Garden of Fools

New York City, September 19, 1970

Last night Everett Dewitt spent at least four hours, at a downtown bar, stoned out of his mind, trying to pick up girls, talking about eels. Eels do this, eels do that, eels live there, eels eat this. Did you know there was a town in South America overrun by eels? Did you know eels are born sexless and determine their own sex? Did you know that eels can survive forty-eight hours out of water? Did you know an electric eel delivers a six-hundred-volt shock? Eels…eels…eels.

Finally, an attractive woman turned to him and snapped, Listen, no one gives a fuck about eels. Okay? Give it a rest. Better yet, just leave us all the hell alone before I call someone.

He knew she was right. Even he didn’t care about eels. Why in God’s name did he ramble on like that? Why, why, why? Watching that documentary about eels before going out, now that was a huge mistake. He should have known better. It was called, Eel-tastic or something equally absurd, and it was all he could think to talk about. Eels, eels, eels. Damn it. Everett had to admit that he wasn’t much of a lady’s man. He’d walk up to a girl, smile and then wouldn’t be able to think of a thing to say. Not one thought. His mind would just go blank. He’d stand there like a smiling, mindless zombie. Always going nowhere and nobody ever wants to share the ride.

He wasn’t sure if the drugs helped or hurt his cause. Without them he was the smiling zombie, with them he became the babbling idiot. They did give him the courage to talk but he didn’t seem to have any control over what he talked about. Case in point; last night’s eel episode.

Here he was, standing right smack in the middle of the sexual revolution, seemingly unable to even fire his weapon except of course by himself in the privacy of his home. He doubted that even qualified him as an active participant. There was that one evening in Atlantic City but one evening hardly constitutes anything. Combine that with his time alone and there’s no way that could be called a revolution. A rebellion? No, more like a skirmish, a sexual skirmish, and even that was pushing it.

Some people say, two out of three ain’t bad but when you’re talking about sex, drugs and rock n roll all that really counts is the sex part. There’s a reason why it’s listed first.

Today he’d spent the majority of the afternoon bleary-eyed at the New Colony Diner, recovering from his disastrous evening, depressed, stoned and hitting the bottomless cup of coffee for all it was worth. It was not that he needed the coffee or, for that matter, even enjoyed coffee. It had more to do with the fact that Everett could not think of anything else to do. In fact, he had been contemplating what to do with the rest of the day for well over an hour.

Everett opened his notebook and looked at the bright white blank pages. Everyday he attempted to write what he called The Thought Of The Day and everyday all he seemed able to do was to stare at the emptiness. Still, he carried the notebook with him constantly, desperately hoping to one day become inspired.

The waitress stood up and walked past him on her way to the coffee machine, a trail of colors following in her wake.

An old cook was in the kitchen scrubbing pots and scratching his ass while whistling a forgotten tune that seemed equally beautiful and haunting.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion to Everett. Perhaps it had something to do with the three colossal joints he had recently consumed. Most likely it had something to do with the full spectrum of multicolored pharmaceuticals he had been self-medicating with for longer than he could remember. What exactly had he consumed today? He wasn’t sure; all he was certain of was that it was some fairly decent shit. Well, actually, it was better than decent; immobilizing would be a more descriptive word.

The waitress was watching him from above a coffeepot. He promptly gained control of himself and turned all of his thoughts to the main question at hand, which was, namely: what to do with the evening? A serious topic and not to be taken lightly.

Everett thought often of time, for he had plenty of it. He was young and self-unemployed, did not go to school and had no real family to speak of. He had an uncle who was a United States senator and a wealthy father somewhere who bestowed upon him enough funds to do with as he saw fit…as long as it was done elsewhere. But no obligations can lead to idle time, and idle time in Everett’s world normally led to the three b’s of boredom: beer, bongs, and bingo.

Everett glumly thought, ‘New York City, the city that never sleeps. There are probably a thousand things I could be doin’ right now and I can’t think of one of them that appeals to me.’ He slowly spun around on his stool; the loud squeaking sound amused him. He gazed in a daze at the rows of empty tables, each equipped with plastic ketchup bottles, sugar, salt and pepper shakers, and huge napkin dispensers.

The whole atmosphere was beginning to depress Everett, so instead he gazed out the front plate glass window and watched the people. All of them seemed to be in a hurry and each of them to have a purpose. ‘A purpose! A purpose! My kingdom for a purpose!’

Then he noticed, about a half a block up the street, one of the most enormously overweight individuals he had ever seen. The man was slowly plodding down the sidewalk; his huge tan overcoat billowing in the breeze revealed a rumpled blue suit. Everett could not take his eyes off of him.

When the portly pedestrian was directly across the street from the diner he suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned and stared directly at Everett. This caused a wave of heightened anxiety to wash over him. ‘Did he see me staring at him?’ he nervously wondered. The man then turned and quickly approached the diner, and Everett began to panic.

The man heaved open the door of the diner, the bell above the door ringing out his arrival. He removed a faded New York Mets baseball cap, releasing long greasy black hair that fell from underneath, cascading down to his shoulders. He ran his stubby fingers through his long hair and beard, readjusting the unlit cigar that hung from the corner of his mouth. Looking about the diner through a pair of thick black plastic glasses, he smiled ruefully before returning the cap to his head and shaking the hair out of his face.

He seemed excessively excited as he bellowed, Oh, Sweet Georgia Brown! Will someone please vouch for the authenticity of the exterior advertisement?

The startled waitress and the cook were both caught off guard by the explosive entrance of this large and boisterous man, finding it difficult to grasp just what exactly he was talking about. They stood still and blinked repeatedly while Everett sat wide-eyed with amazement.

Ah yes, the kingdom of perpetual night, the man said.

He walked over to the counter, regarded Everett for a second before returning his full attention to the waitress. He eagerly asked, ‘The World’s Greatest Hot Dogs: Three Foot-Longs For a Dollar’ - can that really be quite accurate?

Yes, it, it, it…is. Of course it’s…it’s…the opinion of the the owner, came the waitress’s stuttered response.

The unlit cigar shifted from one side of his mouth to the other as he exclaimed, Of course it is, my dear! But actually I was referring to the price, three for a dollar - is that really accurate?

The bewildered waitress quickly spluttered, Y-y-yes.

Excellent! he joyfully replied, while his stubby little fingers began wandering about his body, delving into one pocket after another until finally producing the desired dollar. He began to excitedly speak as he perched his bulk upon the stool next to Everett’s. Oh lord, I must confess I have developed a rather impregnable affection for these outcast culinary treats since my arrival in this hedonistic Northern city. It is my every hope and desire that your foot-longs prove to be worthy of my expectations. Please, may I pilfer a dollar’s worth of your product?

Her eyes blinked back in astonishment.

Well, may I? he demanded curtly.

Of co-course, she stammered, right away, s-s-sir, and she scampered off to place his order.

Strange girl, he muttered under his breath. Then he turned his attention to Everett, who thought, ‘Oh man, please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me. Oh God, I can’t handle talking to anyone right now. This guy will send me over the edge.’

Of course, his prayers were not answered. The man reached over and patted Everett on the back…

‘Oh God! Now he’s touching me!’

Son, let me introduce myself. I’m Bartholomew W Prickett, editor and chief of the renowned Free Press Bohemian International. I was wondering, could you do me the favor of telling me the time? The goons seem to have broken my watch.

Everett glanced at his watch and muttered, 4:17.

Bartholomew became excited and exclaimed loudly, 4:17! Damn! I am late for my 4:15 proclamation!

He swiveled off the stool and bounded across the diner and back out the front door. Mountains of cellulite moved like Jell-O under his suit. Once outside he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted as loud as he could, A 4:15 proclamation… Surprised pedestrians jumped out of his way, looked at him suspiciously and granted him a wide berth. …Nothing is as it seems! We are all merely puppets, nothing more than pawns in the service of this all-encompassing infinite jest!

He walked back into the diner and quietly returned to his stool.

Sorry, but I give proclamations at 7:40 12:15 and 4:15 everyday. I find it is imperative to perform this civic duty.

Noticing the open notebook, Bartholomew commented, What’s this, son? Are you a writer?

Um, it’s my Thought Of The Day log.

May I? After all, I am an esteemed member of the Fourth Estate.

Bartholomew picked up the notebook and quickly flicked through the blank pages, before returning it to the countertop.

I have some advice.

What’s that?

Think!

Everett threw up his hands in disgust and snorted, "I do think! I’m just waiting to be…ah, inspired, I guess."

Well, son, I’m glad to hear there’s madness to your method. Actually, I do know what it is to pursue a creative endeavor. For years I have been working on a sock puppet opera based upon my life as an advocate for the disenfranchised.

Everett stared at his coffee cup, now hoping more than ever that this strange man would simply leave him alone long enough for him to call the waitress, pay his check and leave. But much to his dismay, the fat man leaned over and practically shouted into his ear, Son, I have just had a most terrifying experience, and my nerves have doubtlessly been stretched far beyond their capabilities! It shall take me days to recover!

Everett’s head swam. ‘What the hell is this guy talking about? Shouted proclamations, sock puppet operas and now talk of terrifying experiences.’ His mind felt like a laundered shirt left twisting in the breeze. All he really knew at this point was that he did not want to converse with the obscenely obese man perched next to him, yet, much to his dismay, he found himself unable to resist stating, Hey, man. Do you know you’re covered with chocolate?

Indeed, Bartholomew thundered.

Everett felt like he had just pulled the plug out of the dam.

"I have been attacked by a group of the mayor’s half-witted Neanderthals. Not only did they viciously beat me, but they kept me from pursuing my constitutional rights as a member of the Fourth Estate. Needless to say, I barely escaped with my life.

And look! he pointed at his jacket. I have lost a button!

Um….er…but what’s with the chocolate? Everett inquired. To his very stoned and confused mind, the image of roaming gangs of thugs cornering and attacking people with chocolate was not something that could be fathomed.

Well, yes, chocolate was involved, Bartholomew conceded, although I have to confess that I was never able to actually eat any of the chocolate in question. If I had done so I have my doubts as to whether or not I would have even the slightest interest in any food product right now. However, the excitement produced by the attack on my person has left me very stressed and quite hungry indeed. Stress has always had that effect on me…

Everett thought that, judging from Bartholomew’s size, ‘This must be one stressed-out dude,’ reasoning that he would have to disarm bombs for a living to get that huge.

…Even now my nerves feel stretched beyond the breaking point and I am still trying to cope with the realization of what has transpired. O brave new world, that has such people in it!

Everett debated to himself and finally decided that he just had to know. Usually he didn’t speak to anyone, he just kept his head down and kept quiet. It had been that way his entire life. In high school, those that had noticed him at all, called him ‘the ghost,’ but there was just something about this guy that left him with this overwhelming desire, or maybe you could call it a compulsion, to know what had happened to him. Still, he felt it was perhaps best to proceed with caution. Uh…um, I’m sorry, I don’t get it. Why are you covered with chocolate?

Bartholomew’s excited exclamations fulfilled Everett’s worst fears. "Why? Why? I will tell you why! Because this is the world we live in today! It is ruled by petty tyrants who stress conformity over quality and substance. When an individual, now let me stress that, an individual steps out of the line there is always someone waiting to push him back into his place…"

Bartholomew took the unlit saliva-soaked cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Everett to stress his point.

…Yes, it’s true, do not let anyone ever tell you otherwise. We must all conform to the masses or be reviled like Richard III.

The large man stood up and began to shout into Everett’s face, Do not doubt for an instant that there are organized forces at work. Yes! Forces that work night and day and are wrestling for our very hearts and collective souls. Each and every day there is a battle being fought on our streets, at our jobs and in each and everyone’s head, a battle against the governing forces of suppression and submission!

Bartholomew placed the cigar back into his mouth, grinning wildly around it as he slapped Everett on the back again and hollered with all the energy and zeal of a Southern evangelical preacher, Can you feel it, son? Can you? Yes, indeed, this is it! This is the time to be alive! This is the moment, the instance, the blink of an eye, the cusp of eternity. Yes! Anything and everything can happen and probably will! We are such things as dreams are made on!

The waitress, having arrived with the foot-longs, quickly slipped them in front of Bartholomew and rapidly retreated, fearing entanglement in this bizarre conversation.

Sweet, blissful delight! Bartholomew cried and quickly returned to his stool. He placed his unlit cigar on the edge of a plate and proceeded to redirect his attention to the more pressing matter at hand.

This left Everett adrift in a sea of confusion, yet deeply intrigued. Never before had he met someone like this huge man. Although he had not understood a word of what he had said since his arrival - and the whole chocolate episode completely eluded him - he felt a mystical connection with this man, as if this very moment had always been meant to be. In a flash of what he took to be total clarity, Everett deduced that this big man was the pebble thrown into his lake of time and that each ripple that was carried away from this point would each hold its own separate reality. The possibilities his life could take from this instant onward were terrifyingly endless. Everett felt he was standing on the edge of the abyss and he discovered himself to be panic-stricken. He felt his head begin to spin, his vision blur, and time slip beyond his grasp.

Bartholomew, six inches into his first foot-long, suddenly heard the young man at his side moan. He looked up just in time to see Everett pitch backwards off of his stool and land squarely on the top of his head, before crumpling to the floor.

Holy shit! Bartholomew shrieked, wide-eyed with amazement. He has collapsed upon his cranium!

The waitress and the cook dashed around the counter and knelt by Everett’s side, taking steps to try to revive him. The waitress gently patted his face, saying, M-m-mister, are y-y-you okay? as the cook placed a cold wet towel on his forehead.

Bartholomew, standing to the side, finished the first foot-long and commented, Perhaps he is dead.

The cook and the waitress glared at him as the cook angrily replied, He’s not dead; he just fainted.

Bartholomew commenced to pace about the diner, a foot-long in each hand. Well, he observed, it would not be the first time misfortune claimed someone in the springtime of life. It is your basic Shakespearean theme. Take the suicidal teenagers Romeo and Juliet, the innocent young bride Desdemona murdered by her misinformed husband Othello, and let us not forget those unfortunate nephews of Richard III. Yes, Edward V was but a mere lad of thirteen and his brother Richard was even younger when they were brutally murdered to deny them their natural God-given birthright to the throne. Furthermore-

Will you please shut up! chorused the waitress and cook.

Bartholomew was deeply offended and stood uncomfortably by, looking down upon Everett, when the young man’s eyes fluttered open.

Everett had no idea why he was lying on the floor. He felt as if a safe had been dropped on his head, and vaguely recalled a falling sensation. He also remembered something about a young king dying before being able to take the throne. When his eyes slowly came back into focus, he gazed up incoherently at a large man standing over him, whose brown eyes appeared huge behind his thick glasses, mustard covering his bushy black mustache and beard. A bright fluorescent light burned behind the man’s wide head, creating a halo effect around his long greasy hair, and suddenly it all came rushing back to Everett: He had met…GOD.

2

Bobby, I love you! cried the young woman in the front row. I really do, I love you! she kept chanting over and over.

A tall intoxicated man with long dark hair had his own chant going. Play ‘Rainy Day Woman’! Play ‘Rainy Day Woman’! he kept demanding in a loud slurred voice. It didn’t seem to make any difference to him how many people told him that the man on the stage already had.

Another man, with a huge blond afro, a large beer belly and a wild look in his eyes, kept yelling, Bob! You’re God, man, you really are! You’re God! Both his hair and belly bounced as he excitedly hopped back and forth in front of the stage.

Bob gazed out across the blanket of marijuana and cigarette smoke that hung over Madison Square Garden. A roadie was working on an amp that had started to buzz right after the first song. The crowd was getting increasingly restless, a blue-jeaned ocean of red-eyed, long-haired cresting waves about to crash down upon him if this sound system did not soon stand back up on its own two feet.

‘Why New York?’ thought Bob. ‘Of all the cities across the country, why New York?’

It had been just a few years since he had lived in Greenwich Village, a lifetime of fame ago, yet in some ways it was only yesterday; hence New York would always feel like home.

Another woman started calling his name, only this voice had a familiar ring to it, setting a jolt of excitement tingling in his bones. Bob rushed to the edge of the stage and started searching the crowd for the voice, looking for the familiar deep green eyes. His presence at the edge of the stage excited the crowd and more voices started calling his name, making his search all the more difficult. He was about to give up. Perhaps he had imagined the whole thing, a sort of audio wish-fulfillment. Then he spied her, calling his name with the same long brown hair and crooked smile that he remembered.

Bob gleefully cried, Tanya, Tanya, is that really you?

He stared down upon the woman and slowly watched her face change. No, it wasn’t her. Disappointed, Bob meandered back to his guitar, reminiscing about Tanya and the days they had spent together in the Village. ‘Those were grand days,’ he reflected. ‘We were inseparable; she completed me. Then, one day out of the blue, the phone rang and she just disappeared. About a week and a half later she reappeared with that huge guy from Atlanta. He wore those thick glasses that made him look like a life-sized insect. He had long hair and a beard before they were even in style. Her boyfriend she called him.’ A large smile began to spread across Bob’s face. Tanya’s ‘boyfriend’ was without a doubt the strangest, most bizarre and outrageous person he had ever met. A giggle escaped from someplace deep in his chest. That ‘boyfriend’ was like a walking tornado; everywhere he went there was hilarious devastation in his wake. Bob was desperately trying to recall his name, the smile growing ever larger on his face.

The roadie looked up at Bob and screamed over the crowd, I’ve got it, Mr. Dylan! You’re all set!

Bob walked up to the mike, the name suddenly returned to him, and he roared out, This one’s for you, Bartholomew W. Prickett, wherever you are!

3

Everett pushed himself off the floor with the assistance of the waitress and cook. His head pounded, yet strangely his spirit soared. After years in oblivion, his life had finally found its true direction. From this moment on, Everett was going to dedicate his life to this cigar-chomping fat slob in the New York Mets baseball cap: to serve, emulate and help spread his message would be his life’s work. After all, how often does one meet God in a diner? He only hoped he was worthy of the task.

Everett assured everyone that he was just fine and that this kinda thing happens all the time. Then, trying his best to conquer the pain emanating from the top of his skull, while acting as if nothing had happened, he regained his stool. Addressing the waitress, he asked, If you would be so kind, may I have another cup of coffee? Everett realized he might not have made the best of first impressions with the big man. ‘It’s important,’ he thought, ‘that I do all I can to win his acceptance.’

Quickly turning to Bartholomew, and doing his best to speak and sound intelligent, Everett inquired, Excuse me, your holiness, after all of the assistance you have been so kind to give me, it occurs to me that I never even had the pleasure to make your acquaintance. How would you like me to refer to you?

Bartholomew raised an eyebrow and shoved half of a foot-long into his mouth, mustard spilling from the bun out onto his beard and shirt. He wiped at it with the back of his hand and then extended the chubby paw to the young man, speaking through a mouthful of food. Certainly not as ‘your holiness,’ but Bartholomew W. Prickett will do just fine, and let me add I was happy to have been at your service. At this last statement, the waitress who was walking by rolled her eyes upward and the cook dropped a pot in the kitchen.

Everett lowered his voice, held his hand over his mouth and in a conspiratorial voice whispered, Yes, yes, of course, I can understand the importance of secrecy. Trust me, your identity is safe with me.

Bartholomew’s eyebrow once again rose. Son, I assure you there is no reason to keep my identity a secret. I am and have always been Bartholomew W. Prickett.

Everett gave Bartholomew a wink, leaned closer and whispered, Okay, I get it. Bartholomew W. Prickett will work just fine.

Bartholomew started to say something, then changed his mind and instead rose to his feet, shoved the last of the hotdog into his mouth and announced, Well, yes, very good, very good. Now I am afraid that I must be going. It was indeed nice to make your acquaintance. Do yourself a favor and have someone look at that head of yours.

Please, Everett desperately implored. Ah, listen, as a way of showing my gratitude let me buy you another one of those foot-longs. What do you say?

Bartholomew was in the process of squeezing into his coat, but he looked at his empty plate lustfully and back to Everett warily. His tongue slowly licked his lips as he stood in quiet contemplation before his resolve finally broke and he returned to his stool.

Bartholomew cleared his throat and replied, Son…What did you say your name was again?

I didn’t. It’s Everett, Everett Dewitt, sir.

"Very well, Everett, I do believe I will except your kind offer. These hotdogs are indeed quite good and you seem like a…well, for lack of a better word, interesting young man."

Everett was ecstatic and promptly summoned the stuttering waitress, placing an order for both of them.

The waitress very quickly brought her two peculiar patrons their foot-longs. She nervously said, Here’s your fo-fo-f-f…hot dogs, and then rapidly retreated.

Bartholomew thanked Everett and they both shared a rare moment of silence and a most agreeable snack.

Everett racked his brains trying to come up with something intelligent to say. ‘Just say something, anything,’ he kept telling himself, but he just couldn’t think of anything. He briefly contemplated discussing eels but quickly dismissed the idea. The best he managed was to look at Bartholomew, smile and say, Mmm…good hot dog!

Bartholomew again lumbered to his feet, placed the cigar back into his mouth and, turning to Everett, gratefully said, I must say that this has indeed been a most gratifying experience. Most gratifying indeed! I trust that you are feeling better. For myself, I must be off, but I wish to thank you once again.

Everett became frantic. He couldn’t just let Bartholomew walk out of his life. There was meaning to all this madness; of this, he was certain. He had to do something. Anything. Without thinking he jumped to his feet and hollered, Wait! at Bartholomew’s departing back, causing him and the others in the diner to jump. You can’t just walk out like this. It’s not right!

Bartholomew slowly turned and cautiously replied, Excuse me?…Why exactly is it that I cannot leave? You are beginning to tread upon my patience. I am quite certain that they have doctors who would be able to tighten your loose screws.

Everett was at a loss for both words and a possible reason for his shouting. He had to get a grip on himself. His mind was racing as he desperately tried to come up with some kind of a plausible excuse to extend his time with Bartholomew. Finally, in desperation, he said, Your holiness, let me be your humble apostle Everett. I’ll help you spread your message. I’ll pray with you. I’ll lay down my life for you. It’s like, suppose the mayor’s chocolate monkeys attack you again. In such a time I would protect you!

Bartholomew threw his arms into the air in exasperation. Chocolate monkeys? Apostle? Praying partner and protector? My God! What the hell are you talking about! I fear I must be cruel to be kind and inquire, are you completely out of your mind? How does your head feel, young man? Do you think you may require the assistance of a trained professional? Because if you do, I am quite sure one of these fine people here would be more than happy to call anybody other than an attorney for you.

Everett was really starting to worry that he was losing control of the situation. ‘Get a grip,’ he kept telling himself. Aloud, he said, No, I’m sure that’s not going to be necessary. Like I said, my only concern is for your safety. You’ve been such a help to me that I would like to somehow compensate you for your kindness.

Bartholomew was suddenly intrigued. After all, compensate was one of those magic words. There’s money in that there magic. Perhaps he had misread this situation, he coyly thought to himself. His funds were indeed meager to say the least; well, perhaps meager might be an optimistic exaggeration. Actually he was about as close to broke as one could get; tomorrow he would have to choose between a cup of coffee or a sticky bun. Maybe it would be in his best interest to spend a few moments more with this young man. Upon further examination of Everett’s countenance, though, Bartholomew began to wonder what degree of compensation he could possibly offer. However, he gamely decided that it was worth the gamble; he again allowed his generous buttocks to reclaim the stool next to Everett.

I can appreciate your desire to offer compensation, Bartholomew replied in a low voice, not wanting the waitress or cook to overhear him, but it is not necessary. Kindness in and of its own self is truly reward enough for me. I was only too happy to aid you in your time of need …however, you have aroused my curiosity. When you said, ‘compensate your kindness,’ did you mean monetarily?

Everett was dumbfounded. The big man was obviously testing him; of this he was certain. He cleared his throat. Your holiness…

Bartholomew held up his hand. Please…I thought I had made it perfectly clear that my name is, in fact, Bartholomew.

Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry. Everett gave him another big wink. Bartholomew… let me say that I can compensate you completely.

Completely! What in the world do you mean by that?

Bartholomew, by completely I mean that everything that I am and own would be at your disposal to do with as you please.

Bartholomew’s head snapped back. What!

Yes, I said it before. I want to help you spread your message.

Message?…What in the world are you talking about? Bartholomew’s eyes suddenly opened wide and he excitedly inquired, Say! Are you telling me you have read Free Press Bohemian International?

Everett hadn’t a clue as to what Free Press Bohemian International was, or is, but nevertheless he sensed an opening and dove in with reckless abandon, Yes, of course I’ve read Free Press Bohemian…uh Bohemian…ah, um.

International.

Thank you…International. I found it very…well, well, I guess…enlightening?

Bartholomew slapped him on the back and exclaimed, Excellent! Suddenly this whole situation is becoming clear to me. Why did you not say something earlier? Never mind that, how did you recognize me?

Everett cleared his throat, Um…your picture?

Yes, yes, of course, my picture. In the editorial column.

Yeah, that’s right.

Well, well, I am impressed. But like I said before, you should have said something earlier. It may have solved me some confusion. So I gather you are looking for a position with my paper?

Sure!

Well, unfortunately, we are not hiring, presently.

Well, Mr. Bartholomew, you wouldn’t have to pay me anything. I’d work for free.

Bartholomew’s chubby hand rubbed his chins as he appraised this new development.

Everett, working with me would be more than just a job. It would be an education. Some people spend thousands of dollars to attend universities in an effort to gather just a fraction of the information I would be sharing with you….

Bartholomew abruptly stopped talking and a sudden explosive belch roared from his mouth. An overwhelmingly foul smell permeated the air. Bartholomew daintily patted his lips and continued.

…If you want to work for Free Press Bohemian International, I am afraid it is not a question of working for free. It would be a question of how much would you be willing to pay for such an opportunity?