Chapter 2: An Act of Desperation
Over the next few days, Timmy walked past the stables several times hoping to see William again. Every time he strode by, the place was as dead as the time before. William had definitely moved on, and Timmy whispered a prayer of good fortune to his absent friend.
After about a week, the grieving lad found himself sitting alone in his room with no idea of what to do next. The pain of lost opportunity had begun to grow numb, slowly being replaced by the anxiety of an increasingly meager existence. Jobs simply weren’t to be found. Timmy even sought out a post in the military, but was turned away due to his doubted age. The seminary held no hope either, for the reputation of his mother had tarnished his chances, and his limited exposure to sacred works cast his natural abilities in doubt. Wicketts was offered counsel and nothing more. Several more random inquiries for employment proved Vainville’s curse continued to live on, and as Timmy struggled to find money, his life crumbled around him.
At first, he sold off his home’s interior decorations and then the furniture. Each week, a little bit more left the cottage. It was a slow process of possessional decomposition that was drawn despairingly over the course of several months. He’d swap a painting for a pie, an armchair for angel hair. By the time the last chest was carted away by a parasitic buyer, Timmy was eating nothing but tomato paste. Soon the poor pauper was signing papers, selling his home to a canning plant looking to expand its factory.
Another summer came and went, and with only the clothes on his back and a thin wad of bills, Timmy Wicketts was officially counted amongst the homeless and displaced of Upper Southrump. Living on the streets was a juxtaposed existence. On one hand, things were much simpler. Your concerns were simply two—stay warm and stay fed. On the other hand, accomplishing those two tasks was daunting at times.
Timmy was not the only homeless person in Sooty Stoops, and competition for sustenance was fierce. He was the recipient of many a pointed elbow or knotted knuckle while trying to scavenge for discarded leavings.
After more than one night shivering in a damp doorstep and being prodded by constables to move his sorry bone sack, Wicketts was fortunate enough to find a warm hiding spot behind the newly erected brick baking factory. It couldn’t have come at a better time for the weather was again turning brisk and biting. The smell of dispelled industrial exhaust took some getting used to, but at least it provided a constant flow of warming air upon his wood palette bungalow.
Time passed slowly for Timmy. The winter was thick and hard, and food was increasingly scarce. While digging through a pail of orange rinds outside of a local eatery, Wicketts came upon a sliver of fruit still stuck to the peel. As he pulled loose the morsel, he noticed a slouched sack stir and then tip on its side a few yards away.
The fibrous bag let out a surprising groan as it crumbled to the alley floor. The sound struck Timmy as very odd. He cautiously approached the heap, and upon doing so, realized it was not a sack, but an old woman draped in burlap.
She was wrinkled and worn, using the hand-stitched tarp to hold back falling snowflakes. From the look of her glazed eyes and the shallow puffs of frosted breath, it was clear she was not in the best health, and by no means partook of hookem-snivey.
Timmy looked at the pitiful woman and, without hesitation, knelt down and placed the juicy slice of orange into her mouth. His own stomach growled angrily at the loss. She slid her tongue across her cracked lips, looked at Timmy with thankful eyes, and then breathed her last breath. A tear turned to glimmering ice upon Wicketts’ cheek.
Eventually, the warming rays of spring began to crack the winter’s frost. It was a difficult span, but Timmy had survived. Despite all of the hardship, he held true to his honest values, that is, until a consecutive string of foodless days in mid-April convinced his weakened mind that values wouldn’t keep him breathing. He had no desire to die beneath a burlap sack. He fought the notion, but succumbed to the need, and on a damp spring morning, Timmy decided he needed to steal that day’s breakfast. He had never lowered himself to that desperate act, but could see no other option.
Hunger drove him to a nearby fruit cart. There he did his best to peruse the offerings without looking overly suspicious. The succulent melons called out to him. The apples teased his tongue. It was maddening to be so close and so famished. The fruiter was wary of the ravenous wolf dressed in tattered slacks and was keeping a sharp eye on his fruit flock. A woman then stepped into frame and asked for help with her purchase. This averted the fruiter’s eyes and Timmy lunged for a grapefruit.
Almost in the same instant, he felt a forceful tug on his shoulder. Swallowing deep, he was certain a constable had caught his criminal act. But, much to his relief, he discovered it was not a lawman, but an old school chum. Peter Prince was the man’s name, and he offered a smile and a handshake.
“Timmy? Timmy Wicketts?” Peter asked with a grin. “It is you. I’d recognize that baby face anywhere.”
Timmy knew Peter fairly well. They had been classmates at the Vainville Academy and originally had a lovely bully-punching bag relationship. After Timmy resorted to his clownish antics, Peter was one of his biggest fans.
“Wicketts, you look…good,” Peter offered unconvincingly while looking over Timmy’s dirt-laden face and soiled attire.
“Thanks,” Timmy replied shamefully.
Peter straightened his silk tie and raised his hat brim, prepared to deliver an update on his obvious good fortune.
“Yeah, after graduation, I got a great job in the Patent and Ingenious Ideas Office over in parliament. It’s quite the cushy position. I simply review submissions and approve or disapprove the proposals. It’s great and has afforded me a nice little cottage over in Central. How ‘bout you? Where are you living now?”
Timmy glanced down the alley leading behind the brick baking factory. His pride kept him from revealing his makeshift quarters behind the plant, and instead he said, “Oh, I’m still living on Shuttlecock.”
“That’s nice,” replied Peter. “Hey, seeing you makes me recall those downright hilarious impersonations you used to do. Remember that one skit you’d perform about the groundskeeper and his wife the mop? That was great, an utter showpiece.” Peter couldn’t help but giggle as he recalled his classmate’s past acting exploits. He then noticed the grapefruit in Timmy’s hand.
“Hey Tim, how’s about you perform a little bit of ole’ Vinny Vainville. That act was capital. You give me a little of the headmaster and I’ll buy you that grapefruit.”
Timmy hadn’t performed in quite a long time, but the hollow echo of hunger pains was all that was needed to spur him on. He grabbed Peter’s hat and placed it upon his own head. He then ran his finger along the curb, covering it in dirt, which he hastily used to draw a ‘stash and chops upon his face. The Bastard Babyface of Shuttlecock Lane then gave Peter Prince three solid minutes of grand entertainment.
Timmy would shout out some memorable sayings in a near perfect Vainville tone, while twirling a mustache that was not there and stamping about like a true fool. By the end of it all, Peter was buckled with laughter, as was the fruiter and a couple random passers-by.
“Great stuff,” Peter uttered, struggling to catch his breath between laughs. “Simply magnificent.”
He then loaded up Timmy’s arms with several more pieces of fruit, so much so that the happenchance actor struggled to keep it all from spilling over onto the cobblestone street. Prince handed the fruiter payment enough to cover Timmy’s haul.
“You still got it, Wicketts! Good show,” Peter exclaimed, giving Timmy one last salute before continuing on his way.
Arms now full of fresh food, the entire episode was an epiphany for the Bastard Babyface of Shuttlecock Lane. A skill Timmy had used in the past to solve his problems would again be implored to aid him in his current predicament. From that day forward, he would wake every day and head to this corner fruit stand. There he would perform all manner of buffoonery and entertain
ment for the people that walked by. He would offer laughter in exchange for leavings, surviving on both the rations and the adulation.
Sitting in his wooden slat doss, the budding thespian devoured a wonderfully ripe grapefruit and began to formulate fabulous acts of fancy in his mind. Tomorrow, the show would begin. Both the produce and passion filled him fully and he spent the rest of the day scratching down skits on a discarded copy of The Ballyhoo.
Dawn broke with a blue sky. It was a crisp morning, but the factory exhaust pipe had again kept Timmy warm through the night. He woke with energy and excitement, ready to test out his street corner act. After giving his coat a thorough dusting, he made his way to the fruit stand.
Pedestrian traffic was moderate. People were already making their way to their jobs or getting a jump on any number of errands. A few yards from the fruiter, Master Wicketts placed a discarded, and thankfully empty, chamber pot on the ground. He then mounted an old apple crate the fruiter had thrown to the curb as rubbish. After a brief look skyward and a deep, nourishing breath, Timmy Wicketts began to perform.
He was a one-man show, and as such, played multiple parts. Whilst standing tall upon the apple crate, he would belt out haughty words in boisterous and condescending fashion. His candor was that of a ship captain, barking orders to a lowly deckhand. When it was the deckhand’s turn to respond, Wicketts would leap off the crate and begin rubbing the street with a dirty rag, as if polishing the wooden deck of a sea vessel.
The entire exchange was based off the premise of a captain who was purely a figurehead amongst the crew. He would order this or that be done, but had no real idea of the means or limitations. The deckhand would do his best to do as he was told, but constantly muttered his true opinions of the clueless captain under his breath. By the time “the captain” had made the insane request that the deckhand swab the deck with salt-less seawater, a small crowd had gathered around Timmy’s apple cart. They were mesmerized by Timmy’s performance, especially the way he could fully embody two completely different characters through mannerisms and verbal presentation alone. They laughed mightily at all of Timmy’s jokes and were thoroughly captivated by the spectacle.
At show’s end, the crowd numbered dozens, and the lone thespian was congratulated with a spell of supportive applause. He also found his rusted old chamber pot filled to the brim with donations. There were pieces of fruit purchased from the adjacent stand, knickknacks and odd trinkets, and even a penny or two. For Timmy, it was more than just given necessity, it was proof that he may be able to get by on his own accord through the trade of entertainment. More and more people passed by his stage that day and each left with an appreciative smile. When the sun finally made its way toward the western sky, Timmy had more than enough food to eat and a fine collection of coin and curios. It was a good day.
The next brought more of the same. This time, Wicketts added a second story, one centered on a blind cobbler tasked with identifying a criminal who robbed his shop amongst a lineup of three. The only senses he could rely on were that of touch and smell, but his superb acumen for the unique foot odor of individuals eventually won the day. It was another well-received production and another pot full of bounty.
As the weeks passed, Timmy continued to perform. After nourishing his body with food, both donated and purchased, he’d pawn the tarnished and discarded doodads left for him and use the coin to build a treasure trove of props. The collection of oddities would then be incorporated into his plays, fueling even more elaborate ideas.
As his creativity grew, so did the crowds. He’d often see the same faces stop by, proving true fans within the populace. Beyond easing the suffering of a homeless vagabond, Timmy could feel it all becoming something, a wild energy quietly beginning to materialize into the sensation of mild success.
It was Sunday morning and Timmy was hard at work scrawling new ideas on paper while rummaging through his belongings for the appropriate means to bring them to fruition. Sundays brought less traffic to Sooty Stoops and Timmy often used that day to come up with fresh material. He was rolling an old wagon wheel on its rim when the frantic flailing of fowl stole his attention.
A stone’s throw away, a flock of finches fought furiously over a single slice of moldy sourdough. Timmy looked on as a single, yellow-crested bird stood at the center of the chaos. It perched upon the bread, surrounded by several other birds lunging and pecking at the morsel of food. What struck Wicketts as exceptionally amusing was that the single bird at the center fought so valiantly to ward off the others, despite having virtually no beak to speak of. There was a nub of snout, but clearly its mouth had been damaged at some point in time. While that bird could not stab at its attackers with a God-given beak saber, it more than held its own by delivering vicious head butts and wing slaps.
Timmy was engrossed by the scene and watched as the tenacious little bugger battled long and hard. As the drama unfolded, it was clear the lone soldier was beginning to lose ground to the unrelenting pack of thieves. More and more pieces of dough were pulled away from the hunk and gobbled up by the others.
Timmy decided to step in. He screeched and cawed as he moved toward the creatures. The finches took flight in fear, all except one. The bird that had done its best to hold on to its prize remained unmoved. It looked at Timmy as if to challenge his claim. Timmy stood still, amazed. When the feathered animal was convinced the human would approach no further, he began to peck at the bread still gripped in its talons.
It was a sad sight. Without a beak, the poor creature struggled excessively to loosen an edible crumb. Its frustration was evident and Timmy again intervened. He bent down and snatched up the hard-crusted food as the finch hopped away in surprise, settling on a stone wall less than a meter away.
Its eyes watched intently as Timmy tore the chunk into several smaller bites, removing the hard crust and leaving only the soft insides. He then extended the handful of pieces toward the finch. Without hesitation, the bird returned and landed on Timmy’s outstretched fingertips. It gleefully ate the food, now more easily able to manage it into its mouth. When its belly was full, it gave quite a delightful whole-body twitch and bounded its way up to Timmy’s shoulder.
The bird had obviously taken an immediate liking to the soft-featured lad, and Timmy had felt the same. He named the finch Twitch after its unique sign of pleasure, and for the rest of the day, Twitch kept perched on Timmy’s shoulder as Timmy continued to devise his next show.
Due in part to the abundance of items and costumes Timmy had managed to acquire, his events took on increasingly greater spectacle. He even incorporated Twitch on occasion. The bird was as smart as any animal could be, and it mastered commands and cues like a seasoned professional. The street corner act was a daily delight to many, and several Southrumpians would linger for hours taking in more than one skit, and consequently leaving Timmy a larger gift in return for the entertainment. Even the fruiter felt obliged. He often gave his nutty neighbor fresh fruit, free of charge. When the citizenry gathered around to partake of a performance, many would purchase produce. The fruiter appreciated the increased business, and rewarded Wicketts accordingly.
With a gleeful chirp of Twitch and the melodically slowing pace of a wooden spoon slapping across wagon wheel spokes, Timmy Wicketts drew another day’s show to a close. The gathered audience cheered and hollered their approval before dropping off their donations and dispersing. Timmy bent down to examine his take.
A large cantaloupe crate had replaced the chamber pot some weeks earlier due to the gaining volume of payments. Today’s wages included a pocket watch with a rusted chain, a porcelain dish with a chipped edge, several large and ornate buttons, a pounds’ worth of shillings, and quite a number of loaf crumbs, apples, and slightly past-their-prime grapefruits.
As the actor organized his treasure, he could sense the presence of someone looking over him. Timmy gazed up and saw a man politely standing there, with arms folded behind his back. He wore a thin beard, just
passed stubble, and a dirt-smudged short coat that, at one point, was of fine threading.
“Good day,” the jovial man announced, “my name is Bugs Harrington, and you, my friend, are stealing my customers.”
Timmy didn’t know what to think. Customers? He didn’t have customers per se, just people who stopped by to see his shows.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” the friendly fellow continued, “after seeing your show, I firmly grasp why. That was simply amazing, a downright divine comedy. The way your dogcatcher character revealed the marbles were in the potato sack all along, that, Sir, was genius. The only problem is that less people are now stopping at my corner and watching my show. That’s pretty much taking food out of my mouth, and I’m a hungry man, Sir.”
“Well, that wasn’t my intention, Mr. Harrington,” replied Timmy, a bit leery of where this man was heading.
“Call me Bugs,” he offered. “I look at you and I see a man just like myself, a man driven to the brink, but once there, one who found a hidden skill beneath a beaten down body. I’ve seen you living behind the brick baking factory. My abode lies but a few blocks south, a large discharge pipe no longer in use. We find ourselves in similar straits and have reasoned similar means to pull ourselves to our feet.”
The courteous man then went on to relay how he came to be standing before Timmy on that day. A native of Boston, Massachusetts, a town in America, Bugs Harrington was an expert jam jar sealer. He had learned the trade from his father, who in turn had been taught by his father, who had mastered the craft at the knee of his uncle. The Harringtons had long made a living in the highly regarded profession.
All that changed, however, when a shrewd entrepreneur opened an automated canning plant in nearby Cambridge. The plant could season and seal thirty-two cans of jam a minute, the same amount of time it took Bugs to manage a single jar. Jam sellers needed product, and they needed it fast. Poor Bugs simply could not keep pace with demand, but the canning plant had no such issue. That fact put him out of business.
The desperate Harrington spent months searching for work, but to no avail. All he ever knew was jam jar sealing, and that occupation had all but disappeared in America. One day, Bugs happened upon an Importation of Exotics parlor. Among the myriad of odd and unique gifts for purchase, he noticed a shelf full of marmalade jam sealed in jars. This had become a rarity, what with the now pervasive popularity of canned jam.
An astonished Harrington questioned the shop keep as to where he procured such jam. The shop keep responded that it was jam imported from England, a place called Upper Southrump. Upon further dialogue, the shop keep informed Bugs that it was sealed by hand at a small shop called Lester's Sealed Jams and Wool Stockings.
That was all Bugs needed to hear. As long as someplace in the world still hand-sealed jam jars, there was a chance a jam jar sealer could find work. He headed for Upper Southrump with hope in his heart.
Weeks later, Bugs found himself standing before Lester's Sealed Jams and Wool Stockings, a quaint little shop in the Sooty Stoops district of Upper Southrump. Hope was soon replaced by heartbreak. A large sign hung in the window that read, CLOSED INDEFINITELY AND UNEQUIVOCALLY. Bugs' face drew long as he cast his eyes down the cobblestone road, questioning in his mind the reason behind Lester's closing. The answer was soon realized. At the end of the lane stood a large factory, Cornelius Smits' Canned Jam Supplier. The canned jam phenomenon had reached England. Bugs' nightmare was born anew.
Before long, he found himself a beggar on the streets. The going was rough at first, but as the lad's desperation grew, so did his creativity. Bugs would often perform for would-be benefactors who found his one-man shows of dance and dialogue both comedic and entertaining. Rewarded with moldy bread or droplets of beef gravy, Harrington went from “getting by” to “doing okay”...well by hobo standards anyway.
He had worked the same street corner for months, a well-traveled piece of property between the canning factory and the Institution for Uppity Type Hat Merchants. Many fine and generous men and women passed his stage daily, but soon he noticed less and less were stopping at his wooden box. Bugs decided he needed to find out why, and this brought him to the spot upon which both he and Timmy now stood.
It was a grand story of misfortune, one that Timmy could relate to. He also realized he stood before a fork in the road. This man, who was not outwardly hostile, had presented a bit of a grievance at his feet. Timmy’s next move could either forge a friendship or spark a war.
Timmy put forth an offer. “Bugs, since you claim to share the thespian’s love, and have seen my skills as such, do you mind offering me a bit of your best monologue.”
Harrington grinned, and within his next breath, was spouting off a fantastic story while presenting the persona of an armless man in charge of styling wigs for the Queen. Timmy was pleasantly surprised. Bugs delivered lines with style and flare, and great comedic timing. His skill was evident and it left Timmy chuckling with amusement.
“Bugs, that was great,” Timmy commended. “Seriously, very nice work. I mean, I’m no expert, but good stuff.”
Bugs struck a satirically boastful pose, “Well thank you, but I disagree, you are an expert by most measure. I’ve just seen your act; I saw the crowd. It’s something to be proud of.”
Timmy contemplated no further. “Bugs, I’m Timmy Wicketts and I think we would be doing the entire population of Upper Southrump a grave injustice if we did not join forces.”
Bugs had been hoping for that very offer from the get-go.
“Now that sounds like an excellent plan, Mr. Wicketts,” Harrington responded while happily shaking hands on the deal.
He then helped Timmy gather his things and the pair headed back to Wicketts’ crate-created apartment as they discussed just how to meld their unique skills.
Over a meal of green apples, hard biscuits dipped in thin olive oil, and rainwater, the partners began to formulate and fashion wild ideas into acts of bewildering burlesque. It was a great match of inspirations driven by a dialogue of honest give-and-take.
Night began to creep across Sooty Stoops, and Timmy and Bugs continued to create. Twitch remained awake and attentive for the duration. When the sun finally began to shine its first rays, the pair of poor-men-turned-performers was putting the finishing touches on their first formal, dual-actor delight. The Grapel Duke’s Burnt Straw Knickers had been penned and prepared, and was ready for the public.
Despite having stayed up all night, Timmy and Bugs felt no ill effects. They were simply too fervent about unveiling their new act, and that energy overcame any fatigue. A small crowd had already started to gather by the corner fruit stand. It had become common practice as Timmy’s reputation for valued entertainment was beginning to spread. The partners arrived and prepared their stage, placing props and erecting makeshift backdrops painted on old canvas sacks that had been stitched together. More and more people gathered as a piqued murmur began to emanate from the audience. This was clearly the grandest sidewalk setup any team of vagabond artists had ever endeavored upon and that certitude added to the curiosity.
Timmy and Bugs gathered behind a blind, seconds away from opening their opus.
“Bugs, are you ready?” Timmy inquired, his wrinkle-less features glowing with anticipation.
“Does a noggin capper knit toppers?” Bugs replied with a sly grin.
“Then, it shall begin!”
Timmy, dressed to mimic a pants-less royal duke in purple regalia donning a secondhand, powdered wig, stepped out into the morning sun. He opened with a brief welcome and then immediately fell into character.
Strolling stoically about the street, the Grapel Duke bemoaned his fiefdom’s lack of pants. Apparently, a series of unfortunate events— a plague of moths, a fire at the hamlet’s only yarning mill, and the abrupt disappearance of every sheep in the land—had left the citizens of Bottomless Bog without a single pair of stockings.
Bugs Harrington then stumbled into view, playing the rol
e of an eccentric, possibly inebriated, town tailor. The tailor, Lord Twittlethread, had been summoned to the duke’s mansion for the most important task of figuring out a solution to the britches-less borough’s dilemma.
The exchange that ensued was a series of acts offering odd answers and silly solutions to creating pants for the duke. The slapstick had the crowd howling and hollering with enjoyment. It was the most boisterous reaction either actor had garnered in his career to that point. The verbal and visual tableau was turning so raucous, it drew the attention of constables worried a mob scene could erupt at any moment. Luckily for all present, the lawmen did not intervene, and only stood at the periphery, enjoying the show as well.
The whole number ran for close to an hour and proved a non-stop laugh-fest. When the final scene concluded with the Grapel Duke’s straw knickers igniting in flames, the people of Upper Southrump stood in unison and clapped, heaping lavish praise upon the two men. Timmy and Bugs had hoped for support, but the ovation they received at that moment was unlike anything either could have dreamed of. It was breathtaking, and the unlikely actors knew they had given birth to something truly magnificent.
Gifts aplenty were left at their feet, food and fortune more fitting a banker than a bum.
“Timmy,” Bugs chuckled while basking in the adulation, “this is amazing!”
“I know, I know,” Timmy replied in astonishment while picking a shiny new pound from off the pavement. “Just look at all the loot.”
Timmy and Bugs began to herd their take between the handshakes and back pats offered by appreciative fans. The crowd lingered longer than ever with many more people wanting to personally interact with Bugs and Timmy.
A stout, well-dressed man with a thick gray beard was among those waiting.
He approached Timmy introducing himself with a toad-like, “Hello.”
His polished appearance drew Timmy and Bugs’ attention, and the pair offered salutations to the rotund older gent.
“My name is Gabriel Goldhand and I must say that was the finest thing I have ever witnessed,” he uttered from between his rosy, flapping cheeks.
“Why thank you, Sir,” Bugs replied.
“I’m the owner of a local tavern, you may have heard of it, the Rat’s Tail,” Gabriel stated.
Timmy chimed in with recognition saying, “Oh yeah, the place ten or so blocks over on Shuttlecock Lane. That’s a handsome eatery, Mr. Goldhand.”
Gabriel stroked his whiskers and tipped his hat at the compliment. “How would you two fine boys like a permanent gig there, a standard schedule of nightly performances?”
Timmy and Bugs couldn’t believe their ears.
Gabriel continued, “I have a stage area in the large dining room and we can rig it however you see fit. I reason you could perform a show a night, starting with a regular month-long offering of the masterpiece I just witnessed, The Grapel Duke’s Burnt Straw Knickers. I’ll pay you a standard wage and give you full access to the flat above the tavern.”
To Timmy and Bugs, it was as if Zeus himself had offered them a seat upon Mount Olympus. They glanced at one another, eyes as wide as saucers, and then simultaneously replied, “You have a deal!”
Gabriel Goldhand was just as jubilant, and the trio exchanged handshakes in rapid, binding succession.
“You boys show up there later today,” he said, “and we’ll get started making all the necessary arrangements. Again, just let me say that that show was spot-on, a royal perfection.”
Gabriel began to walk away before pausing and asking, “Oh yeah, I’ll need to have a marquee made. What do you funny fellows call yourselves anyway?”
Something Gabriel had just said was still ringing in Timmy’s ears. It must have been bounding around in Bug’s brain as well, because he looked impulsively at Timmy as if he knew exactly what his friend was about to say.
“We are The Royal Perfects,” Timmy replied while striking a satirically pompous pose. Bugs laughed and nodded his head in agreement.
“The Royal Perfects!” Gabriel shouted, testing out its resonance. “Yes, yes that will do…well…perfectly.”
The owner of the Rat’s Tail then hobbled off to make preparations for his investment.
Timmy and Bugs were as gleeful as two sailors on leave. The thought of a regular wage was exciting, but even better was the idea of a roof over their heads and a warm bed to sleep in every night. No longer would they be forced to cozy up to an odorous exhaust pipe. No longer would they have to cover their heads with soiled sacks in order to stay dry. No longer would they be viewed as the dregs of the district, part of the outcast rabble. They would be of the working class. The thought felt sublime.
The newly christened Royal Perfects parted ways with a hug and a promise to meet up at the Rat’s Tail later that morning. Both intended to head back to their dingy dwellings and pack up anything they had of value or use. They also split that day’s donations and agreed that they should probably purchase clothes more befitting men of character. Bugs saluted and walked off whistling a tune of satisfaction, while Timmy dragged his stuffed duffle full of stage gear and edibles back to his shack behind the factory.
Bending beneath a bridge of pipe work, Wicketts rounded the alley corner and arrived at his home. Twitch had been standing guard that morning, having not been given a part in the production, and when the bird saw Timmy, it swooped down and took up its customary perch on his shoulder.
“Twitch,” Timmy said to his pet, “we’re moving out.”
The creature bobbed its head and then dished out its trademark, full body shimmy of happiness. There wasn’t much Timmy wanted to keep, at least not a bevy of belongings worth the hassle. A lot of the props he had collected could be replaced, so he left many behind. He took most of the costume clothes and every scrap of parchment upon which he had ever scribbled a cockamamie idea. He also procured and pocketed the fair amount of savings he had built up in recent weeks. Coupled with the gold tendered that morning, it would be enough to purchase two moderate suits. The former Bastard Babyface of Shuttlecock Lane then looped his re-stuffed duffle over his shoulder, donned his smudged bowler, and with Twitch mounted up, headed off to the tailor.
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The Royal Perfects Page 2