Crystal DanceA Story by JeffreyAPaolano
Attempting to shatter the spell, the
barman sporting a grin enriched by twinkling eye impishly questions, “Whit, you
upset?” Whit rotates his face, displaying a
somber hang dog look, to bring the barman’s puss into view, reaches for his
glass, drinks it off saying, “No, I just thought I’d come in here tonight to
tie one on. I believe a man has a right to tie one on from time to time. This
is my time right now, tonight.” The barman suppressing a simper
while wiping the bar, gleefully retorts, “I’ve known you almost thirty years.
In all that time I’ve never known you to tie one on.” Chortling he adds, “Thus demonstrating
an abnormality at least to appearance.” Whit bangs the glass on the bar then
commences to wave his hand several times towards himself indicating all
gathered should attend his assertion to follow. His contorted face wobbles as
he struggles to form words with a tongue and lips exuding a gelatinous
composition. The multitude, one and all, follows the
exertion with rapt attention only able to speculate whereto the avouchment will
lead. Lars Onigull, the barman accommodates
him with a pour while egging him on by querying, “Just wondering, you intending
to pursue this course on a regular basis, I mean can I count on an increase in
revenue, shall I buy a new car or a bigger house?” “Lars,” Whit to his mind excretes a
penetrating gaze; he imagines his eyes contain a hypnotic steely glacial
quality in their set. In the alternative, to the casual
observers which abound, the squinting Whit gives the appearance his shoe may
slide off the foot rail and he follow it to the floor, “is there any reason in
this world why so many businesses should freeze out each winter, deprived of
traffic and thereby profit, rendering hard working, entrepreneurs unable to
provide for their saintly wives and darling children?” “Does your inquiry consider the ten
foot snowbank with which we’re blessed each winter accompanied by the freezing
artic blasts that chill us bone through?
Or should such considerations be excluded from the reckoning?” “Damn right, there ain’t no reason,
we’ve just laid down on the job of discovering what’d bring young, virtuous
persons with pockets full of holiday cash to Fedor’s Landing in winter’s depth.” In emphasis he gives a nod with such violence
several bystanders leap to stable him on his roost. “May I inquire; do you have a
resolution in mind?” “I do Lars, I do,” the foot now slides
off, however; providence provides that he have two hands on the bar, which
steadies him. “We should have a carnival!” The audience to a man (city
ordinances forbade ladies’ presence in any establishment selling strong
spirits) stood transfixed. Had this maudlin man actually stumbled on a
solution to their penury half the year? The congregation as one lean in to
glean whatever jewels the Wizard may yet divulge, “We can have a carnival,
right at the corner when you know we’ve not quite finished with winter’s frigid
breath, but in hopeful anticipation we’ve repositioned towards the glorious
spring. We can have it during Shrove
Tuesday week, like the Catholics do.” Surveying the gathering, adorned by a toothy
beam, realizing through his-shall we call it a strong buzz-he has proposed a
profundity. *** Josephus Brodswurth’s wife,
Sylvania, reminds him of a ruffled chicken, sometimes he actually believes he sees
feathers flying as she in aggravation bustles about all in a tear. With
dreaded foreshadowing he realizes in due time inevitably the door to his study
will open and she will disturb the afternoon’s tranquility including his cigar’s
calmative effects. “Mr. Brodswurth, I learned this very
afternoon there floats about in our fair city a question of establishing a
carnival at the corner of when winter drudgery just bends to spring elation. A
carnival I say. They’ve one in New Orleans, Mardi Gras they call it, a drunken
debauch. We cannot have it, Mr.
Brodswurth. I demand to know how you intend to address this outrage.” Among Mr. Brodswurth’s several
conceits is an eldership at the Prairie Anglican Church constructed owing to his
generosity. The Congregation thereof composed in the main of his Bank’s
employees. Not to say an overt pressure exists to
compel the staff to aspire to membership. The encouragement takes a more ethereal
tenor one might say almost spiritual. The
wraithlike miasma resisted only by one Miss Corinth Bleggishson, a personage
whose tenure with the bank predates Mr. Brodswurth’s own term. Miss Bleggishson
holds the same position under Mr. Brodswurth’s administration as she held under
the previous administration; her door plate reads Commercial Transactions
Auditor. From
her perch she espies all that transpires within the said financial institution
thereby amassing a putrid knowledge cache the possession of which enables her
to shun all pressure, otherworldly and otherwise. *** Mr.
Brodswurth figures angles while he rolls his cigar between thumb and fingers. First,
in consideration the matter of who broached the issue? It will not do to stand
on the matter’s wrong side. Second,
what exactly, beyond his wife’s the superfluous sentiments, will compose his
objection’s foundation? Thirdly,
and without question of greatest import, whereof did the potential advantage to
the Bank and consequently himself lay? “My
dear,” rising from his chair to circle his desk, whispers he with left arm (his
right hand continues to be occupied with the cigar) embracing his angelic wife
whilst placing a buss on her forehead; “I must first and foremost examine the
matter.” Her
clenched hands rise to her waist, the left holding a handkerchief of fragile
crochet, “Mr. Brodswurth I’ll countenance no leniency in this matter.” “Understood
my dear,” restricting his response to the residue of an entire unexpressed
phrase of marked sarcasm. *** To
unveil the matter’s essence, Mr. Brodswurth must inquire of Judge Martingstall,
Esq. and Mr. Tom Bon Fatherest, Esq. as nothing occurs in the burgeoning town
of Fedor’s Landing outside their attention. In
this task’s pursuit Mr. Brodswurth conveys himself to the City Club, where he is
confident the two gentlemen he seeks may be found indulging in a potation to
settle their lunch. With
a degree of pomposity and forgoing an amiable greeting the Banker begins, “Judge,
I approach you with pointed urgency. My dear wife has proffered information to
the effect there is a loathsome thought under consideration to the effect of
establishing a carnival in the manner of the Mardi Gras of New Orleans, which I
am sure would introduce an unsavory element to our fair burgh. Have you
knowledge of such talk?” He remains standing during the interrogatory. His
imposing figure uniformed in the banker’s mandatory black, vested suit, white
shirt with diamond stick pin piercing his cravat. The
Judge, accustomed to looking down on communicants not up at them, experiences
some discomfort the sensation buttressed by the man’s rudeness. He attempts to alleviate same without insult
to the corpulent banker, given Mr. Brodswurth’s status in the community and his
imagined intimacy with the Judiciary. “Please
seat yourself my good man, let me call the steward and we’ll talk the matter through,”
rising a little in his cushion, swiveling his head to catch the garcon’s eye
giving a slight wave indicating a need for service. Once
all are settled the Judge begins, “Josephus we’ve several honest, hardworking
businessmen in our community who see a way to improve their annual profit
picture. As community leaders you might
say, it is requisite we support such an effort. Can you not see your way to our
point of view?” “Judge,
my dear wife says Mardi Gras, is a drunken revelry an abomination. It is beyond
my ability to imagine how such goings on can burnish the reputation and stature
of the town in whose behalf those self-same community leaders have striven to
gain a favorable standing on the communal stage writ large,” the argument’s
forte causes the Banker to rise up on his cushion and having made his
declaration sink back seemingly victorious. “Knowing
your wife and her impeccable record
championing adherence within our society to propriety centered on Christian
sanctions, I hold her opinion in reverence, however, it boils down to a matter
of providing livelihood for women and children. Viewed
from such a prospective we cannot impede the efforts of their husbands and
fathers to seek additional revenue.” The Judge remains relaxed into his
pillows, at ease and displaying no agitation. *** The
Anglican’s intuition sparks. The truth a revelation to him in the
instantaneousness of a photon, he has no argument to win here the Carnival a
fait accompli. All becomes apparent in a star twinkles’ space. He
owns railroad bonds and stock certificates; he owns farm mortgages, carries
loans on grain mills and feed stores, most of the pigs, sheep, and cattle for
miles around serve as collateral for outstanding loans. He
commands vast wealth. What
he lacks is influence with the townsmen indebted not to him but to The Meccan
Bank and Trust Company, owned and operated by Theodosius Nolthagger, a
Lutheran. The
thought staggers him, sweat excretes on his brow, he can feel a drop trickle on
his temple, and his armpits moisten. The
influence he enjoys attributable merely to adulation for his wealth. There exists
beneath it no underpinning, the foundation illusory. The
Judge, Mr. Nolthagger, the physicians, the lawyers, the Ministers and Prelates
all have a role to play in the lives of the townsfolk. Their influence in
communal affairs rests upon the pressure they can bring to bear. In
point of fact, he has no leverage, for his influence lies with men who live
their lives without the bounds of Fedor’s Landing and have no interests here. “Why,
Josephus you appear pale, are you quite well?” The Judge leans up out of his
chair extending a hand to steady the man. Surely
he knew the lay of the land previous, could this accomplished banker be naïve? Momentarily
the Anglican does not recognize the Judge nor can he say with exactitude whereat
he stands. He staggers-there exists no kinder word for it-towards the door, and
proceeding down the stairs he begins a stooped crawl towards home. The
haze compromising his mind’s eye slowly amalgamates upon the simple although
devastating notion; he lacks real influence in Fedor’s Landing beyond the
scraps with which people humor him. His
mind whirrs with actions, stratagems, tactics and schemes all contrived to
demonstrate to the townspeople he does possess a certain sway as well as a capability
to bring it to bear in order to have his aspirations prevail. As
a parallel to this thinking, founded as it is on audacity and swagger, he
entertains the gnawing fear of his Bank’s precarious future, given the minimal
effort necessary to repudiate his will.
The
issue, joined in his mind, assumes a position central in import to the continuing
success of his Bank, a success foundational to Mr. Brodswurth’s self-esteem and
worth. *** Mrs.
Hodge, his personal assistant opens the office door, “Mr. Brodswurth a Mr.
Rammings desires a word, if convenient. He hasn’t an appointment. However, he
asks, would you accommodate him.” “Do
you know the nature of his business?” “Yes,
he is a real-estate Broker,” expressed with the merest distaste. “Please
show him in,” the Banker says as he rises from his seat tugging with both hands
at the bottom of his vest. The
Phi Beta Kappa key dangles about a foot below the diamond stick pin, the two beacons
alluding to his prominence. Mr.
Rammings comes through and speedily crosses over, his hand extended, a smile
smeared upon his face. He is one of those
sunny sorts. “Good morning, sir,” says he grasping the Banker’s hand
forcefully, but just so, while cranking it enthusiastically but just so. The
real estate Broker leaps-in, “I have a delicate matter under consideration. I
seek your sage advice. It
has become known to me a prominent citizen of our fair city anticipates moving
to other environs and requires his house be sold. Obviously, the selling of
such a house for such a personage must be handled with the greatest discretion
therefor I’ve come to you. There
can be no question of yard signs or newspaper advertisements. The word must go
out amongst only those with the standing in society that will qualify their
purchase. The
dwelling stands on Chestnut Street, a thoroughfare on which I believe you
maintain your home; accordingly, I reasoned the matter might tempt your notice.” Having
handily put his case, Mr. Rammings realizes he has failed to allow for an
invitation to be seated and for an exchange of pleasantries, possibly the offer
of coffee or tea, so now he finds himself awkwardly standing hat in hand
somewhat disadvantaged as to baragaining position. The palpability of the charge
permeating the room astounds the Banker as the permutations of gist,
objectives, intent and agenda pile up in his mind. There is afoot here an heroic
enterprise from which he might profit handsomely or in the alternative be played
as a pawn with but paltry gain. In conjunction with the flit of
these thoughts across his mind’s eye another deeper, baleful notion begins to
take shape. It appears as a phantasm gathering substance as it garners
delineation. The Banker spins his pen upon the
desk top demonstrating deep
contemplation, then raising his eyes to the Broker’s face issues his
fusillade, “Ah, Mr. Rammings, is it? Mr.
Rammings there is much in what you have to say, although I wonder at you saying
it. A personage with the stature you
describe has no doubt connections within the municipality. I puzzle at the
notion he would approach a person such as you, who will, in order to process
this matter in the desired manner, be obliged to forge bonds with which the seller
is already graced. Further, knowing the interests possessed
by the other community members why not merely address the question to one or
more of them and thereby simply and quietly achieve its disposition? No, ah, Mr. Rammings, there is
something opaque afoot here, and I believe it is incumbent upon me to suss it
out.” Josephus lowers his gaze to the
top of his expansive desk assuming an in-depth survey as to the arrangement of
the papers lying upon it. “I want to thank you for your time
and I bid you good day,” says Mr. Rammings turning from the desk and proceeding
towards the door. “I say, Mr. Rammings,” the broker’s face
door to, exhibits a hidden smile as he awaits his prey’s disclosure as to the
depth of his entanglement in the snare, “I will know the identity of the
interested party before you reach the corner tavern,” posits the Banker. The
smile vanishes from Mr. Ramming’s visage. Once Mr. Rammings halts, the Banker
mumbles almost to himself, “Here’s what I’ll offer: I’ll purchase the property
at a discount. I’ll pay a nominal commission to you for your troubles and for
your silence as to these arrangements. I assure you I’ve the means with which
to penalize you for breaking that silence.” Mr. Rammings spends a quick ten
seconds weighing his options, the chances of increasing his remuneration and
the wisdom of crossing swords with someone with the Banker’s position and
resources. Mr. Rammings attributes great power
to Mr. Brodswurth in consequence of his wealth. Mr. Rammings turns towards the Master
Bargainer, extending his hand once more, “I am sure we can achieve a mutually
satisfactory arrangement.” The
Banker withdraws his personal check book from a drawer, ignores the extended
hand and muses with a sneer, “I’m confident.” *** Within
moments of the final signatures, several gofers of the Prairie Commerce Bank
and Trust of which Mr. Brodswurth is chief investor, Chairman of the Board and
President, are dispatched to make the following arrangements: The recently
purchased house on Chestnut Street is to have its windows and doors boarded
over, the gardeners are to be dismissed, and the newspaper subscription is to
be paid in full for the next two months to assure a pile of newspapers will
grow on the porch step. *** In truth the boarding over of the
windows, of itself, is sufficiently dire to stimulate howls of consternation in
every house on Chestnut Street. Husbands are dispatched forthwith to
accomplish immediate change, the present state carrying as it does a stigma of
unendurable embarrassment. No stone is left unturned, lawyers
pore over the entries in the Records Office, but no title of ownership is
unearthed. The tax assessor’s office carries
the name of the owner of record who is known to have removed to the hinterlands. Communication with this gentleman
reveals the property has been sold but as to whom he has not a clue since the
whole affair was handled by a Mr. Rammings, a real-estate Broker. Mr.
Rammings, when contacted, reveals his understanding that the duty of disclosure
lay with the new owner, not himself and in fact he is unsure of his legal
position should he divulge such information without the purchaser’s express
consent. When
Mr. Rammings is disabused of this idea by several enthusiastic attorneys he
retorts, “I can’t risk it.” With the passage of time the
property continues to deteriorate, the flower beds wither from lack of water,
the lawn browns from the same cause, patches of green weeds replicate a pox in
the flower beds and upon the otherwise dead lawn. The neighborhood women’s distress
reaches a crescendo. In
no uncertain terms they demand satisfaction of their husbands. The
husbands whose home life has by now been reduced to a living hell are at wits
end as to how to terminate this matter. The question of passing ordinances
to compel the titleholder to maintain his property within certain parameters meets
with stern opposition from those who fear such ordinances will require them to
maintain their commercial properties in the same manner. An ordinance directed at this particular
property is deemed to be unable to survive scrutiny by the courts. No effective exit from the dilemma presents
itself. *** Mr. Brodswurth sends a note to Judge
Martingstall, Esq. Judge, care to join me
for lunch tomorrow at 1, let’s say at the City Club? Josephus Following cordial amenities Josephus
postulates, “This house on Chestnut Street is causing quite a fuss, I wonder if
you’d be open to a suggestion as to how the matter might be quietly put to
rest?” The Judge, looks into the Anglican’s
eyes as deeply as he can, what devilish
scheme is bouncing around in that
devious mind? Naïve indeed, he thinks but says, “Yes, Josephus, I certainly would.” “What if I told you I am in a
position to arrange to sell the house, with a mortgage from my Bank, to that
young Doctor everyone seems to be so excited about. Whereby he could get a
house his income will not afford him for several years hence and the property will
be maintained in a suitable manner?” “I would say everyone’d owe you a sizeable
gratitude.” “I’d say they’d owe me considerably
more, I’d say they’d owe me the demise of the carnival proposition,” so saying
he slowly and deliberately cuts his roast. “Josephus, you can’t possibly mean this.
You’d hold the whole community
hostage, and sacrifice your relationship with your neighbors to win this tug of
war with a few hardscrabble merchants only trying to increase their annual
income?” “You’ve my terms.” *** It was arranged Mr. Tom Bon
Fatherest, Esq. should bear the bad news to Whitmor Lungererb. At the
conclusion of the interview, all the consolatory clichés having been advanced,
Whitmor questions Bon, as he is known, “Is there not a person to whom I may
appeal?” “I am afraid not. Mr. Brodswurth,
for reasons at this point known only to him, has decreed these conditions.” So
saying he arises, places his hat on his head and departs. *** Whit bobs his indication for a
refill, with reservation Lars pours, “You know Whit you ain’t much of a
drinker, if’n I had bought a new truck I’d now be in a terrible fix. Why don’t
you go home and allow the boozing to the professionals?” The empty glass bangs on the bar,
with the accompanying indication for a refill. There is a distinct movement of
facial muscles presaging speech of some sort however, none is forthcoming. Whit
polishes off the most recent offering and begins, “He killed the idea, there
was no violence but it was done in just the same, no regard, none for the
townsfolk’s welfare. The bosses wanted it one way, and that’s the way it’ll be,
justice be damned. Witnesses say it was at this point
they perceived a decided transformation in the Wizard’s expression. Some say
you could actually see him think, but obviously can’t explain exactly what they
mean by the statement. The most reliable source provided
the following testimony, “Whit, he got a vision, he saw something invisible to
the remaining mob, yes he saw it clear.” Whit turns, never releasing his left
hand’s grip on the bar until he has circled one hundred and eighty degrees.
Then with back to the bar and both hands upon it for bracing he proclaims,
“What we got to do is make deposits in the Prairie Commerce Bank and Trust!” *** “I have been asked by the Chief
Cashier to inform Mr. Brodswurth a substantial number of townsmen, businessmen
as it were, are opening accounts,” advises Mrs. Hodge. There commences a diminution of
clarity in the Banker’s mind, Sylvania loses substance, the repugnant meaning
of Mardi Gras fuzzes, while one incongruous alternative thought gains
prominence and enormity at a constant acceleration. Significant profit may accrue to the
Prairie Commerce Bank and Trust from a carnival celebrated at the juncture at
which endurance of winter’s drabness is replaced, as the corner’s rounded, by the sparkle of spring’s expectancy.
Josephus Brodswurth, in deference to
the desires expressed by the dear Sylvania as well as an exhibition as to the
Banker’s clout, will proclaim the celebration to be a Crystal Dance and none
shall say him nay.
The
End © 2015 JeffreyAPaolano |
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Added on August 16, 2015 Last Updated on August 16, 2015 |