“I don’t know, Dr. Monocle,” she sounded exhausted, “Smalls assigns me the books, I read them. Or pieces from them. Sometimes I just study schematics and diagrams. Other times, I read entire books and then I’m assigned to re-read specific chapters from the same book. Then I make flow charts and bar charts and charts about charts. I take notes regarding his notes for reference and cross-referencing. Smalls is quite the peculiar sort, in that way, though, isn’t he?”
I made my way over to my side of the office. I placed my umbrella and hat off to the side and took off my coat, “Hobbleton, though? Hobbleton? That man is a pestiferous quack. And what of that opticular scientifical methodologies text? Smalls is damn-near blind in one eye and he wants to get into advanced optics at his age? My word.” I laughed as I rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt to my elbows. I caught Geraldine glancing at the black markings covering my skin. It hadn’t been the first time that I had caught her peering, sometimes staring, at the tribalist tattoos that covered my arms which, hidden beneath my clothes, continued over my shoulders and covered most of my back.
Throughout my life, I’ve visited and studied nearly all of the tribes on the planet. I’ve been accepted as a member of roughly 88% of all the tribes on orbis (the other 12% would rather me dead or food). As such, I’ve received plenty of tribal tattoos as markings of who I belong to, in a sense. From pirate ships to the grandest ballrooms of Haverton, my tattoos have kept me both safe and out of trouble. Geraldine never saw me as an adventurer, but rather just as an old professor, though. I think in her actual words, she said of me, and I'm paraphrasing, "You're a tall, lanky bookwormy old man." So, the tattoos always caught her off guard, I believe.
I sat at my desk in a slump. I played with a desktop amusement, a little series of gears I had sitting on my desk that I would use as a common distraction from the everyday drudgery. I turned a crank and the gears would all turn.
I admired how the teeth of gears fit together so neatly and moved with each other so precisely. And just by adding additional gears and cogs and axles and what-have-yous, one could create more movement, a ballet of metal bits orchestrated to build a cohesive unit, a machine, an automaton. Each piece has to be free of flaw, though. A single flaw in the design of a gear or an inconsistency in the metal of a cog could make the entire series of gears, the transmission, stop. It can seize up and sputter out and break down. Just one flaw, though, a flaw so minor that it could take ages to create a problem, is all it sometimes takes. A little nick in the metal eroding over time, wearing, grinding and it finally gives way a little more. Another bit chips off. And the growth may be slow, but it becomes exponential.
Or, as I put the tip of a pencil between the teeth, one can ruin the whole process by forcibly introducing something that does not belong in the system. And I gave it just a bit more torque and a crackling sound developed into a splintering sound developed into a final snap as the tip of the pencil broke under the pressure. And some things can right themselves with a little push.
I picked up the piece of mail covered with broken bits of wood and lead and shook it off into the trash. I then glanced at the unopened envelope, addressed to me, stamped with an interesting green wax emblem. The return address was as follows:
Mr. Scheckendale Kilmarten, esq.
TrustWorks: Attorney
417 462nd St, office 292432
Haverton Metro South
I searched my desk for my letter opener, the one granted to me by Alfonse Bruchard, grandson of the great Theodore Bruchard whom brilliantly devised our metro to metro mail system, now known as PostWorks. While I had never met Theodore himself, I knew his grandson, Alfonse, who was somehow a very disorderly fellow considering his grandfather’s business was punctuality and organization.
The lad was shortsighted as well. Infamously cheap. He, wanting to live up to his grandfather’s greatness, decided to take it upon himself to revolutionize mail delivery. Alfonse had devised a plan to ship mail by hot air balloon and by way of ocean vessel. Well, by cutting corners and keeping costs down, the endeavor was bound to fail. He devised a system in which the hot air balloon would go skywards from either Southland or Northward Territories. A system of clockwork and mechanisms and alarms were set to control the balloon. The balloon was sent upwards and it was an all-systems-fail floundering. Not one of the mechanisms set by clock and alarm worked properly and the balloon was sent far off course never to be seen ever again.
Simultaneously, his other bright idea, sending mail by ship worked just as well. Nearly as soon as the ship left shore, it was boarded by pirates and commandeered, never to be seen again, either.
As if failing miserably before the world wasn’t enough, poor Alfonse Bruchard, ever the showman, took half his family’s fortunes and divided it. The one quarter of the family’s money was put onto the ship, the other quarter on the balloon. Three days after the tragic calamity, I read in his obituary, that he wanted to “Wow!” investors like his old grandpappy used to.
That darned letter opener was a fine piece of craftsmanship and I hated to think that it had gone missing.
“Geraldine? Have you seen my letter opener?” I inquired.
She muttered, “No, professor, I’ve been in this stack of books since dawn.”
“It was here.” I exclaimed. I rearranged the clutter on my desk, “It looks knife-ish, but only insofar that it resembles a knife, you certainly would never cut your food with it.”
“I know what a letter opener looks like, professor,” Geraldine groaned from behind the stacks.
“But of course, you do, dear, you’re an intelligent lady. I just like to talk things through, sometimes...” I scattered papers and folders and files in every which direction. “As I do think about it, I did once cut a sandwich in half with it. Though, a proper knife it is not. You know it can be helpful to talk through-”
“You do remember you have lunch with Professor Smalls?” Geraldine was now standing up behind the stacks, looking in my direction, perturbed by my nuisance.
I looked up from my desk, “Lunch?” As if I didn’t understand the meaning of the word. And sometimes the clock strikes twelve at just the right moment, “Ah! Yes! It is that time!” I looked at my pocket watch as I shoved the letter into my jacket pocket. “Oh me, oh my. Where has the time gone?” I put my jacket back on and gathered my things.
I grabbed two hats from the rack and looked them over, but neither struck me. “Geraldine, dear? The top hat or the bowler?” I showed them off.
“Yes, the top hat is very smart, doctor,” she smiled.
I popped the hat on top of my head, grabbed my umbrella, and shuffled out of the office. I thought about her workload and how terribly full it was for the end of the semester. But, still, she was working closely with Harold and getting better than a full education.
He had taken her in as a freshman. Impressed with her father’s work in mechanics and engineering, she too showed the same talents. Geraldine’s father was none other than Hugo T. Wilbur, early pioneer of steam tech. And, of course, as the story goes, Hugo T. Wilbur, was lost to inner orbis on a test run of secret tech he was tinkering with. This all when Geraldine was just about 15 years old. Harold knew Hugo well, they sometimes collaborated on projects together. Harold had seen Geraldine grow up. And when Hugo was lost to an ocean of sand, Harold felt the responsibility to step in. Almost fifteen years later, the two have become close beyond inseparable. Harold accepted her like a daughter, as well as a student and colleague.
If there was one thing I could say about retiring, I felt good knowing those who would take over to teach future generations. Geraldine would do just fine.
“Geraldine?” A thought occurred to me, though I wasn’t certain the origin. “Geraldine, I am sorry to bother your studies...”
“Yes, professor?” She said politely, but I knew she wanted to get back to her books.
“Before I go... Just a question, if you wouldn’t mind engaging me for a moment.” I hesitated as
I formulated my ideas into a notion.
“Yes, professor?” A slight upturn in tone I noted, one of that signaled annoyance.
“Perhaps you didn’t know me, maybe saw me out upon the metro street, how old would you guess I am?” I finally inquired.
“Like a number, professor?” She looked puzzled.
“Well, not an exact number, exactly...” I fumbled for a better line of questioning, but I think she knew what I was almost getting at. “Would you consider me old and done for?” I finally asked pointedly.
She thought about it for longer than I would have cared for before finally saying, “I should remind you, Professor Smalls is waiting and you are late as it is.”
“Old then?” I grimaced.
Geraldine winced just slightly at what she perceived to be an offense to my personal being, “Well, you are quite fit for your age,” she offered as I turned to leave.
I was hoping I was just being melodramatic and pitiful. Worrying about something that was truly nothing, but in fact was something to begin with. It was in that slight hesitation of Geraldine’s. I was old. Simple as that.
I moped through the hallways as the normally scheduled bell rang and a few classrooms let forth students from exams. An old ninny drowning in a sea of youth, I was. I thought about picking out the most strapping, fittest, young lad from the group and striking him in the jaw to show the rest of these sniveling children who was still in top form-
And like that! I realized my state of mind. Dear goodness, what was I thinking? I considered punching an unsuspecting young chap just to make myself feel better about myself. That I still “had it,” so to phrase a term that condenses physical prowess and agility of a prime example from one’s life as being the archetype of being physically healthy and well. In no uncertain terms would I ever hit a man for no good, orbisian reason. Especially a student on University grounds. Another teacher, perhaps. If the teacher was asking for it, I would certainly lay one out. In fact, Thomas Quarterly back in ‘62 asked for it and got it. Quarterly was in that crisis of middle life some men succumb to; a crude desperation to squeeze that last bit of lustful energy from youth. He was brazen, brash, and brutish. He was more of a drone than a thinker, but an altogether talented expeditionary. Not exceptional, but better than average. Although, if not for such an intense interaction, I probably would not remember the man very well at all. He worked mainly for trade businesses, exploring revenues of income. (While not entirely academic, his work was useful, I suppose. At the same time, it was what helped lead to our bureaucratic nightmare.)
At some point, Quarterly became convinced he was top of the heap. He was better than everyone. This perception of his began with the growth of his billfold, as it were. At one point he believed he should have top pick of my graduate students for his next expedition, students who wanted nothing to do with him or his work, mind you. He jingled coin, he talked big. In the end he was laid out on the floor.
Some men refuse to listen to reason. These men are unreasonable. No amount of explanation or fact can sway them to the reality of the matter at hand. Besides fact and reason, there is courtesy and kindness and respect, but these actions of virtue are ignored by the unreasonable. It was in these times that to communicate an idea thoroughly, one had to speak a language only spoken by fisticuffs. While I would fashion myself a ladies’ man before taking on the title of brawler or bruiser, I will admit to knowing a thing or two about a thing or two when it comes to the exchanging of broken knuckles.
Perhaps I did still have it. There was a fire still burning in there somewhere, somewhere in there deep. Perhaps just a smoldering ember, but it was there and it was hot.
Though I did fear that light would soon extinguish.
*1: See: Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: The Stolen Coin of Tenpenny, regarding the incident in which the Admiral and I served as slaves for the Red Empire.
4
We had decided to meet early for lunch that day on account of finals and the celebratory send off. I found him in the observatory/planetarium, The Abraham Auditorium1, as usual. It was rather dim inside except for a little area down at the bottom of the steps, lit from the projection of moon maps on the curved wall. Harold’s illumination magnifier cast highly-detailed, hand-drawn maps of the moon’s surface. Within the glow of light I recognized Harold’s silhouette: rotund-ish, dare I say, plump. He was a funny little man with a funny little mustache. Though, he was quite possibly one of the smartest men to have worked within the university halls; innovative, ingenious, and always a step ahead.
I made my walk from the door down through the seating to where Harold had his things laid out across a table: lunch, maps, drawing tools, rulers, a compass, an ocularscopal mathematics book of shorthand, and a large eraser. Half of the room seemed to be taken up by the large, discombobulated, rickety, old telescopical contraption pointing skywards through the domed roof. The other half of the auditorium was used as a classroom, lab, and planetarium. Harold had made himself a little sanctuary there.
“Arthur!” Harold greeted me. My eyes adjusting to the dark room, he accidentally flashed his illuminator in my face. “Oh, dear!” He reset the adjuster and focused the light back onto the wall. “I’m so sorry, Arthur! I’ve blinded you, haven’t I?” I followed in the direction of Harold’s voice, and there he was, ready to grab me as I nearly knocked over his orbiter metatlas; once I was able to regain my eyesight we sat down to his work table. There were papers scattered all about, rolls of schematics, and our lunch.
“I’ve brought your favorite!”
Indeed, Harold had brought us bearsteak sandwiches his wife prepared the night before. Bearsteak was a rare treat. Sandra Smalls made the most exquisite bearsteak. The secret was in the marinade, a base of chetsey vinegar from the south of inner bay with a peppercorn and honey infusion. There was also a fine layer of marinated trellis mushrooms which gave just the right nutty flavor to it all. We sat beneath the cumbersome telescopical device, lit dimly by the map projections, eating our sandwiches.
During a lull after a brief conversation about my lecture and in between bites, I asked Harold about Geraldine’s work load, “A bit much for summer semester, wouldn’t you agree?”
“She’s a smart girl, Arthur, don’t you worry,” Harold returned. “Besides, she enjoys the challenge.” Harold took a sip of his tea and he said so very matter-of-factly, “You know this won’t last, Arthur.”
“What? What won’t last?” I asked.
“This so-called retirement of yours.” Harold explained, “I understand the reasoning behind it, but it just won’t do.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I blurted out in a poorly-acted baffled manner. He was on to me, indeed.
“Lectures? Fact-finding assignments for The Monarch? Charity events?” He scoffed. “We’ve got a pool on you. Gambling, if you catch my meaning. I have you at retirement for two months.”
“Bloody two months?” I exclaimed, “A ringing endorsement, indeed.”
“Two months was generous. Dr. Pembroke has you at a week from last day of finals,” Harold laughed.
I frowned, but was rather pleased that my colleagues and peers thought of me still as an active member of The University and not just another echoing rumble of hot air through the university halls. Most likely, they were all probably correct. I wouldn’t last. When I broke my leg and was relegated to the university halls, I nearly went mad. Fashioned a propulsion unit to my wheelchair, took flight, crashed, and wound up breaking my other leg. And that was only after the second day of down time.
The semester was just about to end and I was already chomping at the bit to go do something. Anything. Instead, I had planned a rather tedious series of lectures over the summer: Steamdriver Efficiency Advancement; Implications of Gorillian Fever Sect Movement Northwards; A Brief History and Rundown of The System for Numerical Guidance Operations and Freundlich Tower; BioDiversification, Chemicalationaries, Physical Randomosity within Maldeviant Communities;
and other such drivel. It was all retread and regurgitation.
What was there to do for a 76 year old man? Certainly, I was still form and fit. Perhaps I was a bit worn out around the edges and tattered and torn where a man younger than myself wouldn’t find issue with his knees, his hips, his back, or any other maladies that might strike depending on which way the wind blows. Though, I did have experience and know-how.
“Did you ever think this is where you would wind up?” I inquired.
“Sitting beneath a giant telescopical device and eating lunch with you?” Harold had a quick wit I was quite fond of.
“No, no. We’ll just chalk that one up to luck, consider yourself lucky on that count,” Harold smiled and I in return before continuing, “What I mean is, did you think you’d make it this far?”
“Oh, dear, no,” Harold swallowed down hard on a bit of sandwich. “To be honest, I thought I’d have met my demise by this point. Some unfortunate twirl of randomosity for me to meet while out on assignment. Figured the same for you. I’d like to think we’ve done well as a result of having a right mind on our shoulders, but also, I think we’ve just beaten the odds and have had randomosity on our side.”
“Perhaps.” I took a sip of seavenly.
Harold coughed something terrible and it echoed within the metal walls of the domed room, he regained his breath and pointed to the maps on the wall, “You'll have to pardon my cough, coming down with something. Have I showed you my new maps?”
I shook my head, “Not in a while. I see you’ve changed some things around,” I said as I compared the maps on the wall to what I remembered seeing a few weeks prior. Harold had taken a keen interest in astronomicalaties over the past few years. Then, almost overnight, it seemed, his keen interest turned into a near obsession. He made it a project for himself to map the moon in sketches and drawings as part of a relaxation exercise.
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 3