near the door, but before he could get there he felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see Constance Marchant, the woman Mr. White had taken him to visit almost the very day they had arrived in town. She held herself straight.
"I thought it was you," she began, "Ernest’s hired man."
Otto braced himself for a scolding, but she continued:
"I want to let you know that I owe you an apology for my rudeness the other day. You certainly bear no cause for my anger. If anything, you are the one man in this room who truly deserves to enjoy himself. It must run you ragged, trying to keep him out of trouble."
Otto looked at her. "I appreciate that. It's always a challenge," he answered.
"I’m sure you are an honest and responsible man. Your situation requires it." She smiled at him.
The smiled was unexpected, and it sent a shiver through him.
"One of his psychiatrists did tell me that my engineering background was good for him. It helps me offset his lunacy and keep one step ahead. Some of the time, anyway."
"Ah, a math man – good and solid," she said.
"Well yes, I'm pretty pragmatic by temperament and training. I went to college and have worked as a mechanical engineer, but I also come from a long line of watch-makers. I try my best to keep Mr. White's life precise and predictable."
"Good luck – not that that isn’t precisely the influence Ernest needs. Mind you, I bear E.L. no grudges – he was born with a flighty nature and he can't help that – but I don't expect he's done much to change it. He's extremely fortunate to have someone as talented and as dedicated as you looking after him."
