Tale III: The Prose and Verse
Tulipville is too small to have a great number of pubs, but it has one which is exceptional, The Prose and Verse. Not least exceptional simply for its ideal location. The Serenade River forms a giant backward ‘S’ through Tulipville: to the north flowing east from the mountains, bending back to flow toward the setting sun through the center of town, before bending again, past the airship field on its left and the baseball stadium to the right, then exiting from the south of Tulipville, rolling its journey to the sea.
Between the two bends, adjacent the south side of the river, the Prose and Verse lies on Front Street facing the Town Hall across the rippling waters. To the immediate west of the Prose and Verse, Vincent Avenue crosses to pass between the Town Hall and Serenade Park, before following the river’s curve around the second bend and recrossing from the south. On the other side of Vincent from the Prose and Verse, to the west, are the grounds of the Library of Tulipville, the most imposing and significant institution in the region. In this spot the Prose and Verse settled its stone and brick structure, like a giant bird that had found its proper nest.
As the name suggests, the Prose and Verse is a favored spot of authors. Although they are a small part of the clientele, their presence adds a distinctive color. The writers generally sit in Authors’ Row, the informal name for the high balcony seating at the northwest of the pub, overlooking the open floor, often smoking their pipes. King of Authors’ Row is Michael Howthal, noted for his long historical novels. He is somewhat portly but energetic, with graying black hair and sharp brown eyes, generally wearing his green vest and a worn houndstooth hat with uneven brim.
But to be king is not to be queen, and the better known author is the polymath Helen Goldsmith. Helen writes on many topics of both fiction and nonfiction. Her wisdom began with a sound choice of parents, which brought her a wealth of character and of, well, wealth. She is less often to be found on Author’s Row in view of her many responsibilities, one of which is owner of the Prose and Verse.
The Prose and Verse, as a sort of cultural necessity, never closes, and literary and other efforts proceed there at all hours. While this may not serve to its upmost profitability, Helen does not much care, nor does she need to.
Particularly in times of high magic, generally in the spring, the clientele of the Prose and Verse is not limited to mortals. As cities get major musicians and towns get lesser and cover bands, so Tulipville rarely attracts major deities; or, if they are present, they keep to themselves in the globe at the top of the Library.
However, Dionysus has been known to visit the Prose and Verse on Friday evenings; although not since, his behavior being somewhat less than divine, he was tossed drunk and flailing into the Serenade River, where he floated under the Vincent Avenue Northern Bridge, around the western bend, and came to rest where the Vincent re-crosses. There he slept it off against the Southern Bridge. One need not worry of gods drowning, so he was left to his drifting.
There it is, at the Prose and Verse, that the middle of our present account occurs; but it originates and ends elsewhere.
Here we must say that the misadventure related previously had a profound effect on the poet Fabian Turner; and as hardship makes some worse, to Fabian’s credit, it made him much better. As Coleridge says, “He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn.”
The muse Stella Grabel, whether it had been her intention or more likely not, her native divinity nonetheless running true, had given this particular poet precisely the guidance he needed.
Also deeply affected by the events of that day was the hardware store owner Pete Elmer. Pete, a practical man of little literature, had been overly struck by the stray phrase “For Pete’s sake!” uttered by Stella, who rents his loft apartment over the store. Pondering the matter in his slow but thorough way, Pete had concluded it to be a divine mandate to write a great novel.
He had not raised this with Stella (who might have disabused him of it in her rather abrupt manner), feeling an inappropriateness in landlords discussing the professional matters of a tenant.
And he had, in any case, a certain bashful embarrassment about taking a hand to literature, mixed with doubts regarding his fitness to the divine mission.
Priding himself on well-preparing for any task he undertook, Pete kept a copy of War and Peace by the cash register as literary training, piecing his way through it between affairs of the workday.
War and Peace is a ten-page essay on a dubious philosophy of history, through which characters wander for twelve hundred pages, appearing understandably lost. And Pete, working on it in his steady, if not plodding, manner, was himself lost. Which is to say, he understood it pretty well, without realizing this.
He held a secret dream, which he would never speak, that he might write a novel so great that Elm Street, on which his store stood, would be renamed Elmer Street, with a small statue, of himself holding his book, placed under a shady tree.
But in this regard the activities of the local pigeons concerned him greatly. His more mechanical aptitude was engaged in devising various defenses. As physical tasks pulled more naturally at his skills and interests than literary ones, in a corner of his shop he constructed several prototype devices to protect his statue from flying critics. Since he would never say what these contraptions were intended for, and it was by no means obvious, it became a matter of considerable speculation, and perhaps served unintentionally to attract business.
And in this regard, we must mention the visit to his store by the Treasurer of the Moral Rectitude Union, or MRU, Mr. Alfred Wilkerson, wearing his bowler and his tidy suit. The husband of Emma Wilkerson, the Director of the Library of Tulipville, Alfred was assembling materials for a greenhouse to be constructed in the Library’s extensive gardens.
As Alfred was examining with curiousity one of Pete’s contraptions, the contraption was examining him with equal interest. With a certain plausibility, if not a full grasp of the facts, it concluded that the reason for its existence had finally arrived; and with an accuracy as commendable as its purpose was not, it emitted a foam sphere, of about three inch diameter, which, traveling at high speed, cleanly knocked the bowler from Alfred’s head.
Pete’s first reaction to this event, I must confess, was a certain pride in the engineering achievement. But his second was the dread of an annoyed customer, and a very influential one at that. Much though it pained him, he was prepared to offer a 10% discount on purchases to make amends.
Mr. Wilkerson, however, to Pete’s complete surprise, was elated.
“I had quite forgotten,” Alfred burst forth, “That a gentleman is not to wear a hat indoors. Your admirable machine does much to improve manners.”
In that moment it came firmly into Alfred’s rather foggy head that all of Pete’s pigeon deterrents were designed, in one way or another, to improve public morality. Which, he thought with a tenderness towards Pete, explained his reluctance to explain their purpose: for he must be bashful about holding in his heart such a high regard for proper behavior. And Alfred took it upon himself, in his kindly way, to mentor Pete in the path of righteousness.
“You must come to this evening’s meeting of the MRU and bring your wonderful inventions!” said Alfred. “No, you would not be imposing in the least! I must insist!”
While nothing could be much further from Pete’s interests, one does not, in Tulipville, turn down an invitation from the husband of the powerful head librarian. And so he reluctantly agreed to this engagement; the arrangements were made, at Alfred’s expense, for Pete’s inventions to be transported to the MRU for the night’s display, with Pete showing as much outward enthusiasm as he could muster.
A subterfuge which was entirely effective on Mr. Wilkerson, who is not astute in such matters, or many others. And indeed the pairing of Emma Wilkerson, who is very intelligent, with her husband, who is less so, might be more difficult to understand were it not for his animal characteristics, of which no more shall be said; although Mrs. Wilkerson herself has on occasion shown no such reticence.
It was as Alfred was leaving that Fabian arrived. Alfred, who had just put his bowler back on his head as he exited, tipped it in Fabian’s direction, as the two were well acquainted. And no doubt he would have paused for conversation, were it not for the press of library and other demands.
Fabian was visiting Pete’s store as part of making his amends. Having considered matters at length, his resolution was to direct his life more to good fellowship, and less to isolated scholarship and intellectual precision.
But the sight of Alfred brought him for a moment backwards, recalling the intellectual appeal he had felt for the moral proofs of the MRU and the austure clarity of their life vision; and he felt, stepping over Pete’s threshold, that he was entering a new life, and leaving much of the old behind.
Finding Pete alone at the counter, Fabian said simply, “I’m sorry.”
Pete looked for a time at Fabian, and saw a young man where there had been an antiquated boy.
“Everyone’s an ass sometimes,” said Pete, “think nothing of it.”
But Fabian could see that the answer was a distracted one, and something was on Pete’s mind. And there came to Fabian a firm intent, which would not even have occurred to the Fabian recently departed, to see what good it was that he could do for Pete.
“What’s troubling you?” asked Fabian.
Pete hesitated while looking at him carefully. He knew Fabian to have been an active member of the MRU, and as far as Pete knew, still was. So he would not mention what was most worrying him, which was how to explain his inventions to the moralists that evening.
Nor would he mention his divine mandate, fearing that it would sound ridiculous, as perhaps it was. But knowing Fabian to be an accomplished poet, he finally concluded to say more than he had to anyone previously, to find if he could learn anything that might help him.
“I have in mind to write a novel,” said Pete, “and have no idea where even to begin.”
Fabian pondered the right answer.
“I am a poet, not a novelist, I can’t help you much with that genre,” said Fabian, with a modesty which would recently have been uncharacteristic. “But I know who can. It would be my honor and my pleasure to bring you to Authors’ Row.”
To Authors’ Row one does not arrive unless one is a noted writer, as Pete was not, or else the guest of one who is, as was Fabian. And so the offer was of considerable value.
“Perhaps too much value,” thought Pete to himself, and politely declined, perhaps weighed down by the thought that he did not belong there and would feel awkward.
Fabian, however, did not let it pass.
“It would be to my benefit perhaps more than yours,” said Fabian. “You can ask questions that I would like to know the answers to, and do not want to admit I do not already have.”
And there was some truth to this, although not as much as he implied.
“Please,” said Fabian.
Pete, resolving sufficiently his inner conflict, gave a small quick nod.
And so it was by arrangement that later in the day Fabian and Pete met at the corner of Vincent and Front, where Fabian guided Pete to the entrance of the crowded Prose and Verse, ignoring the line at the door.
Larry Everston, better known as “Larry the Large”, was managing entry. He wore a baseball cap with a lute icon, the symbol of the Library of Tulipville, over his incongruously boyish haircut and clean-shaven face.
Larry it was who had personally tossed Dionysus in the river, holding him over his head and heaving like a buzzer shot from halfcourt; as he fell, Dionysus had screamed “Titan!”, which passes for a swear word among the Olympians. And in that moment, Larry rose to a stature that could carry two nicknames, now wearing that one as well.
Fabian had previously been too under the influence of the Moral Rectitude Union to be often at the Prose and Verse, despite his literary qualifications, and was therefore unknown to Larry, who blocked him and Pete at the entrance. The Large pointed silently to the end of the line of expectant entrants awaiting a diminution of the crowd within.
Fabian handed his poetic license to Larry. “Artistic business,” he said simply.
Larry looked at the card carefully, as he had some experience with questionable identification. Recognizing its authenticity, however, he handed it back to Fabian and waved the two in politely, not bothering with the band-night cover charge, trying to hide a tremor in his massive hand. For it is a firm principle in Tulipville that one does little to annoy poets, lest one achieve a literary immortality one may not desire.
More practically, too, the high season of magic interacts naturally with verse; and so poets, intentionally or not, take on some of the aspects of sorcerers, who also are best left unperturbed.
At the Prose and Verse, the bands start early and play late, compensating in some degree with quantity for what they may be short of in quality. That night, a band touring from Scotland was playing on the small stage before a crowded floor at the south end of the Prose and Verse. This was the aptly named Heather Lads, as they sang of little else. Although, the night progressing, as local color and on the advice of several ciders, they substituted ‘tulips’ for ‘heather’. But they might better have stuck to their roots, as the thought of the wild tulips of the Highlands raised a certain cognitive dissonance which it much strained the beer to resolve.
To their left as they entered, at a table by the front bar, Helen Goldsmith was dining with Emma Wilkerson, the Director of the Library, and Susan Wigen, the Mayor. The three sisters of power in Tulipville. Helen looked at Fabian briefly with curiousity as he passed, but said nothing.
Beyond the power table, against the east wall, is the staircase to balcony seating on both sides, crossing over to Author’s Row by an open corridor.
The poet in Fabian rather enjoyed the vibrancy of the evening, as the fading moralist in him did not; it brings to mind a phrase from Aristophanes: “At last he has fallen on happier days, and I envy his lot beyond measure: he’s about to exchange his abstemious ways for a life of refinement and pleasure.”
Playing Virgil to Pete’s Dante, Fabian guided the way up the beaten wooden stairs to Author’s Row, although he knew it scarcely better than Pete, their approach eyed with curious attention by the denizens above.
Arriving on the balcony, Fabian announced his name, and added “the poet”. Unnecessarily, for while he might have been unknown to The Large at the door, he was not to Authors’ Row. His reputation preceded him.
It must be said of Fabian that though his poetic accomplishments were perhaps more due to scholarship and industry than to imagination or native ability, which he would not deny himself, he had nonetheless achieved his poetic license at the remarkable age of twenty-one; and three years later, he is still the youngest holder In Tulipville by almost a decade.
“And this is my guest,” said Fabian, indicating Pete.
Fabian’s right to be on Authors’ Row was not in question. Nor was his right to bring a guest, at least occasionally, although visitors who exceed the regularity accepted of guests must have become authors in their own right. And so room was made for both of them.
“Who are you?” Michael asked Pete in his rather direct manner.
“I know nothing and am fit for nothing,” said Pete, quoting Tolstoy. And it is as well the reference was recognized, giving him some credit, as it might easily have been taken at face value. But some attributed it to Plato, whence it earlier derived.
“His name is Pete Elmer, and he is an aspiring novelist, in search of guidance,” said Fabian.
“Speak your truth quietly,” said Michael, his standard weathered advice to new authors.
“Does that pay?”, asked Pete, his material nature bubbling up.
Michael looked at him shrewdly. For while on the one hand, the artist in him was appalled by the question, on the other, as a successful writer, he appreciated the business sense.
“Readers want you to tell them truths about their lives. Lie to them, in order to tell the truth,” Michael responded.
Feeling as lost as if he was reading War and Peace, Pete asked “How can lies be truth?”
Here Matthew Corbin, the romance novelist, put in: “Dreams are lies until they become facts. Tell them dreams.”
That left Pete with a sinking feeling, for the only dreams he had were a larger hardware store and a statue of himself on a renamed Elm Street.
“Where do I find dreams?”
Matthew silently waved his arm, encompassing Authors’ Row and the floor of the Prose and Verse beneath.
It occurred to Pete that the luminaries were there less for companionship than to gather material; and that, like a circular firing squad, they were writing stories about each other. But the extension to the floor was interesting; and in fact many stories had originated from filling in the unheard conversations taking place below them. Sometimes the authors competed with each other to best fit a dialogue to a visual interaction.
“All of life is to be found somewhere in a pub,” said Martha Finnigan, whose crime novels tend to feature excessive wine.
“The tavern chair is the throne of felicity, Samuel Johnson informs us,” Matthew added.
“Before he became a teetotaler,” Michael retorted.
“Authors are doctors to the soul,” said Jonathan Zamer, who mainly writes on medical matters but occasionally fiction, “find its ailments and treat them.”
But their instruction was interrupted by events on the floor. Larry, switching from his role as door supervisor to that of security guard, the twin portfolios of a bouncer, waded through the crowd and separated two men who appeared too old to be having a hand at brawling.
“Couldn’t agree on the translation of the Iliad,” Michael speculated. And indeed, that they both wore tweed jackets, emblematic in Tulipville of scholarship, lent some credence to this view.
“Stole his breath mints before the dinner party,” said Martha.
Here Fabian launched into a limerick. “Their fists were of furious intent, But backs were too aged and bent –“
But Pete did not stay to hear the rest, as the mention of a dinner party suddenly reminded him that he was due at the MRU event and was running late. He exited hurriedly without pausing for explanation. Eyebrows were raised, but the authors were too engaged in their game to pay much attention.
Fortunately, Pete did not have far to go. Behind the Prose and Verse lies Henley Street, which more honestly is an alley. But after that is the magnificent Gowan, the high street of South Tulipville. Among other things, it is generally here that academic tweeds are purchased. And on Gowan Street is the headquarters of the MRU, whose high purpose has not left it with a low bank account.
Pete arrived only a little late, but Alfred had begun without him. Attributing Pete’s tardiness to bashfulness, and enjoying speaking anyway, Mr. Wilkerson was relating his discovery of Pete’s marvelous engines of morality.
It was a relatively small MRU meeting; their larger events are conducted in the more spacious facilities of the Library, as described in a previous inquiry. Alfred had re-directed what was to have been a technical presentation on recent advancements in Spinozian moral deduction. And so the gathering was small, only twenty or so, but contained some of the most dedicated and informed of moralists.
While his stay at the Prose and Verse had been brief, Pete had absorbed a considerable amount of stout, poured from the communal pitchers purchased at the author’s discount. His somewhat wobbly state Alfred attributed to Pete’s nervousness in the presence of luminary moralists.
“Please,” said Alfred, “allow me to deduce the purpose of your inventions from moral principles while you watch.”
This came as a great relief to Pete, who had not the slightest idea how he was going to explain aviary deterrents to the worthies of the MRU, and he sat down heavily; but the possible consequences of the machines had him brooding deeply and nervously twirling the tips of his handlebar mustache. And he began to think that he was in a Greek tragedy that could not end well.
Watching the inevitable workings of fate playing before him, Pete, perhaps inspired by Fabian, found himself silently composing his first limerick:
The moralists, twenty and two,
Know not what is like to ensue,
When, grasping but smidgeons,
They act as if pigeons;
They’ll probably hate me when through.
Alfred started with the device he was familiar with, the foam projectile gun for removing pigeons from the head of Pete’s much-anticipated statue.
“Observe!” said Alfred with showmanship, placing his bowler on his head. As expected, it was ejected from its perch as previously.
“Thus,” said Alfred, “are we reminded not to wear hats indoors!” Alfred extended a gracious arm recognizing the inventor, and Pete received the applause of the assembled moralists, which only made him more morose as he contemplated the possible consequences of the remaining inventions.
The second contraption, which featured a wooden stick attached to a vertical hinge, was plain enough for even Alfred to make a deduction, which he did with considerable pride. Walking over to the buffet, he collected a handful of bread rolls, then stood in front of the hinge. The stick descended at considerable speed and knocked the rolls from between his hands.
“We see here,” said Alfred, in growing excitement of moral enthusiasm, “how gluttony is punished!”
The third contraption featured a nozzle, which Alfred, applying moral deduction, opined to the audience was another method for removing inappropriate hats. To test this theory, he once more placed his bowler on his head and bravely positioned himself in harm’s way.
Alfred’s deduction was correct, or at least analogous to its true purpose, but unfortunately the contraption’s aim was off, and so a sudden jet of water hit Alfred squarely in the face.
Reflecting for a moment as he dried his face with an embroidered handkerchief, Alfred found his conclusion.
“Cleanliness! We are taught the importance of hygiene.” There was general applause.
“And it does serve to remind me,” Alfred lowered his voice to indicate a secret that could only be shared among a trusted few, “that I have lately neglected to wash behind my ears.”
This was greeted with shock by the assembled moralists, who looked at each other uneasily; but they have the magnanimity to pardon errors in the truly repentant, and so smiled forgivingly at Mr. Wilkerson.
It was, however, the fourth and final device that Pete had dreaded the implications of most greatly. The first three were directed at retail pigeon defense; but the last was wholesale, intended to encourage flocks of pigeons to revise their flight plans in consequence of an air blast of typhonic proportions. In his store, Pete had been careful to keep it mounted too high for anyone to approach; but now it rested flatly on the floor, despite the instructions Pete had given to the transport team.
And Pete, his somewhat fuddled state of mind notwithstanding, was rising unsteadily to intervene, but the glare of the assembled moralists, for whom glaring is a special expertise, was too much for him. Having little courage in the face of strong disapproval, Pete sank back into his seat with a sense of utter doom, where with greater nervousness and speed he twirled the tips of his mustache.
Alfred looked at Pete in his kindly manner, having seen him start to rise. “No, you needn’t tell me; allow me to deduce its lesson for us from moral principles.”
Alfred’s investigations led him to step upon the surface of the air gun, which, detecting a pigeon flock of epic proportions, responded to the call of duty with its best effort, endeavoring in this way to be worthy of its creator. Moments later, Alfred was clinging to the chandeliers. Where he might have stayed for some time, had not wall painting in the corridor left a ladder nearby, which was quickly brought to position under the worthy treasurer’s swinging feet.
Alfred, descending the ladder, stopped halfway down in the manner of a performer to address his audience, a wide beam on his face.
“The fourth is best of all! For here we are taught that morality is not negative, but is in fact a powerful uplifting force in our lives!”
Pete blushed at the standing ovation, and offered a hesitant and somewhat awkward bow, as it seemed called for, trying not to twirl his mustache nervously, although with limited success.
“We must have your wonderful inventions for the Museum of Morality!” said Alfred. “I know it must be hard for you to part with them, and mere money can be but little compensation for a man of your high nature; but please consider the opportunity for public instruction and accept our heartfelt offer.”
Here Pete recalled the principle that it’s not what you are selling, it is what your market is buying. If, Pete thought to himself, the market is buying morality engines, then that was what he was selling.
And so it is that Pete’s inventions came to be placed on display in the Museum of Morality for general edification. But if the Museum were ever to face an infestation of pigeons, the public might come to a truer understanding of their purpose.
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