Featured Article » Fiction

Not a Princess Bride

Written by Terry Howard

James Richard, or Jimmy Dick, Shaver (known to his close associates, and almost everyone else, as Dickhead) was in the grocery store. The old drunk was not there buying food. Most of his calories came from beer, followed by pretzels. Yes, believe it or not, despite the Ring of Fire, the Club 250 still sold pretzels. They were much better or a whole lot worse than the old ones, depending on who you asked. Hamburgers and fries rounded out his usual diet. You weren’t always sure that the ground meat was pure beef, the bun was hand sliced, and the pickle wasn’t Vlasic. But someone had managed to get the mustard right.

Jimmy Dick was in the store buying tobacco. As far as he was concerned what you could get was shit. Most folk—everyone who smoked, really—agreed with that opinion. They also agreed that it was way over-priced but then they had complained about that back in the real world. Still, when the local crop failed because the growing season was too short, you bought what was available or quit. As he left the check out lane a man was waiting for him at the baggers’ station. There was no bagger, of course. That was because there were no bags, paper or plastic. You brought a canvas bag, a basket, a tote sack or something from home. Cardboard boxes were popular at first, but they wore out. The ones that were still in good shape were bringing a good price on the curiosity market all over Europe, so the price went up as the supply went down. One little old lady thought of her hoard as her retirement fund.

As Jimmy Dick passed him, the man spoke. His English was good. It was understandable, with a heavy German accent of some sort that Jimmy did not place. “Herr Sha—Mister Shaver?” Jimmy stopped. “Forgive me for stopping you, I heard the girl call you Mister Shaver. Are you the Mister Shaver who is the famous philosopher?”

Jimmy had given up fighting it. Only the Dutch can stop the tide. “That’s me.” Jimmy waited. Next would come a joke or an insult or—rarely—a compliment. Jimmy had learned that to wait, laugh and leave was the best way of taking the steam out of the sails of whoever was trying to be funny at his expense.

“I would be honored if you would let me buy you a beer and ask you a question,” the stranger said.

Club 250, Jimmy’s usual watering hole, would not admit a Kraut. The Gardens, though, were just across the street and they would let anyone in. Jimmy was well known for buying beer for anyone who would listen to him. He was also known to never turn down a free beer. “Throw in a ham sandwich and you’re on.”

The stranger looked puzzled. “That was a yes?”

“Hell, yes, that was a yes,” Jimmy said.

The stranger beamed.

***

It was a quiet walk to the Gardens. They ordered the potables and, oddly enough, ate in silence. When the sandwiches and beer were done, the down-timer ordered two more beers.

“Herr Shaver, I have a question of practical philosophy,” the Kraut said.

Jimmy grunted over the rim of his beer.

“My daughter . . .” The man paused to swallow a lump in his throat. “She wishes to marry. We, her mother and I, have said no. We feel that the boy is beneath her. We think she should wait until she is older and that she should wait for someone better. We would prefer to arrange for her to marry a man from back home. We have forbidden her to see this boy. But she comes home from school with that gleam in her eye. We have spoken to her about it. She smiles now and says nothing. Once she told us that when they have graduated and he will find a job and they will marry and that there is nothing we can do about it.

“We threatened to return home. She knows it is only a threat. We want only the best for her. We don’t understand a culture that encourages the children to disobey the parents. It is not ri . . . it does not seem right. What are we to do?”

“You want your daughter to wait for someone better?” Jimmy set down his empty beer.

The odd man nodded.

Jimmy waited. The Kraut waved for another round.

“When I was a kid growing up in the hills,” Jimmy began, “there was a family in the neighborhood by the name of Jones. They owned half a mountain with a good farm on it that the old man bought with the money he brought back from being in the army in World War One, along with an uppity French bride.

“He was in the quartermaster’s outfit and made the money by selling things off before they could get to the front, then marking them down as being destroyed in route.

“Anyway, the Joneses had themselves a daughter. She was a looker like her Ma. As she grew up, her Ma filled her head with the idea that none of the local boys were good enough for her. Most folks thought that Mrs. Jones wasn’t quite right in the head. They seemed to think she was living in a dream world. She thought that the family ought to go to France and let their daughter find someone suitable. But the old man hadn't managed to steal that much money or ...