September 11, 1635

Renato Onofrio slowly got up from the barber's chair like someone who had a bad back, which in fact he did. "Walt, something I've always wondered about. How's come you're letting that drunken scallywag Jimmy Dick steal your title as Grantville's greatest philosopher?"

"Well it's nice of you to ask," Walter Jenkins said. "And I don't mind you thinking I ought to have the title. But, you know the police gave it to him as a joke, don't you?"

Renato looked at the barber intently. When he didn't see any humor in the man's eyes, he asked, "Are you putting me on?"

"No, it's the gods' own truth."

"Well, it ain't funny. More philosophy gets talked about here in this shop than anywhere's else in town. People are taking Jimmy Dick seriously. You ought to speak up and take the title away from him. He don't deserve it. You've got to know more about philosophy than Jimmy Dick does. I've heard you quoting Augustine and I don't know who all else."

"Renato, it's kind of you to say so. But how would you go about proving something like that?"

"Challenge him to a duel."

"Pistols at dawn, or swords at high noon?" The waiting customers laughed at Walt's joke.

"No, you know what I mean, a verbal duel. What'a'ya call it?"

"A debate." Walt's son, Evan, answered from behind the second chair without looking up. When you've got scissors or a razor or even just clippers around someone's head, you really do need to pay attention and keep your eyes on the job.

"Yeah," Renato said. "That's the word. A debate. Walt, why don't you challenge that dickhead to a debate. Shoot, I bet you could even charge admission. I'd pay to see someone take the obnoxious little creep down a notch or two."

"Naw," Walt said.

"You think about it. You really should. I mean it. Seriously."

With these last words Renato went out the door. Joseph Daoud took his turn in the chair. "What's the burr under his saddle?"

"Renato?" Walt asked. "Two things. He used to rent a whole building downtown for little or nothing. They let him have it just to keep heat on in the winter, as long as he did the maintenance. After the Ring of Fire, they raised the rent and he had to move out of the store front on the ground floor. Then they raised the rent again and he had to move out of the upstairs apartment. Now he's living in the attic, and since Jimmy Dick owns the building, Jimmy is who he's mad at.

"The other thing is, truth be told, he thinks the title should have gone to Emmanuel Onofrio. For that matter, he's probably right, but Emmanuel say he has his hands full as it is; so Jimmy Dick is welcome to the job."

"Still, though," Joseph said, "he's got a point. You've got as much right to the title as Jimmy Dick does. You really ought to debate him. Look, the Lions are wanting to do a fund raiser. The call for kids needing glasses is a lot higher here than back home, and it costs a lot more. Their budget is shot and there's still a waiting list. Why don't you let me see if they think it's a good idea?"

"Naw," Walt answered. His words said no; his tone of voice said maybe. You could tell he wanted to say yes.

Evan spoke up with a dry voice and with a straight face. "Why don't you, Dad? It's for charity. Besides, it would be good advertising. Walt the Barber challenges Jimmy Dick the Drunk to a verbal duel on philosophy, for the title of Grantville's Greatest Philosopher. Marquis of Queensbury be damned. This will be a bare knuckles brawl. The last man standing will be declared the winner and will walk away with the title, 'Grantville's Greatest Philosopher.'"

Everyone laughed.

"I'm not joking," Joseph said. "Renato is right. A lot of people would come to something like this. I was eating at the restaurant when Jimmy dined with the German philosopher from Berlin. The place was packed. People were wanting to see the fireworks. Then it all happened in Latin and no one could follow it until the Berliner got up and stomped out. With the Lions selling the tickets, we could pack any place in town. It would be a great fund raiser and we could really use the money. The branch in Magdeburg is forever asking for help and we just don't have it to give."

"Let me think about it," Walt said.

Evan turned his head away so his father wouldn't see his smile.

"Stop smirking boy," Walt said.

"I wasn't smirking," Evan replied.

"Yeah, you were." Walt gave his son a mild reproof, passing it off as a joke. "I could've heard your face cracking if you'd been in the back room, much less at the next chair."

Evan quietly left telling jokes and chatting up the customers to his father. The older man insisted it was as much a part of the job as cutting hair. Many were the times he told his son, after a customer walked out and the shop was empty, "That fellow didn't need a hair cut, he just wanted to tell someone a joke, or share some gossip, or brag about something going on in his life, or complain about it, or whatever the reason other than a hair cut caused the man to be setting in the barber's chair." On other occasions when the shop was empty he would tell his son, "We're as much psychiatrist as barbers. You need to get better at chatting up the customers. I'm not always going to be here to do it for you. It's the butter on our bread, after all."

****

Over the next week, it seemed like every member of the Lions Club in town came in for a hair cut and every one of them asked pretty much the same question.

At the end of a week, Walter weakened and let them make him do exactly what he wanted to do.

****

Everyone at the Lions Club meeting assumed Joseph would organize the debate; after all, he'd proposed the idea. Besides, most of the other members worked full-time. Luckily, Joseph had his personal retirement account in the bank in Grantville, so he didn't lose it like people with out of town assets did. After the Ring of Fire his retirement hobby farm quit being a hobby. The garden doubled in size. Any other land they could plant went into grain, and the hog raised for slaughter became hogs for a cash crop.

Joseph, being stuck with the job for the crime of suggesting it, decided to make it as much fun as possible. Having sold the idea of a debate to the club, he now needed to sell the idea that it should be fun to the steering committee.

"Okay," Joseph said, "I've checked and they said it's alright to use the sanctuary." The Lions Club met in the basement of the Methodist church once a month unless something came up. "So we can sell three hundred advance tickets and still leave the hundred seats in the overflow area for tickets sold at the door."

Reyburn Berry spoke up. "Joe? Do you really think that many people will show up?"

Sondra Mae Prickett smiled. "Rey, it's all about promotion. I saw a time the store couldn't sell flip flops for two dollars a pair. When we advertised them as 'buy one pair for four dollars and get the second pair for free,' we couldn't keep them on the shelf."

Doris Debolt nodded. "Besides, it doesn't matter if they come or not, as long as they buy a ticket. This is a fund raiser. It's just an excuse to ask people for money."

"Not this time, Doris. This time it's a fun raiser. When you sell a ticket be sure to tell people to be there ten minutes before the opening bell because at five till, unclaimed seating will be considered open," Joseph said.

"The opening bell?" Rey looked puzzled, "You're making it sound like a prize fight."

"Yup. Sure am. It's what they discussed the day it first came up. A verbal duel, bare knuckles, no holds barred, the title goes to the last man standing. Everybody thought it was a hoot. Nobody would have given a damn about some stupid formal debate. Who cares about a debate? But a verbal brawl? We can sell every seat in the house for a verbal brawl. At ten dollars a seat, we're looking at four thousand dollars. The church is free, and we don't have to split the gate. Then we have a coffee and cookie mixer in the basement afterwards which will be worth another thousand dollars."

Rey looked almost cross eyed. "Are you serious!? Do you expect to raise five thousand dollars out of this?"

"No," Joseph said in a flat voice.

"Good, I thought you were serious."

"I expect to raise at least ten thousand."

Rey yelped. "What! How?"

"We have a referee and a timekeeper with a bell. At the end of each round we pass the hat through the hall . . . two hats, actually. Then we tally the take and the round goes to whoever has the most votes at a dollar a vote."

Rey sputtered. "But—someone could buy the match."

"Good. Let them. I don't care who wins. I just want to raise some serious money because every penny we take in is one more penny to put glasses on some kid's face."

Doris, getting whiplash watching the tennis ball bounce back and forth, finally broke the cycle. "But what if someone complains about it being unfair?"

"Let them. We're raising money, not settling the fate of the nation. Actually, it would be good if they do. Then we can stage a rematch and do it all over again," Joe said.

"You're crazy," Rey sputtered.

Doris smiled. "He's crazy like a fox, Rey."

"How are you going to collect the money between rounds without taking up half the night?"

"Just like at a Billy Graham crusade. One man goes down one isle handing out a bucket to each pew and someone collects them at the other end. It goes almost as fast as a man can walk. It will take longer to count it than it will to collect it. But we don't have to post the results before we start the next round. So, we're looking at ten rounds at a dollar a head for four hundred people—that could be another three or four thousand. But I'm only counting on one."

"I think you're counting un-hatched chickens."

"Sure am. But then, everything is donated so it won't cost us anything if it falls through. I cut a deal for ice cream sandwiches at cost and we return any we don't sell as long as we keep them frozen. I'll hit the Abrabanels up to donate the coffee."

Sondra Mae smiled like a pig in a mud puddle. "Sounds good to me. When?"

Joseph shrugged. "Don't know yet; still got some details to work out."

Rey looked concerned. "Such as?"

"Walt's in. Haven't asked Jimmy Dick yet."

"What? You've booked the hall, arranged for snacks, and who knows what else—but you haven't asked one of the debaters if he'll come?"

"The 'what else' includes pricing the tickets and lining up a donation to pay for them, pricing the programs, and getting a donation to cover them too. We'll sell the programs for a dollar each. Best of all, I got a newspaper to agree this is news, not advertising. So the promotional space is free and front page."

"And you don't know if Jimmy will be there!"

"Oh, he'll be there all right. Walt will issue a challenge in the paper. Jimmy won't be able to show his face at any watering hole in town without being laughed at if he doesn't show up.

"The paper will run question requests up to a week before the debate at ten dollars a pop for processing and we get half. If your question gets picked, you get to ask it live at the debate."

"Shoot, Joe, you gonna charge for air?" a bemused Rey asked.

"I would if I could figure out how to do it. We will charge more for front row seats though."

"How much?"

"One hundred for the front row, fifty for the second and twenty for the third."

Rey gagged and sputtered, Doris smiled and Sondra Mae laughed out loud.

Joseph also smiled. "So then, now we've got the finances out of the way, let's talk about making this thing fun."

****

Renato Onofrio turned up out at the Daoud farm so early he must of gotten up at the crack of dawn.

"Renato. You're up early."

"Yeah, well, I wanted to make sure I caught you before you headed to town or something."

"What's up?"

Renato took out a check. "For starters, I want three front row seats. Then I wanted to ask if you needed any help, since you're organizing the debate."

"Sure. How would you like to be the timekeeper? You can do that from the front row and it will put you smack in the middle." Joseph paused, faintly embarrassed. "Listen, we don't have the tickets printed up yet."

"That's okay. Just write me a receipt and I'll pick the tickets up later, when you've got them."

****

"Hey, Debbie, how's it going?" Joseph Daoud asked as he walked into her office.

Debbie Mora's face bloomed with a smile. The business and advertising manager of the Grantville Times said, "Great and getting better."

****

Her boss, Lyle Kindred, was annoyed when he found out she had committed the paper to run what should be a series of ads as news. When he found out she had promised front page coverage, he blew a fuse.

Then she told him she agreed to split the income from selling ad space for prospective questions. He wanted to fire her on the spot. Instead, like the well-married man that he was, he stomped out of the office in high dudgeon. He went home so he could unload on his wife and cool off. He wanted to be calm when he came back and fired her.

When he got home and unloaded on his wife, to his utter shock, Mary Jo laughed so much she seemed almost ready to roll on the floor.

When he came back he called Debbie into his office. "My wife agrees with you. She says it is news, and she says we can afford to split the fee for running the proposed question. She says every question which comes in is five dollars we weren't getting before. She says the circulation will go up because people will want to see who asked what. She says—" With each repetition of the words "she says" Lyle got a shade redder in the face. "—it's going to be the best thing to ever happen to the paper.

"You had better hope she's right. Because if she isn't—well—let me put it this way, your job is riding on this one. If this proves to be something we've got to live down, you won't be here to see it. If we lose money on this, you're out of here one minute after I hear from the accountant."

****

"My boss is eating crow and enjoying every minute of it. I don't mind telling you I'm enjoying it even more than he is. He's already apologized three times." Somehow, Debbie's broad smile got even bigger. "Circulation is up, and I mean way up. Advertising is up, and I don't mean the questions either. People want their ads in our paper because they're getting seen. Ad space on the pages with the questions is at a premium. It's the highest paying space we've ever sold.

"Joseph, you have got to figure out how to get a rematch. I'm telling you, this is a bonanza for both of us."

****

On the way to the church to handle last-minute setup, Joseph's wife, Nina, said, "Joseph, I just noticed something. Almost everyone who volunteered who isn't a Lion is anti-Jimmy Dick. The rest are pro-Walt the barber.

"You noticed? Yeah, you're right. Everyone Jimmy Dick ever crossed, which is half of the serious drinkers in town, is coming out of the woodwork to buy a ticket. Seems like anyone Jimmy ever humiliated, which is half the people he crossed, is wanting to volunteer."

"Why?" Joseph's wife asked.

"Because they're hoping Jimmy will get knocked down a peg or two and they're wanting to feel like they helped make it happen."

****

There were no empty seats in the open seating section. Reserved seating did not lag far behind. The standing-room-only area overflowed and people were being turned away at the door.

A modestly dressed young woman—they were in a church after all—walked across the stage holding up a large sign reading "10 Min. to Bell." Five minutes later, a second lass walked on stage. Her sign read "5 min. to bell." The first one followed with a sign reading, "Any empty seats are now open." There were only a few empty seats, so only a few standees were able to sit down.

Reyburn Berry sought out Joseph Daoud. The man grinned from ear to ear. "Joe, I've got the gate count. At six hundred sold tickets they started turning people away. I have never been so happy to be so wrong in my life. At ten dollars a head, plus the premium tickets, we've already broke ten thousand dollars, not to mention the programs are sold out and early people who went down stairs to the bathrooms have already bought coffee and ice cream. Go ahead. Tell me 'I told you so.' I deserve to hear it."

"What did you say?" Joseph asked.

Reyburn repeated the admission, "I said, go ahead and tell me 'I told you so.'"

Joseph smiled. "Nope. It's been said twice already. I don't need to repeat it a third time. But there is one thing I would like to mention."

"What's that?" Reyburn asked.

With a completely straight face, Joseph said, "Well, this is a church, even if they are heretics. So I would like to say, 'Oh ye of little faith, did I not tell thee we would see at least te . . .'"

Reyburn tried to swallow a laugh and it came out as a snort.

****

Promptly at seven o'clock the bell, borrowed from a gas station, rang a fast series of sharp peals. Benjamin Franklin Leek, having bought the privilege of doing so by paying to print the tickets and the programs, walked on stage before the ringing stopped. A young woman preceded him carrying a sign with his name on it. In the drawn-out voice expected of a ringside announcer, he spoke without a mike, the acoustics in the building being what they were. "Ladies and gentlemen, this verbal duel will be a ten round match, to determine possession of the title, 'Grantville's Greatest Philosopher.'

"As published in the Grantville Times, who are graciously one of tonight's sponsors— for a complete listing of sponsors I refer you to the back cover of the program—this verbal duel will be decided round-by-round with the winner of the most rounds taking the title. If, perchance, it is an even tie, at the end of ten rounds there will be a sudden-death round to break the tie. Each round will be decided by popular vote. Two paper buckets, well, cones really, will be passed. Red for the challenger Walter 'Walt the Barber' Jenkins, and blue for the reigning champion James Richard 'Jimmy Dick' Shaver. You will cast your ballot for whomever you think the round should go to when the cones are passed. The ballot shall consist of paper money or personal checks only. Change will not be counted—and remember, be generous in your voting because all proceeds will go directly, and completely, to provide eyeglasses to needy children."

Benjamin stopped and waited. Nothing happened. Finally he said, "People, my script says I am to wait until the applause dies down."

A scattering of nervous laughter preceded a round of applause. This would have been completely inappropriate in a solemn Methodist church, but not out of place in a rowdy one. It set the tone for the evening by telling people that, for the balance of the night, the rules of conduct were somewhat relaxed.

When the clapping died down, Benjamin pointed stage left and, again in the ringside voice, said, "In this corner, wearing a three-piece suit from Huss & Zitzmann Fine Tailors and Haberdashery, weighing in with years of contemplation and study, Walter 'Walt the Barber' Jenkins." Then he faced the crowd squarely and with a hand signal encouraged them to clap, while at the same time one of the cute young lasses walked on stage with a sign reading "applause."

Followed by his son, Walter walked out on stage wearing something rather like the dressing gown a boxer wore into the ring hanging off his shoulders over a sharp three-piece double-breasted suit. The senior Jenkins lifted his hand over his head in a Rocky-style brag of triumph. Evan caught the robe as it fell off his father's shoulders and then the younger barber exited stage left.

"And in this corner," Benjamin theatrically pointed stage right, "wearing pretty much what you will see him in any day of the week, weighing in with his famous sarcastic wit, is James Richard 'Jimmy Dick the Dickhead' Shaver." The young girl turned the sign over. It now read "Boo" and "Hiss." Again nervous laughter chirped away and a fair number of people did what the sign told them to do. Jimmy had not been prepped to expect the totally uneven treatment. If it flustered him in the least he didn't show it. Indeed, his reaction was a stifled yawn. This brought yet another set boos along with some giggles from the floor.

"Gentlemen, yes, I mean you Jimmy . . ." Again, there was a twittering in the crowd. ". . . please remember, even though this is a no-holds-barred, bare-knuckles, last-man-standing event, we are in a church and certain proprieties will be observed. The first offending party will be thrown out." He stared pointedly at Jimmy Dick. The audience laughed. "Then his opponent will be declared the winner. Will the bouncers stand up please?" In the front row were two large, husky men with a reputation of being pugnacious and a history of not particularly liking Jimmy Dick.

Benjamin addressed the debaters, "Gentlemen, to your corners please."

At these words, each debater took a seat as they had been instructed. Walt's seat was a comfortable upholstered chair. Jimmy's was a wooden kitchen chair. The snickers from the audience made it clear that the uneven treatment of the contestants did not go unnoticed. A sense of resentment at the lack of fair play arose among the small minority of uncommitted people in the crowd. The supporters of Jimmy Dick were mad as hell and Walt's fans thought it to be funny as all get out, which is what it was supposed to be.

"It is my great pleasure," Benjamin said in the ringside voice, "to introduce tonight's interlocutor. He will introduce the winners of the questions contest. He will also ask the first question since it was asked much more frequently than anything else. It was also the only completely anonymous question to be asked. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Artie Matewski. Let's give our interlocutor a big hand, shall we?" Enough applause to be polite answered the referee's request, but not a lot extra.

"Thank you, Benjamin. As our referee for this evening already said, the first question tonight was asked, with some variation, thirty-eight times. Over all, they boiled down to the same thing. And, for obvious reasons, it was always anonymous or pseudonymous or placed in someone else's name. There were several variations on the question, but in the aggregate all thirty-eight of them boiled down to the same thing. To wit; 'Why is Jimmy Dick such a jerk and an idiot and what is a jerk like Jimmy Dick doing with the title anyway?'"

"Thank you, Mister Interlocutor," the referee, turning to the participants said. "By previous agreement, according to the coin toss, the first response goes to the challenger." There was no prior agreement and there was no coin toss. The statement was completely bogus. "Mister Interlocutor, if you please?"

"Mister Jenkins, why is Jimmy Dick such a jerk?" Artie Matewiski asked.

"Mister Jenkins, you have five minutes," Benjamin said.

Walt rose from his seat, stepped to his podium and said, "Well Artie, those are not my words. I would never dream of calling Mister Shaver a jerk. I will concede he does have the reputation for being one. It comes from his sharp tongue, his acid wit, and his total lack of anything resembling tact." Having finished he set back down. There was a soft rumbling on the floor and a lot of heads nodded in agreement.

The referee rose from his seat in the middle of the stage and said, "Mister Interlocutor, if you please?"

Artie smiled a smile which could best be described as a shit-eating grin and said, "Jimmy, why are you such a jerk?"

James Richard Shaver rose from his chair, and without stepping to the podium said, "It is difficult to have a name of one who soars with the eagles when you dwell in the midst of anonymous turkeys." As he sat back down the sanctuary roared with applause.

When he could be heard the referee asked, "Mister Jenkins? Do you have a rebuttal? Jimmy, do you have a riposte? Mister Interlocutor, who is our first questioner?"

"Mister Referee, our first questioner is Mary Jean Slater."

Mary stepped up to the mike. "My question is something I have heard argued my whole long life. Is the eternal security of the believer conditional or unconditional?"

Benjamin said "Mister Jenkins? You have five minutes."

Walt rose to the podium. Seeking to avoid giving an answer, he said, "This is a theological question, not a philosophical one." And he sat down.

"Mister Shaver, you have five minutes."

"Philosophy is secular theology, man seeking to understand the meaning of the universe, which is co-extensive with God. So, likewise, theology is religious philosophy; the two cannot be separated. I would appreciate it if my esteemed opponent would answer the question."

Without waiting for the formal niceties, Walt rose and said, "As a Catholic I am instructed to leave the answering of religious questions to the church. The church teaches, anyone who is not baptized is doomed to hell. Of those who are baptized, sin must be repented and penitence must be completed in this life or in purgatory. So eternal security is conditional upon repentance ...