FILE UNDER: AT 503, Migratory legend type 7015, Kinder- und Hausmärchen (KHM) 39

The shoemaker, truth be told, was poor for a very good reason: he was just no good at making shoes.

“My shoes are awful,” he cried.  I poured beer into his mug and ignored the evil look the owner was throwing my way.  The tavern was busy like it always was that time of night, with thirsty off-shift apprentices and exhausted tradesmen packed at the long tables.  They were hollering for beer, and I was ignoring them.  I was only working the place to get to the shoemaker, and after two weeks of waiting for him to show up, voila, here he was.  I asked him for some nice shoes, and he folded in seconds.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,”  I said, pushing the pewter tankard into his chest. “Drink and listen.  I have a proposition for you.” 

That perked him up quickly.  He probably thought…well, I have no idea what he thought.

“You need to get *a lot better* at making shoes.  I need some good shoes.  I have some friends who are prepared to help you make good shoes.  All you have to do is leave the window to your shop cracked tonight at midnight, they’ll let themselves in and get to work.  Then you study what they’ve done, you sell me the shoes cheap, and bang, we’re all winning.”

He sniffed, and damn if it wasn’t the cutest thing I’d ever seen.  He was a young guy, kind of square-shaped, with a bad haircut, a ratty leather apron and an off-smell of tanning fluids and urine.

“I don’t know, I don’t want to get robbed…”

“Tell you what, how about you go home tonight, kiss the wife, and then you cut out some blanks and leave them on your workbench.  If you’re feeling worried, hide in a closet or something.  Just keep your mouth shut, and whatever you do, do *not* interrupt them.  You can sell those shoes to buy some better leather.  Trade up a few times.  Then make me something…pretty.”

I smiled again and leaned forward, staring in his eyes.  His eyes wandered south.  

“Do we have a deal?”

He spilled the beer down his chin in his hurry to nod.

“There you go.  You’ve got talent, shoemaker.  Come here tomorrow with the shoes and we’ll talk about it, OK?”

What I didn’t tell him wouldn’t hurt him, unless he screwed up.  Which was always a risk.

I patted him on the cheek and went back to working the room, taking orders and dodging pinches.  If everything went according to plan, in three days he’d be ready.

Finding time to write is like finding time to jump over tigers. It’s very difficult. Yet, there is no excuse for not writing. Just like there is no excuse for not jumping over a tiger.

You do have a tiger don’t you?

But I digress.

I have another chapter to share with you. Actually, it’s not much of a chapter. It’s more like a character study, or a explanation.

Here’s one:

Monsieur Chazelle is a gardener, or perhaps a florist, or a botanist of sorts.  He takes a long view of things, as he is hundreds of years old.  He is monk-like, focused, and somewhat deaf.  He runs the plant store known as La Niche.  Not everything he grows can survive outside of his store, and some must not.  Some of the glass on the windows of his store should never be touched.  The same goes for some of the pots in his store, the dirt in those pots, and the plants in that dirt.  Even the air in his shop is suspicious at times, which explains a lot about M. Chazelle.  He employs Nepalese assistants, and has no counterman.  His scouts, upon their return from a distant island or cliff face or swamp come in to a brightly lit, scrupulously clean room at the back of the shop; M. Chazelle inspects their products from behind a glass partition, holding specimens with rubber gloves that project through the wall.  The front of his shop has no such protections.  From the center of the ground floor you can look up four stories through a central gallery, with balconies running around the edges of each level. Donald O’Van reports that he spends a lot of his time dealing with various infestations.  His business model is the subject of ongoing debate by those on the Row, as he does not seem to have customers and gives his plants away. He is a gentleman.

What do these things tell us of this gentleman?

Consider this person:

Andrew Faravelli is an old Japanese man with a Brooklyn accent and a fondness for cigars.  There is a picture of an old man behind Faravelli’s main counter who is also Japanese.  The old man is in a little boat, smoking a cigar, aiming a rifle at the water. The counter of Mr. faravelli’s shop is U-shaped and extends around the walls of the store.  There are stacks of old merchandise in the cases and on the shelves behind them.   Mister Faravelli sells instruments and devices, not all of which work the way they are supposed to.  The back room of his store, which he calls the Mechanicum but others simply call Faravelli’s is full of broken-down crap.  It is easy for him to get lost in his own store.  There are a few people who may still be lost in the back of his shop, most likely deliverymen and thieves. He does not use computers, preferring old mechanical typewriters and the mail. He smells like licorice.

Next I will share a story of Violet, one of the so-called protagonists.

But before I forget - this site is Wonderful: http://tragedyseries.tumblr.com/

I was never a big fan of breakfast.  At least, not the “American breakfast”.

The Japanese get it right.

A traditional Japanese-style breakfast consists of steamed rice, miso soup, and various side dishes. Common side dishes are broiled/grilled fish, tamagoyaki (rolled omelet), tsukemono pickles, nori (dried seaweed), natto, and so on. (link)

Natto?

Yes, natto.

Natto, dear friends, is one of the world’s most perfect foods.

It is:

1. Stinky, like a good old cheese.  If it smells like a dead rat, it’s Bad Natto.

2. Stringy, like…like, well, natto.  When you eat it you need to be mindful of strings of…whatever it is…connecting the bowl to your face.  

3. Salty, like all other good things.  And not potato-chip salty.  A wholesome salty.

4. Chewy, see #3

And it allows you to use the $100 word “mucilaginous” when describing it.  For it is.

Alas, I have no natto, I have no rice, I don’t even have any tsukemono.

It’s going to have to be a banana.  Again.

Did I mention I’m not a big fan of breakfast?

Let’s go for a walk, she said.  Why not, I agreed.  I liked walks.  I liked her.  And I was sick of dancing.

When the chaperones weren’t looking we snuck out of the gym through a side door.  I held her hand.  We didn’t talk.  At the edge of the parking lot I began to joke about the DJ playing  ”Easy” by the Commodores twice when she pulled me close and kissed me.

What the hell was she doing with her tongue, I wondered.  This can’t be what kissing is about, I wondered.  Then I just gave up and figured, hell, it must be how they do things in Paris in 1978 and held on for dear life.

Let’s take a crack at tuning up that piece I shared with you yesterday, shall we?

He locked and barred the aluminum door and fed enough wood to the stove to keep it burning through the night.   Brushing his teeth in the trailer’s closet-sized bathroom, he debated whether or not to bother switching the batteries out of the TV remote back into the carbon monoxide detector.   Changing the batteries took five minutes.  About the same time it took layer himself into bed under his collection of mismatched blankets.  Moving bars of headlights cut through the shades covering the porthole window next to his bed, the same window that leaked cold air and road noise all night long.

He covered his face with his arm. Thursday was one phone interview and three hours on a computer at the library reading message boards and postings and six emails to recruiters and one call-back.  One coffee from the library lounge, with enough Mini Moos and sugar packs to call it breakfast, calorie-wise.  A baloney sandwich and an orange from the Lutheran kitchen after a thirty-minute pep talk.  Two newspapers back at the library, then the long walk back home.  Canned ravioli for dinner.  He was getting sick of canned ravioli.

Another week of endless searching and not-finding was over.  Tomorrow, Friday, he’d walk the town beaches at dawn looking for jingles and sea glass and driftwood and bones, then he’d scout the recycling station and the junk stores until noon, because Saturday he had to be ready for the flea market, and it took him time to assemble, label and package his creations.

On Saturday he’d hitch over to the police station where he’d shower and shave then change into his good clothes, the one pair of khakis he owned and the blue shirt with the button-down collar. Sergeant Faelan would give him a ride back to the trailer so he could pick up his folding table and his transport crate before heading back into town.  He’d walk to the municipal parking lot at seven to set up, and if he was lucky, the Portuguese girl working Baroni’s food cart would sneak him some breakfast sausages on a potato roll.

Then at seven thirty the gate would open, and for a short while he’d become a real person again, not just another anonymous out-of-work early-middle aged retail manager living in a borrowed trailer.  For five hours he’d be Mr. Oliver Levant, purveyor of unique objects of unusual provenance and remarkable quality, an artist, a salesman, joking and smiling and selling and taking numbers and emails and discussing trends and making plans until the whistle blew at twelve thirty and he became anonymous and invisible again for another week.

He pulled the stack of blankets up to his chin and smiled.

He locked the door, fed wood to the stove, switched the batteries from the TV remote back into the smoke detector and brushed his teeth in the trailer’s closet-sized bathroom.  It took him about the same amount of time to layer himself into bed under his collection of blankets. 

The darkness inside the trailer was broken by moving bars of headlights shadowing through the paper shades covering the porthole window next to him, the same window that leaked cold air and road noise, mostly cars, but then a truck, a big one, he guessed, based on how hard the trailer rocked in its wake.

Another day.  One phone interview and two inquiry letters cost one phone card and two stamps.  Three hours on a computer at the library reading message boards and postings.  At least that was free.  Six emails.  Also free.  One coffee, not free, but the Mini Moos and sugar packs made up for it.  A baloney sandwich from the Lutheran kitchen, free but only after a 30-minute pep talk.

He was no closer to work than he was when he woke up that morning.

Tomorrow he’d walk the town beach and gather jingles and sea glass in the morning - weather permitting - and scout the recycling station in the afternoon because on Saturday he had to be ready for the flea market, and it took him a day to assemble, label and package his creations.  Early Saturday he’d shower at the police station, shave, dress in the one pair of khakis he owned and the blue shirt with the button-down collar.  Joe Faelan would give him a ride back to the trailer - his trailer, actually - so he could pick up his folding table and his crate.  Then it was back to the municipal parking lot before dawn to set up next to the kitchens and if he was lucky, the Portugese girl would sneak him some breakfast sausages on a potato roll.

At 7:30am the gate will open and for a while he will be Oliver Levant again, purveyor of unique objects of unusual provenance and remarkable quality, joking and smiling and selling and taking numbers and emails and discussing trends and making plans until the whistle blows at noon and he becomes anonymous and invisible again, a man of early-middle years living alone in a borrowed trailer, teetering on the edge of oblivion and redemption.

“Last order of business.  The status of the premises at number four, whose previous tenant was his honor, Edward Coffin, of blessed memory.”

The nine men around the table crossed themselves slowly.

A man at the far end of the table let loose a barking cough.  ”I hardly, excuse me, hardly think it can be occupied without the most comprehensive and expensive of restorations.  The fire was quite damaging, and the subsequent flood only made matters worse.  I saw the report.  Damn shame, that.  All those cases and mechanisms.  Damn shame.”

“One would suspect it would be fairly carpeted with all manner of deadly molds and vermin and rusted perils and whatnot by now,” added one man.

“It has been quite a while,” noted another.

“It would be good to see that report again,” offered a third.

The man seated at the head of the table sighed and wiped his face with a faded blue kerchief.

“You all have a copy.  Tab eleven in your binders.”

A rustling sound filled the room as the men turned mimeographed pages, then silence descended as they all read.  The first to close his binder folded his fingers over the leather cover and nodded to the man at the head of the table.

“In light of the poor condition of the premises,” he intoned, “I move they be allowed to remain empty for another year, until such a time as a full and comprehensive assessment of…”

One of the dimpled brass pneumatic steam tubes rattled urgently overhead.  With a hiss of steam and a sudden crack a battered white bakelite capsule fell three feet from an ejector port into the receiving bowl at the head of the table.  The man seated there reached out and plucked it from the bowl before it had even ceased spinning.  The other eight men were motionless as he opened it, removed a slip of paper from it, read it, then handed the paper to he man on his left.

“The chair…objects,” he said, slowly. “I have been informed that our lady wishes the property to be occupied again.  Pursuant to part nine of the common lessee agreement, and consistent with the traditions of the Row, she has instructed me to entertain acceptable candidates.”

“…may I be so bold as to recommend…”

“…has distinguished himself in the Arcade, where for the last nine…”

“…undoubtedly she will grant me the privilege of introducing my master’s young…”

“…will do nicely…”

“…cannot seriously believe that…”

“…responsibility to uphold…”

“…a suitable heir to continue the work of our late…”

“…will be my privilege to…”

“Gentlemen, GENTLEMEN.”

With a rattle a second capsule fell steaming into the receiving bowl, where it spun from the force of its arrival.

“With your leave.”

The crinkle of the paper was unnaturally loud.  His lips moved as he read the note, then he folded it and placed it in his breast pocket.  He surveyed the eight men seated around him.  Eight old men in eight old black suits, with red faces and clammy hands and cold eyes.

“Our lady will be prepared to receive candidates from her tenant’s agents following the next meeting of this body.   She requests that they be presented in a manner consistent with the traditions of the Row and in keeping with the conventions described in part nine of the common lessee agreement.  That is all for today.  I thank you all.”

The eight men shuffled to their feet.  Bent over to avoid striking the pneumatic pipes overhead, they filed out of the low-ceilinged room through its sole door to begin the long climb up the narrow and perilously steep switchbacked staircase to the street.

The man at the head of the table waited for the agents to leave before loosening the silk cravat around his neck.  Then he removed the message paper from his breast pocket and smoothed it out on the table in front of him.  He made a few notes at the bottom of it with a black fountain pen and initialed it with a few lazy scratches.

He loaded the capsule, opened a small round hatch at the bottom of the receiving bowl, and fed the capsule into it.  With a twist of a small knob and a percussive blast of steam it was gone, rattling overhead for a brief moment before it plunged into the heart of the Row to its final destination.

She was not going to enjoy this, he thought.  Hunched over he side-stepped to the door and twisted the light switch off.

What do we know about Snuggalo?

1. He has a law degree.
2. He enjoys romantic dinners with his wife Barbara every other Wednesday.
3. He wants to be loved, but sometimes wonders what it would be like to be feared.
4. He can’t whistle.
5. He left a Russian circus under suspicious circumstances.
6. He is best friends with Freon the Dog Handler.
7. He has a 19th century Louis Vuitton steamer trunk that no one has ever seen open.
8. He can apply his makeup in 3 minutes, and remove it in 2 minutes.
9. He always knows where to get breakfast, no matter what time of day it is.
10. He is a childhood friend of Lady Lillian Coffin, the Owner of Peddler’s Row, and is currently moonlighting as a scout for Annabel Weir.

Ok, Pythonites and Olde Tyme Radio fannes, riddle me this.

Conventional wisdom says there were six episodes in the second (1974) season of the “Eric Idle Presents Radio 5” show.  They are described here.

Please note the sixth show titled “A Sad Moment”, aired May 4, 1974.

Now look here.  Scroll down (or search for) “ERIC IDLE PRESENTS RADIO 5 (Series 2, Show 6)”.  

You will find a show that has nothing to do with the sketches featured in the episode “A Sad Moment”.  In fact, it opens with a sketch about “Starship Free Enterprise”.  

This show is also advertised as being aired on May 4, 1974.

So.  Given the provenance of the “Starship Free Enterprise” episode, I am tempted to believe it is the 6th and final show of the 2nd series.  That leaves me wondering when “A Sad Moment” aired.

Ideas?

Yes, I have ENTIRELY TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS during vacations.

Donald O’Van runs the bookstore.  His shop looks a bit like an empty living room, with those few books he keeps on display set out on a coffee table between two couches at the center of the shop.  A massive square oriental rug covers the entire floor, a pool of red that consumes the sparse 40 watt light from the wall sconces.

Donald is an older man of smaller proportions, with thinning white hair and over-large black framed glasses.  He tends to keep his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket as he talks, his head tilted slightly to the right.  There’s a vague smell of Ivory soap about him.

His assistant, a young lady from Singapore named Pinny, offers visitors tea and shuttles books from the back room to the front at a signal from Donald.  It’s not her actual name, but that’s what Donald calls her.  It’s what he’s always called his assistants.

Pinny is currently holding a leather backed solander box in her tiny white-gloved hands.  It is the box Donald asked her to find last night down in the stacks.  The Sibyllenbuch something-or-other.  Donald said a visitor would be wanting it. He’s talking to a visitor right now, in fact, an even older man with watery blue eyes and hands like paper claws that shake slightly as he tries to balance his teacup and saucer. 

Donald O’Van is a tenant of Lady Lillian Coffin, the Owner of Peddler’s Row.  And he is most definitely a magician, Pinny decides, when the visitor asks whether Donald has the Sibyllenbuch something-or-other, and Pinny is there to place it gently on the coffee table between them.