The Butler Defective

by D R Lowrey

  He stepped out of the tent and inhaled the gentle, fragrant air of a quiet evening. The shadows had grown long, but enough sunlight remained to operate machinery.

  A few minutes later, a wide-eyed and white-knuckled Nigel motored around the tent atop a jerking, sputtering, insect-like mechanical contraption. The small, yellow machine bucked and bounced like a geriatric mustang set upon by bees. He wrestled the vehicle toward hole number one located a few feet from one corner of the tent.

  The back deck of the residence filled with the full cast of inmates drawn outdoors by the racket from Nigel’s newfound toy.

  “What’s he riding?” asked the mother-in-law.

  “It’s that backhoe,” said Mrs. Sandoval. “It’s been in the garage for ages. I’m surprised it still works. But what’s he doing with it?”

  Mrs. Sandoval was generous in her description of the machine. A backhoe would more fairly describe its larger sibling. Nigel’s little gizmo was a micro-backhoe, also known as an excavator. This motorized riding implement, built for light digging and heavy cursing, was best suited for sandcastle construction.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” yelled Annie.

  “Has he ever?” said her mother, looking more mummified than ever in turban, sunglasses, and veil.

  “Maybe you should wear a helmet,” yelled Annie.

  “We all should be wearing helmets,” said her mother.

  Nigel did not acknowledge. His preference would have been to perform this operation quickly and covertly, but there was no turning back. He attempted to placate the crowd with a wave, almost losing his seat in the process. He two-handed the controls and set about the task at hand.

  To dig out a pre-dug hole using the JCB 8000 CTS Micro-Excavator would be the work of a minute in the hands of a skilled operator. A skilled operator, Nigel was not. His biggest stumbling block was operating what were euphemistically termed “the controls.” The controls hardly seemed controlling. Obstinate, ornery, and temperamental, the machine had been designed as a robot version of the pack mule.

  While struggling to govern the mechanical beast, Nigel received all manner of unwanted advice from the onlookers crowded at the porch railing. They seemed to regard the activity as a kind of spectator event—man against machine. He suspected a good portion of the crowd was pulling for the machine and not above using sabotage to ensure its success.

  “Back up about two feet,” yelled Stefanie.

  “No, he needs to move forward a half foot if he wants the rock bucket to extend beyond the hole,” shouted Stefanie’s husband.

  “I beg to differ. Judging by the length of the dipper arm, a full extension should provide ample reach. Of course, if he’s going to do that, he’ll need to drop the stabilizer arms. No telling what might happen if he doesn’t drop those stabilizer arms,” shouted Esmerelda.

  “Either way, he’ll need to move one foot to the right,” said Stefanie’s husband.

  “Only if the swing arm doesn’t have a rotational joint,” yelled Jack Watt.

  “You are correct, of course. If the swing arm has a rotational joint, he’ll need to rotate the arm ten degrees to the right,” yelled Abuelita.

  “Your right or his right?” shouted Mrs. Sandoval.

  “Amateurs,” Nigel grumbled.

  The advice, well-meaning though it was, served only to frustrate the contraption, which became ornerier and more uncontrollable with each directive. No matter how hard Nigel jammed the levers or how many times he punched various buttons, the machine refused to do his bidding. Even so, he managed to align the machine for a dig. After several false starts, he forced the excavator to scoop. By the fifth scoop, the process had become systematic. On the sixth, the scoop encountered a solid object. Just what Nigel had hoped for.

  These mysterious holes had appeared for a reason. The occupants of Castle Sandoval weren’t the types to dig holes for recreation. No, these holes existed to put something in or take something out. Once Nigel had spotted Old Man Sandoval’s torso map, he was determined to investigate, and what better place to start than with starter holes? The current holes, too shallow for decent treasure, may have been dug by hand and abandoned before hitting paydirt. If that was the case, Nigel was there to finish the job.

  The five-gallon scoop, rising from the depths, cradled a cylinder. Nigel climbed off the excavator and knelt to inspect the object.

  It was rusted and ancient with a plastic lid. Inspection revealed it to be a coffee can—Maxwell House, Good to the Last Drop. The can was light, too light to contain precious metals. Dollar bills, perhaps. Nigel pulled off the lid to find paper, rigid, warped, water-damaged paper. He extracted a piece of the contents and held it high in front of his face to catch the evening light. From the bound collection of pages, he unfolded an uncommonly long sheet—Janice Raymond, Miss December 1974. Nigel had discovered a stash of Playboy magazines.

  Vintage Playboys in mint condition might sell for folding money, but not these. The bounty did not justify a tattoo. He dropped the can in the hole and reburied it.

  Nigel wasted no time digging into hole number two as the chief source of illumination was now the backyard’s floodlights, making it difficult to see. The spectators continued to mill around the deck, though taking less interest in the excavations. The more anonymity, the better, as far as Nigel was concerned.

  With a better command of the machine, he had mined seven scoops of dirt within minutes. One more would be his last. He sent down the bucket and hit something hard. Not only was it hard, it sounded hard and hollow, like a safe. He raised the bucket and tried again, hoping to get underneath the object to lift it out.

  Nigel didn’t remember what happened next, but those on the deck would describe it for years to come. A great flash of light coincided with a hollow boom. A cannon shot was how it was described by describers who had never heard a cannon being shot. Against the great blinding flash could be seen the dark shape of the excavator flying upwards and spinning in a pirouette. Coming off the excavator, also in silhouette, was a man “flying” end-over-end in a northwesterly direction.

  Once the spectators had overcome flash blindness, they watched with hanging jaws as a great geyser of blue flame twisted its way toward the heavens. This cyclonic inferno would have been the sight of a lifetime if not for what came next.

  The fire, having sampled the corner of the white tent, and the tent, having experienced the fire’s hot licks, began a torrid, all-consuming affair. Within minutes, the tent was a massive, roiling fireball.

  “Oh, the humanity!” yelled Jack Watt.

  He could yell that because no humanity was at risk.

  Within seconds of the blowout, Annie had located Nigel crawling around in the glow while muttering something about Miss December. With him slung over her shoulder, she trudged back to the house and deposited him on the steps of the back deck.

  “Spectacular, old man,” said Jack Watt. “Can’t wait to see how the wedding turns out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Last-Minute Superheroes

  Nigel awoke and saw the envelope on the floor by the door. Someone had shoved it under the crack without bothering to pssssst. The envelope, he supposed, contained a note someone wanted him to read. To read it would require picking it up, which would require getting out of bed. Therein lay the problem.

  Nigel didn’t see how he could do it. A night’s sleep after being tossed thirty feet by an explosion lacked its usual restorative powers. He felt as if someone had entered his room during the night and starched his body. Stiff it was, like a case of rigor mortis without the comfort of dying.

  Ten minutes later, he had reclaimed enough of his joints to slide out of bed. A few minutes after that, he retrieved the note—a missive from Mrs. Sandoval requesting his presence first thing in the morning.

  Nigel was neither surprised, nor particularly unhappy. A little disappointed maybe, but also relieved. He just hoped the dismissal would be effective immediately, relieving him of the
wedding and funeral duties.

  By the time he entered the foyer, the house was abuzz. A biggish guy in a blueish jumpsuit walked swiftly toward the back of the house while a smallish chap in a greenish jumpsuit lounged near the door. Nigel sidestepped a nondescript sort in a brownish jumpsuit to get to Mrs. Sandoval’s office.

  “Good day, m’lady. At your service,” said Nigel.

  “I hope you’re okay after yesterday’s misadventures. I regret that we couldn’t talk last night, but your condition and my condition put us in no condition to have a frank and meaningful discussion. Now that we have our wits about us, I want you to understand that explosions on this property without prior consent are unacceptable. Such activities are not what I hired you for. Do we have an understanding, Mr. Nigel?”

  “What?”

  Mrs. Sandoval winced while leaning back in her chair. “I said, ‘Do we have an understanding?’”

  “Could you repeat…a little louder, perhaps? My ears,” he said, pointing to the organs in question before opening his fists to suggest an ear-shattering explosion.

  “Don’t blow things up,” shouted Mrs. Sandoval.

  “Sorry. Won’t happen again,” Nigel shouted back.

  Another jumpsuited person, medium-smallish in a grayish tone, stepped in to procure Mrs. Sandoval’s signature.

  “Who”—Nigel twirled a pointed finger—“are they?” He brushed his hands across his chest as the universal sign for jumpsuit.

  “Mr. Nigel, I’m not hard of hearing. You don’t need to use sign language.”

  “What?”

  “They’re from the gas company,” she yelled. “Here to repair the gas line.”

  “Repair the gas line?” said Nigel. “The one that blew up?”

  “Yes,” yelled Mrs. Sandoval.

  “So, the explosion wasn’t something I did?”

  “What?” said Mrs. Sandoval, dropping her jaw far enough for her tongue to ooze out.

  “So, the explosion wasn’t because of something I did?” yelled Nigel.

  “Of course it was something you did! You struck a gas line,” yelled Mrs. Sandoval. “Those holes were dug by the gas company. Didn’t you see the flags?”

  “The what?”

  “Flags.”

  “Flags?” said Nigel. “Small, yellow flags?”

  “Yes,” shouted Mrs. Sandoval.

  “Oh,” said Nigel. Not the time to go into detail, but he thought the gardener had been mapping out his garden.

  “What about the wedding?” yelled Mrs. Sandoval.

  “Should we cancel?”

  “No, we’re not canceling. Do you have everything arranged?”

  Arranged? thought Nigel. The wedding venue is now an ash-filled crater. At least the bride isn’t wearing white. Making use of his disability to buy time, he said, “What?!”

  “The wedding?” yelled Mrs. Sandoval. “Is everything arranged?”

  What is the opposite of arranged? Deranged? Thinking quickly, he replied, “What?”

  “The wedding is today at three o’clock,” yelled Mrs. Sandoval. “Be ready. Minister, flowers, drinks, music, food. Got it? Three o’clock.”

  Food? thought Nigel. No one mentioned food before. “What?” he said, hoping she might give the whole thing up.

  “Get it done!” shouted Mrs. Sandoval. “Get. It. Done.”

  Nigel walked out of Mrs. Sandoval’s office marveling that he still had a job. Marveling wasn’t the word, actually. Regretting was the word. But there was no time for wistful thinking. He needed to get to work. What he really needed was to have his eardrums pierced to let the ringing out and the sound back in.

  Nigel looked at his wrist, which served as a reminder that he’d given up wearing a watch three years ago. Had he been wearing one it almost certainly would have reminded him that zero hour was far too near.

  What had Mrs. Sandoval rattled about?

  The minister—that would be Esmerelda. Thank God, or whatever her preferred deity, for Essie.

  What else?

  Flowers—arriving soon.

  Drinks—never a problem in this house.

  Music? Where did that come from? What kind of music? Music had to be a bottom-of-the-list priority.

  She mentioned food. What a sucker punch. Did she mean cake? Was that enough or did she want more? A regular meal? Finger foods? What? The cook doesn’t even work on Saturdays.

  Too late for legitimate catering, Nigel would have to run to town and rustle something up.

  Just then, he caught sight of Stefanie waving her arms like one of those yellow-jacketed chaps at the airport who distract pilots as they park their planes. He had learned to ignore stuff of this nature, but she was making it difficult with her imploring gaze and flapping mouth.

  Nigel turned to attend to her crisis when he heard a faint ring. For all he could hear, it might have been the doorbell or a fly colliding with a dinner fork. Just in case, he opened the door where he was greeted by Stanley’s backside. Stanley’s front was engaged in holding one end of a large rectangular box, the other end being held by a young man dressed, as was Stanley, in baker’s whites.

  “The cake. Excellent,” said Nigel, holding the door open wider. “Come this way, Stanley. Follow me.”

  Once the box had been walked back to the kitchen and deposited on a serving cart, Nigel peeked inside. “Let’s have a look, shall we.” He knew this wouldn’t be Stanley’s best, but even Stanley’s nominal efforts were…

  “Mmmmmmmm,” said Nigel. “Not conventional, I’ll say that. What would you call that style? Avant garde?”

  Unlike the multi-tiered structure so popular among wedding cakes for the last hundred years or so, this one incorporated a modified slab concept. A large rectangular slab abutted against an upright half-disk that was flanked by two small towers. The entire construction was covered in solid white icing with the sole exceptions of a violet inset in the front of the disk and a light blue square in front of the cake structure.

  “Very solid looking,” said Nigel, as he circled the cake in search of a flattering view. “Monolithic, you might say.”

  Nigel was grateful for anything at this point. Even a cake that looked like a future monorail station for New Faberville, West Oakdale, and Luddingtontown. He imagined himself cutting and plating the thing before anyone got a proper look. This daydream was interrupted by the sight of Stanley rummaging frantically around the corners of the cake box.

  “Damn! Where’s that bride and groom?” said Stanley. Turning to his assistant, he continued, “Did you check what was in the other box?”

  His assistant’s head remained motionless.

  “Ehhhhhhh,” said Stanley, stamping his feet as he pulled two objects bagged in clear plastic from the corner of the box.

  Nigel had never known Stanley to get upset. He was typically impassive unless a dessert had crossed the event horizon of his mouth. Now Stanley began to sag, first the brow, then the mouth, and finally, the shoulders—left, then right. All this sagging must have meant something.

  Nigel braced himself for terrible news.

  “I have to apologize,” said Stanley. “I’ve been in such a rush, I had no time to design and decorate a proper wedding cake. I had to make do. I was already booked to produce a birthday cake for an eight-year-old based on the Hall of Justice from the Super Friends. With so little time, I doubled the recipe and made two identical cakes. I delivered the first one this morning and came here to deliver the second. I hate to tell you this. I am so very sorry, but there’s been a mix-up. You’ve got the wrong figurines. Somehow, instead of Spring Bride and Dashing Groom, you’ve ended up with Wonder Woman and Aquaman.”

  Showing no emotion, Nigel stared as if unable to comprehend the magnitude of the offense.

  Under the crushing weight of silence, Stanley shuffled and stammered and searched for a suitable explanation. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. It’s been so rough of late. I don’t like to bring up my personal life, but Cam has been l
ike a bear with a burr up her behind. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She just won’t be happy. It keeps me up at night. A baker wakes up early. Yeast, you know. When the alarm is set for five, and you’re walking the floor until three…it doesn’t make for happy baking. The business is collapsing, and I’m at my wits’ end. Of course, you don’t need to hear my problems. You’ve got a wedding to produce. I’ll see what I can do to get your figurines here before the wedding starts. Please, say you’ll forgive me.”

  Nigel issued no response.

  Stanley sagged again, starting at the knees and working upward.

  Recognizing that Stanley’s mouth had stopped moving, Nigel said, “What?”

  Stanley backed out in defeat.

  Nigel waved goodbye. Today was a day for making do and moving on. Besides, that Wonder Woman was pretty hot.

  *****

  Replica of a fictional government building or not, the cake would have to suffice. The saving grace for this wedding was that no matter how badly things balled up, the principals wouldn’t have decades to brood over it. That uplifting thought returned a bounce to Nigel’s step.

  Food was next on the agenda. There was plenty of microwave popcorn to go around, but he feared more might be expected. He galloped through the kitchen toward the back door as Mrs. Sandoval stepped in front of it.

  “Where’s the ceremony to take place?” she asked.

  “Eh, the Great Hall,” said Nigel, preparing a stiff arm.

  “The Great Hall?”

  “I mean the salon,” said Nigel, feinting left while planting his foot for a plunge to the right.

  “Salon? You mean the entrance hall?”