The Crumpled Note
Late night at the side of a seaport was no place for a young
academic. The cool, salt laden breeze was enough to invigorate the souls of
seamen, but for the academic laden with balancing books in one arm and
constantly correcting his bifocals with the other, the smell was sickening. He
was looking green around the gills, as some of those seamen would say on their
ships when inexperienced sailors embarked upon vessels for the first time.
However, this lad’s business here at the seaport had nothing to do with the
tall ships that lay with their anchors planted throughout the deep waters of
the marina. The business of young Thad
was to meet with a soul that he had never seen.
The crumpled, rumpled bit of paper in his tweed-jacket
pocket read an address to which he had never visited to meet this person that
he had never met. The burly sailors that passed by Thad were far too
intimidating for the young man to inquire any questions of, though if he were
to stop and ask they would have gladly pointed him in the right direction.
Instead, Thad scooted along, clinging his books to his side as if they were a
bastion between his pocket-watch and pickpockets. A low hanging street light
that shone in the mist of the evening was where Thad trod to take another look at
the bit of paper in his pocket. Adjusting his spectacles to read the note, Thad
leaned heavily towards the light’s post and read yet again:
Gormhook, R.A.
127 Pearl
Thad sighed heavily. He knew by the crooked sign-posts that lined
the port that he had reached Pearl Street, but none of the red-bricked
buildings appeared to be number 127. He stood in the precise middle of number
126 and number 128. There was no other building behind him, and this appeared
to be an even numbered street. Yet, the street on the other side of Pearl was
marked as any other street with odds and evens exchanging on either side. This
task that his professor had sent him upon seemed hopeless.
From the small cabin on his slip, the retired Rear Admiral
Gormhook watched with great interest, the young academic pace to and fro, passing
countless men and the occasional gal who could more than easily have pointed him
in the right direction.
Taking in a deep duff from his Cuban all he wanted were the books clutched in the academic’s arms detailing
the tales of sailors long lost. He wondered how long he would let the young lad
continue in this way. Perhaps he would wait until the timid land-lover either
passed out from fright or gave up without once asking for aid or turning to
look at the long wooden slips that stuck out from the street, all of which,
clearly numbered. Shaking his head, Gormhook said to the spirit of the ships
that surrounded him, “That’s the trouble with academics – they’re lost beyond
the library.”
~*~*~
Happy Wednesday, dear readers, and I'll write to you again soon.
Your humble author,
S. Faxon
