by Kate Gray
and the Late Unpleasantness
Episode One: Temperance
Kate Gray
Kate Gray
Copyright 2014 Kate Gray
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The Town Drunk
Somewhere, in the New England states, in a small village, during the early hours of evening on a hot summer day of 1876, a tiny drama played itself out, as with every other day. Augustus Purce was on the move, lumbering inexorably down the middle of the road.
Huffing, sweating, and carrying on a conversation with himself, he was no pretty sight. His once-white linen sack suit bore the outward signs of abuse that his body must surely have shown within. On his head, a straw boater sat, cocked forward at an angle that Augustus reckoned looked jaunty.
It unfortunately only served to call attention to the fact that the crown was separating from the brim. That his hair was unfashionably long and lank, and his whiskers were unattended to. And then it drew the eye again back to the suit, if a viewer remained transfixed long enough.
Greyish-yellow stains marred the jacket and the pants cuffs were frayed. The worst shame of it was how anyone with any sense at all could see that it had started its life as a dapper and handsomely expensive suit.
Most folks spoke of Augustus in the same terms as that suit in its current state. A shame. He had once been a character of note, a naval man from a good family, and no slouch for brains, either. Then, as with many, many others, he had gone off to war.
Many men had come back, “not quite right.” In Augustus’ case, they shook their heads, and said regretfully that he had come back thoroughly pickled, and remained in that condition ever since.
He was aware of his neighbors’ disapproval and pity, but had sternly determined not to fuel their sense of charity by acknowledging any of it. It was bad enough that some of them marched about of an evening waving placards and bibles, shouting at anyone entering public houses.
It was worse yet to have them specially follow him through town with warnings of hellfire, “surely to come.” It was getting so bad that he sometimes contemplated forgoing the smelly suit in favor of his naval uniform and heavy saber. On principle, he couldn’t allow for it, however.
“Blast.” Augustus had been indulging in the fantasy of the potential reaction to a heavily beribboned uniform and of waving his sword about, and in doing so, had failed to evade one of the ladies of the Terrible Temperance Tympani. He had specially devised this nickname for them.
She wore a large sash, which, in the fashion of trying to get everything said, had something like a short novel writ on it. Augustus braced himself for the inevitable storm, regretting their stance on alcohol.
He was certainly in favor of suffrage, as he had been in favor of abolition, but to take a man’s drink from him? Did not the bible speak of wine as a divine thing? Why else had Our Lord and Savior turned water into it?
“LO!” She shouted this, pointing at him rather unnecessarily, for he was the only person on the street. “What rough beast is this!” Augustus shook his head. Surely they could do better than Revelations. St. John himself had clearly been inebriated when he wrote it.
“I slouch not toward Bethlehem, but toward the gin. Good day, Lady Bathsheba.” He made sure to bow formally, leaning in and flapping his lapels vigorously so that the full effect of the suit might have its effect. Not that she would be able to tell the difference, but he had used up some rather nice single malt to make his cologne for the day.
The effect was what he had hoped. She recoiled, fanning and gasping, finally stumbling and landing firmly on her backside. He made good his escape before she could recompose herself. He smiled.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad evening, after all, he thought, as he continued his shuffling gait down the road. It was rather enjoyable to repel the masses. In fact, he should try to get some amusement out of the whole affair, rather than continuing to see it as a desperate duty.
He looked down at the suit, only a bit regretfully. He knew it had been necessary to spend the extra dollar on getting one that was white linen, if only because he’d known a dark suit would never give the effect he’d been seeking. Such a shame, though. If his tailor were to see him in it now, the man would probably never work for him again. The French were so proprietary about their craftsmanship!
Yes, indeed, he decided to view his role as town drunk, one for which he had been confirmed by most of the population, as a source of entertainment, and not just the necessity that it always had been. As a matter of course, everyone expected him to be incoherent, bumbling, addled, and possibly lecherous. The last of these sat with him like a bur, however.
More than once, he had earnestly desired to relieve the minds of the terrified mothers and vaguely threatening fathers that their daughters were more than safe from his attentions. Hah! The ones that weren’t plain were all too aware of their good looks, and the ones that were plain took up far too many self-righteous pursuits.
He grumbled to himself as he walked onward, belching, deliberately, to the amusement of two young boys passing nearby. He called out some incomprehensible purchasing advice to a young woman choosing vegetables at the dry goods. Her two children played nearby, but instead of glaring at him, she assessed the tin mug in his hand, and smiled noncommittally at him. Hmm.
She and her husband were new. Mayhap they weren’t going to be like the others, he thought, but Augustus determined to be circumspect. He walked on, shambling down the center of the road, as usual, so that cart drivers and riders shook their fists at him. Once in a while, he could manage to pinch one of the horses going by, disguising it via the hand waving that everyone expected a drunken fool to make. He didn’t want to hurt the beasts, mind, just to make them jolt and unsettle their passengers.
As he closed the gap to the public house, he remembered with regret that he had intended to start a new feature in his dissimilation. He had decided to try gout, or perhaps gangrene, or maybe even something contagious-looking. With that thought in mind he had been practicing his new golem-like lurch down his back lawn. Once here, he’d forgotten all about it.
It was that nonsense with the temperance lady that had gotten him off track. He’d only decided to up the ante a bit when he’d begun noticing some of the townspeople snatching up their pets and small children upon his approach. Really, he was trying to be distasteful, not give cause for alarm.
At least, he thought so. He wondered if he ought to objectively assess his tactics. Then he reasoned, if it was really as bad as all that, by now the town constable would have been on him. There was a fine line between drawing attention and attracting unwanted do-gooders.
Having reflected a bit by this point, Augustus decided that it was just as well that he’d forgotten the addendum to his performance. He did tend toward the dramatic, sometimes unduly so; it was good to remember the wisdom of less being more. After all, he hardly wanted anyone coming around trying to help him tend to whatever ailment he might have eventually decided on. The less anyone saw of the place he called his home, the better.
Augustus was reasonably certain that the house, as it appeared, would withstand casual inspection. It just wouldn’t do to have anyone try to make their way past the tattered front parlor. No, he thought, it was far better not to
have any visitors. He didn’t like to think of having to give the whole house the same treatment he’d given the suit.
At least with the clothes, when he got tired of the smell, he could go put them in the barn, where they were usually hung. The same could be said of the cotton batting he used to exaggerate his weight. The whiskers, obviously, were another story. He had to grow those out, even in summer, to make his face look heavier.
And not washing his hair was a problem at times. He thought he might take up the tailor’s habit of pomading it into limpness, rather than putting up much longer with the inevitable itchiness, even though that lent something to his general artifice as well.
All in all, the aggravations still did not outweigh his desire to play his role here. It was just that he would be, and had been, hard-pressed to explain why he was doing it. His lawyer certainly didn’t understand. They’d had too many arguments to count over the very subject. And still. Augustus could not seem to put into cogent thought, at least enough to word himself clearly, as to the why of his plan.
“Is it a revenge plot, Augustus?” Timothy Haines, his lawyer, had asked this during the latest debate.
“Revenge? For what?” Augustus had been pouting. His beard itched.
“I don’t know. Sooner or later, you have got to
