“I know I’ve neglected and mistreated Eddie, and he’ll probably never forgive me for it. But it appears our Eddie has something special. I think he got your smarts and my determination, and with the right guidance he could really become something great in life. If we say no, he’ll forgive you, but he’ll hate me forever. Please tell me you’ll say yes.”
Janie had silent tears crawling lazily down her cheeks, but her eyes held a joy Righty wasn’t sure he’d ever seen.
“I’ll go talk to him, love,” she said and hugged her husband tighter than she ever had before.
The next morning when the professor arrived at their house, Righty half-expected his son to leave without saying goodbye.
To his shock, Eddie turned around and gave him a hug.
“I love you, dad.”
Righty had to make a monumental effort not to break down into heaving sobs. He was immeasurably grateful Eddie did not look up into his dad’s eyes, for several dozen tears had made their way stubbornly past his defenses and streaked down his face.
“I’m proud of you, son,” he said. Squeezing these words out of his mouth without sobbing felt as difficult as running a mile without breathing.
Janie sobbed openly as she gave Eddie a long hug goodbye.
In his last gift of philosophical insight before taking leave of the fine parents of Edward, the professor told Janie kindly, “Ah, as the philosopher Beaucamp stated, ‘A mother’s tears, saltier than the oceans, purer than the glaciers.’ He will return a different person, Mrs. Simmers; that, I promise you.”
“Thank you,” Janie said.
Chapter 38
Lord Hutherton had indeed made use of the card given to him by Ambassador Rochten. Upon leaving Ambassador Rochten, he had given it to his chauffer, who drove a fine coach with gold-decorated spokes, and he had been thence whisked off to one of Selgen’s most elite neighborhoods. The chauffer had taken him to a spectacular mansion, and, quite contrary to his usual custom when he was performing what he considered “errands,” he exited the coach himself, walked to the front door, and knocked.
He felt extremely nervous without quite knowing why. Perhaps he feared no answer at all, or perhaps he feared being subject to ridicule upon making a request that seemed more fitting for a drugstore than for the front door of an exquisite mansion past midnight. The more he pondered the matter, he became convinced it was his reputation that worried him more than anything else.
The door, upon being opened, presented a strange irony to him. Just as he had deviated from normal protocol by quitting the carriage himself to perform this task, he realized immediately based upon the dress and bearing of the man now standing in front of him that he was not confronting a servant but rather the master of the house.
“Senator Hutherton? Or do you prefer Lord Hutherton?”
Lord Hutherton was quite taken aback. Before he had fully digested the shock of the master of the house knowing his identity, he had been forced to answer to this gentleman which was his preferred title.
“From you, sir, I would be honored by the use of either. Let us then say the first—Senator Hutherton—as it was your initial suggestion and thus perhaps the most fitting.”
The man gave a warm yet impenetrable smile.
“Here.”
Now, Senator Hutherton had to brace himself to avoid falling backwards into the gentleman’s well-trimmed bushes. Recognition of his identity by this man he had never before met was a shock he could absorb temporarily and store for severe scrutiny later without overtaxing his nervous system at the moment, but to be handed a large leather sack containing the very product he had come for—which was betrayed to him by its unique, pungent smell that rose through the air and seduced his nostrils far more powerfully than the most beautiful harlot ever could—without even stating what it was that he had come for, hit him like a surprise jab to the solar plexus.
Senator Hutherton quickly produced a sack of gold and was about to hand it over in its entirety when the man said, “Next time. The ambassador insisted this be a gift. He says you are a very good-natured fellow and that you will probably become a good friend.”
This seemed incredibly bizarre to the senator but no more so than any of the other idiosyncrasies of the night. He found himself wanting more than anything to just be gone with the Orgone (and he nearly giggled when this pun hit him) so that he could later decide just how much of this had been a dream and how much had been reality.
Before he could contemplate further, the door was closed in front of him. He turned around promptly and headed back to his carriage, overwhelmingly grateful to find his chauffer patiently waiting for him. This added a bit of reassurance to him on a night that was starting to feel like one long dream.
While on the way back to his own mansion, which—while no less exquisite—was quite far from the one he had just visited, he found himself thinking gleefully about how well his meeting had been with the vanguards of industry. They had all found his proposed amendments to the bill more than satisfactory, and in turn they had lobbied quite vigorously that all other senators approve these amendments. Senator Hutherton, having consumed a little Orgone beforehand, gave such an eloquent speech in the senate that the secret hand of the lobbyists pushing the senators had not even been necessary—or so he humbly believed.
He became so seduced by his own happy fortune as of late that he was home by the time he realized he had given so little thought to the bizarre occurrences that night. You’ve got bigger fish to fry, a voice told him, and he found its voice quite cogent. After all, why play detective when he had more important concerns, two of which included a new piece of legislation due for consideration next week and also the compensation he needed to request from those no-good, lousy lobbyists for his last bit of assistance if they ever expected to see his good side again. A grin spanned his face as this last thought hit him.
He woke up the next day feeling like the world was his personal chessboard where he owned all the pieces, and when his chauffer was driving him into town the next day, he caught sight of a suit so handsome he ordered his driver to stop immediately. He nearly hopped out—he was feeling a bit energetic, having had a small helping of Orgone that day, just to be ready for anything important that came up—and ran into the store.
As he walked briskly by the counter on the way in, he suddenly felt his eyes yank him backwards as rudely and abruptly as an eight-year-old pickpocket grabbed by a hulking policeman.
His eyes scanned the display ravenously, darting back and forth like a viper’s trying to figure out what had caught his attention. He saw a small display:
TOBACCO ITEMS AND ACCESSORIES FOR GENTLEMEN
He saw no reason why that should have caught his attention, so he now found himself wondering whether that new little green friend of his wasn’t maybe playing a few tricks on him.
Then he saw something:
SMOKELESS GREEN! A NEW KIND OF TOBACCO!
Following his instincts he approached the display carefully.
“Sir, may I be of assistance?”
He turned around to see a pleasant-looking, well-dressed young man.
Although he would have liked to tell him to go commit some unmentionable acts, he instead said, “You may. Would you please indulge me by telling me a little about this new product of yours?”
“Frankly, sir, I’m glad you asked when you did because it probably won’t make it until afternoon. I’ve never seen anything sell quite like this.”
A wave of childish, yet murderous, jealousy swept over the senator, only to be followed by the condescending voice of reason: What – did you think no one else would get a slice of this pie?! A primitive level of his brain vowed at that moment to ensure that somehow, someway, he would accomplish that very thing, although he hadn’t the faintest idea how.
He then heard his mouth asking the polite young fellow if he could have a look at it. He looked at it and smelled it, an
d to his immense satisfaction—although he wasn’t sure whether he was imagining things—found that it smelled less potent than Orgone, although lamentably it did appear to be some form of it.
“Interesting. Nonetheless, it is a suit that fancies me at the moment.”
Although he went through the motions of buying the suit, he was in a state of utter shock the whole time upon realizing that what he had naïvely thought to be his new secret weapon with which he would take the world by storm was actually going to be available far and wide and thus offset any edge he got from it.
That is . . . unless you can think of a way to make it not available far and wide, a voice told him, which brought a sinister smile to his face as he exited the store, suit in hand.
Righty shared none of Senator Hutherton’s delusions about using the substance to achieve great things. He had hated the sensation after his first use so much that he wasn’t sure whether he would ever use it again, even if the botanist had prescribed a safe regimen for doing so. In his mind, he feared it might be alcohol’s half-brother, and even if it promised mental concentration and energy, he realized things often didn’t deliver on what they promised, or they delivered unpleasant things—like waking up next to a sobbing wife with a black eye screaming—without the need for the mouth to do so—You created me! I’m your handiwork!!
He didn’t want to go back to that, and although he did see liquor and this strange smokeless tobacco as polar opposites—one numbed your senses and helped you forget your past while the other heightened your senses to the peaks of mountains and gave you fathomless energy—he also recognized that becoming dependent upon the latter might ultimately not lead to much happier an outcome than his alcoholism.
He was feeling pretty happy that day. He was stocking the shelves, and he realized it was the first time in his entire life that he was doing work that was not under a sadistic sun and that required intelligence surpassing that of an animal’s. This pleasant reflection was interrupted when he came across the next item with which he was to stock the shelves:
SMOKELESS GREEN!
YOU’LL NEVER WANT REGULAR ‘BACCY AGAIN!
Righty’s uncommon willpower enabled him to keep moving about diligently while on the inside he was in shock to see that what he had thought to possibly be some rare contraband from a faraway land was lining the shelves of Roger’s Grocery Store.
Chapter 39
Righty did indeed find that he preferred the mild atmosphere of the grocery store compared to the cruel sun under which he had slaved for so many years. And as the months went by, he found that Rog (Mr. Roger Wilson had taken such a liking to Rich (as he called Righty) that he actually insisted that he call him “Rog”) was very pleased with his work. He had gotten a couple of small raises, and he occasionally got to apply his burgeoning knowledge of business. Rog let him review the accounting from time to time to check for errors, and Rog lately was even starting to let Rich do some of the accounting.
This was all fine and dandy, but Righty realized the only person above him was Rog, and Rog owned the blamed place, so there really wasn’t any room for promotion. He had talked to Rog from time to time about the possibility of him opening up another store. He thought that, if Rog ever expanded, that might give Righty the opportunity to make a major step forward, such as becoming a store manager, and with a salary like that, who knows, maybe he might even save up enough capital to buy his own store someday. He was learning a heck of a lot about how to run a store, and he figured that it wouldn’t be too long before he would know how to handle everything by himself.
But these talks led nowhere. He could tell that Rog was plumb satisfied with the way things were. Well, that was all fine and dandy for Rog, but for Righty it was getting quite annoying. He found Rog’s lack of ambition stifling, especially since his complacency translated into a dead-end job for Righty.
He thought about looking around for something else, but he knew that most employers weren’t fighting each other over who got to hire former boxers who had been disgraced, had barely graduated from high school, and just recently were beginning to learn some white-collar skills due to nightly autodidactic study.
In fact, he realized he had been lucky to get this job. Rog had been a classmate of his, and though they had never been friends, Righty had made the fortuitous decision to help out Rog one day when a group of guys were pushing him around. Rog had almost allowed a tear or two to escape during their initial interview when he reminded Righty of the incident that he had long since forgotten. Once Rog recalled it to Righty’s attention, Righty had said, “Well, I never liked bullies much,” and Rog had laughed good-naturedly and given him the job on the spot.
He didn’t tell Rog that the chief bully, Mikey Simson, had been flirting with Heather Duncan, a girl Righty had had a large crush on for some time, and it had seemed to Righty the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one punch. He had decked Mikey so hard he had gone flying three feet backwards and had a pretty decent nap thereafter before waking up with a rat-sized bruise under his left eye. Mikey and the other bullies had decided that—whatever it was that endeared Roger to Mike—it would probably be a wise course to leave Rogey (as they had called him) the hell alone. As a result, Roger had a pleasant, bully-free rest of high school, thanks to what was really just a stroke of luck.
A decade later, the stroke of luck was Righty’s.
However, knowing that he was probably hired out of a feeling of indebtedness had a deleterious effect on Righty’s confidence because he figured that, unless he was lucky enough to find another employer whose long-ago bullies he had providentially dispatched with his vicious right hook, he would probably have little chance of getting a better job.
It was while these grim prospects spun round and round in Righty’s mind that he suddenly saw something that rendered these insecurities child’s play. Down the aisle from where he was currently stocking shelves he saw someone. But not just anyone.
No, it can’t be him, stupid! a not-so-friendly voice told him.
Embarrassed at his mistake he went back to stocking shelves.
Then, he heard a voice. “Sir?”
He turned around and saw a well-dressed man gazing at him intently.
“Yes, sir—may I be of assistance?”
“Yes, my master wishes to inquire whether your store sells any of that Smokeless Green tobacco . . . it goes by so many names. In Selgen, we sometimes call it Orgone or Smokeless Green. My master has heard that the purity of this substance in Ringsetter peculiarly surpasses quite remarkably the potency of the brand sold in the capital city, and thus, he has made a special trip to either prove or dispel this rumor. He has asked me to make the necessary inquiries but then to submit it to him for his examination before he makes the purchase.”
“It’s labelled Smokeless Green here.” Righty brought the finely dressed man—whom Righty would have mistaken as a gentleman had he not referred twice to his master—two aisles over to where the Smokeless Green was kept.”
“You’ve come at an opportune moment. It rarely makes it through mid-afternoon. There are three sacks left, each weighing two pounds.”
The man then turned and said, “Master, they have it over here.”
And it was at that moment that he realized he had tragically not been mistaken about whom he had momentarily thought he saw earlier.
Wearing a fine suit and tie so exquisite to behold even a country bumpkin would have known in an instant it was hand-tailored by some accomplished, first-rate designer, the man listened with his head slightly cocked, yet looking away from his servant as if not to trouble his eyes with the sight of something so inferior. His large, meaty hands toyed with a large, gold-crested cane that Righty guessed in an instant probably cost more than three years’ worth of his clerk salary.
Righty felt lower at that moment than he even thought possible. If he had been stripped naked, tarred and feathered, and paraded through the town square
below a sign stating “Town Jackass,” he would have been less humiliated than he was right then at that moment, and yet no one gazing upon the scene—perhaps with the exception of Janie—would have found anything humiliating about it.
It was Oscar Peters.
As Righty looked upon him, every ounce of progress he had made over the last several months was nearly lost in an instant. All his book-learning seemed to mock him at that moment. There, standing in front of him, was the irrefutable evidence that Righty Rick was a cursed man. A man born for the sole purpose of having success within his grasp, even titillating his fingertips, only for it to be rudely snatched away by the unseen cruel hand of Fate who laughed at him with its cruel, condescending sneer.
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