The Enigmatic Mr. Dawsley

  “I have heard of a place that might serve.” I responded. I was nervous about the idea of going to a run down bar. I, as well as many others I am sure, had heard nothing but terrible stories about such places. However, Mr. Dawsley was technically my employer and I could not refuse him if he chose to travel to such a place.

  “What is the place?” he asked.

  “The Prime Meridian.” I said.

  “I am growing tired of the geographically themed names on this island.”

  “They are quite hokey.”

  “They are as detestable as puns. Perhaps more so.”

  I nodded in agreement and signaled for a cab. Dawsley was overjoyed at such an idea for transportation. It was astounding how much he enjoyed playing the part of the average citizen, when the average citizen would literally commit a murder for the chance to possess Dawsley’s wealth and social standing.

  The cabbie was a quiet man and did not care much for conversation with his customers. This did not deter Dawsley from trying.

  “Do you enjoy your line of work?” asked Dawsley.

  “It’s okay.” replied the cabbie.

  “Is it lucrative?”

  I nudged Dawsley lightly and whispered to him that he should not ask such personal questions. The cabbie did not seem to mind, however.

  “It’s okay.” replied the cabbie once more.

  We pulled up in front of the Prime Meridian, immediately standing out from the crowd. Dawsley was in his suit and I was still wearing my nice clothes, which were actually quite poor when seen next to those of my companion. The man at the door nodded to us as we entered. The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was the smell of sweat and anger, mixed together in a blender made of shattered hope. Dawsley seemed not to notice it. Such obliviousness was swiftly becoming a trend for this man.

  Dawsley approached the bar and ordered two glasses of absinthe. The bartender stared at us for what felt like a very long time before placing two bottles of cheap beer on the bar.

  “I did not know they sold absinthe in such small portions!” remarked Dawsley.

  “They do not.” I replied.

  “And yet they sit here before us on the bar!”

  “Let’s just drink.”

  We picked up our bottles and drank. It went down rough and left an awful taste in my mouth. Dawsley made a disgusted face as well and stuck his tongue out.

  “What a strange absinthe. Perhaps we should switch to bourbon?” he said.

  “Anything but this.” I replied.

  “Excuse me, dear bartender, but could I trouble you for two glasses of bourbon?”

  The bartender grunted and walked over to where the glasses were kept. He produced two of them, placed them on the bar, and filled them with cheap, speed-rack bourbon. It was only slightly better than the beer, but we did not complain this time around. I turned on my stool to face the room full of people. There were a lot of dangerous looking men in the bar and the only women present seemed to have been the significant others of said men. I noticed one particular group of dangerous-looking men talking quietly amongst themselves while glancing at my companion and I. Trouble seemed imminent. I turned to Mr. Dawsley to warn him, but he had gotten up and moved over to the jukebox. Suddenly, a piece of classical music erupted in the room. All of the chatter died down and every eye was on Dawsley.

  “Been meaning to take that one out of there.” said the bartender to no one in particular.

  Dawsley smiled at the room and the table of men who had been glancing at us rose up quickly. They approached Dawsley, swaying over to him slowly with displeased looks on their faces.

  “How do you do,” said Dawsley as he extended his hand, “my name is Dawsley.”

  His greeting was not returned. A man rose up from the back of the bar and walked over.

  “Leave him alone guys.” said the man. It was then that I recognized the man as Killer from the jail cell earlier that day.

  “Yeah? Who’s tellin’ us? Litterin’ Lulu?” said one of the men. His cronies laughed and turned to face Killer.

  “Actually,” said Dawsley, “his name is Killer.”

  “You shut up, nitwit.” replied the leader of the group.

  “It’s Dawsley. You aren’t terribly good with names, are you?”

  “Perhaps we should change your name to John Doe. How would you like that?”

  “I don’t believe I quite follow.” replied Dawsley with a slight frown.

  The men surrounded Dawsley and I panicked. I urged the bartender to call the police, but he simply spat into a glass and wiped it with a dirty rag. I pushed my drink away from me in disgust and turned back. The men began to close in on Dawsley who was still smiling, oblivious as ever. Suddenly, Killer smashed a wooden chair over the back of the group leader. Killer then picked up one of the legs of the broken chair and held it out in front of him to fend off his would-be attackers.

  “You two get outta here!” he shouted to Dawsley and I. Dawsley thanked Killer hurriedly and we ran out of the bar.

  “I say!” exclaimed Dawsley. “What a group of ruffians! There is no shame in enjoying Bach, that is what I always say.”

  “There is a time and place for such music, Mr. Dawsley.” I replied. “Now Killer is in danger.”

  “Oh dear!” shouted Dawsley, realizing the truth of my words. He quickly ran back into the bar. I stood dumbfounded on the sidewalk. Several moments later, Dawsley emerged from the bar with Killer hanging over his shoulder, unconscious.

  “Run!” yelled Dawsley.

  We ran and ran and ran until the bar was but a speck in the distance.

  “What were you thinking?!” I shouted.

  “I do not forget my friends!” Dawsley shouted back.

  “You could have been killed!”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I managed to knock out one or two of them.”

  “You did?”

  “Indeed! I was a boxer as a child. I didn’t quite care for the violence, however, and quit my lessons. Apparently I’ve retained a few of the techniques.”

  Dawsley placed Killer on a wooden bench on the sidewalk and looked at him with concern.

  “Will he be all right?” I asked.

  “I do believe so.” replied Dawsley.

  We phoned the police from a nearby pay phone and left it hanging off the hook without speaking to the operator. In a hurry, I waved down another cab and we got in. The cab sped away before we could tell the driver where we were going. We were both panting, mostly out of fear rather than all of the running we had been doing. Finally Dawsley guffawed.

  “What a day!” he exclaimed joyously.

  “What a day, indeed.” I replied not as joyously.

  We drove past a police car traveling in the direction we had come from, its lights lit up and siren blaring. It was comforting to know that Killer would be looked after by trustworthy people.

  “Atlantia Park, please.” said Dawsley to the driver.

  The driver put on his turn signal and turned onto another street. Dawsley asked his usual questions to the driver and I stared out the window, admiring the architecture of the buildings in this part of town. Many were very tall and seemed to be made of only fine glass. Others were shorter and mostly made of brick. People walked along the sidewalks, some with briefcases, others with dogs, and still others with their hands tucked in their pockets. It seemed like a well-off area and I felt a bit of relief. Surely it was a welcome change from the places my companion had been taking me. I wondered silently how he had come to be the guide and I the sort of tourist.

  Chapter 5

  The cab pulled up to the park and Dawsley paid the cabbie more than what was charged before we exited. The driver thanked us and sped away down the street, joining the crowd of other cars and cabs all trying to cut each other off to shave a few seconds off of their travel time.

  I began to whistle a happy tune, mostly out of relief that we were in a seemingly safe area with seemingly well-to-do people. We en
tered the park and were immediately mugged.

  “Wallets. Now.” said the mugger. He was a fairly large man, although shaky. He held a small knife in his trembling hand as his eyes darted back and forth.

  “Would you not prefer just the money?” asked Dawsley.

  “Shut up, man! Just give me your wallets.”

  “Fine! But first you will answer some questions.”

  The mugger lowered his knife slightly and looked at Dawsley with an air of utter confusion. I braced myself for a violent death.

  “Are you crazy, man?” asked the mugger.

  “Yes he is.” I said nervously.

  “Oh, hush.” replied Dawsley. “I just want to know why you’re doing this.”

  “Why I’m doing this?” said the mugger.

  “Yes.”

  “I need the money, man. I just need it.”

  “Well, surely you can work for your money, no?”

  “Don’t you think I would if I could? I lost my job two months ago. Lost my house and my family. Can’t do anything but this. This is it for me, man.”

  “That is quite horrible! Why did you lose your job, dear boy?”

  “This economy, man. People can’t keep their jobs no more. Government ain’t helpin’ neither.”

  “Oh, this blasted government again! If you allow me to keep my wallet, I shall give you enough money to feed you for a month.”

  The mugger lowered his knife and looked embarrassed.

  “Do you think we can pretend that I’m stealing from you?” he asked. “I don’t want to feel like I’m gettin’ charity. It hurts a man’s pride is all.”

  “Of course we can.”

  The mugger raised his knife happily before putting on an air ouf rugged toughness.

  “Give me a bunch of your money!” he said.

  “Oh no, a mugger!” cried Dawsley with a grin. He produced his wallet and handed several bills to the mugger. The mugger’s eyes grew wide and began to well up.

  “Thank you so much, sir!” he exclaimed.

  “It is my pleasure, but please do not call me sir.”

  The man tucked the money in his pocket before bowing to Mr. Dawsley and running off down the street.

  “Did I perhaps spill some salt or walk under half-a-dozen ladders recently?” I asked.

  “You speak of bad luck, dear Truman, but thus far we have experienced nothing of the sort.” replied Dawsley.

  “We were just mugged!”

  “And yet we helped a man potentially turn his life around.”

  “As if he won’t be out here mugging people again tomorrow!”

  “Oh, Truman! You have such little faith in humanity!”

  “I am simply realistic.”

  “You are simply absurd.”

  His words did not impact me, as they had been uttered by the most absurd man I had ever met. I began to walk further into the park and Dawsley followed me, as he should have been doing since the beginning of our trip. I wondered silently to myself how the day would have turned out had I been the one driving the car this morning. Such thoughts were wastes of time, though.

  Chapter 6

  The park was gorgeous that day. The trees were depositing pink flower petals and orange and brown leaves upon the grass and pathways. A man sat under one of the trees playing a jazz tune on a saxophone. It sounded fantastic and matched the feeling that was produced by the appearance of the park. Couples occupied benches and children romped through piles of leaves with small dogs at their feet. A few young boys were flying a kite in a large, open area of the park. Dawsley and I strolled casually, taking in all of the sights and sensations.

  After a long time spent strolling, we came to a crowd gathered in front of an empty stage. On the stage were a podium, several chairs, and a large banner showing a man’s face. The banner showed the name “Kyle DuChamp” in large letters of red, white, and blue. Dawsley and I approached the crowd and stood there quietly.

  A man and a team of people walked onto the stage, the people sitting down in the chairs along with the man. A woman approached the podium and the crowd applauded.

  “Thank you for joining us here today.” she began. “My name is Angela Miller and I represent the great state of Atlantia in the Senate.”

  More applause rang out and a few whistles here and there.

  “I’m here to introduce a wonderful candidate for governor that deserves each and every one of your votes. I’m not too good at these introductions, so without further ado, here is the best man for the job, Mr. Kyle DuChamp!”

  There was much applause and whistling. Dawsley was grinning excitedly and I found myself smiling as well. Something about a rally really brings happiness to people, or at least to me. The man waved and smiled and stood at the podium, waiting for the crowd to grow silent.

  “Thank you all for coming out!” he exclaimed. “My name is Kyle DuChamp and I’m running for governor of this great state.”

  He continued on with the usual promises, list of accomplishments, and complete tearing apart of his opponent that were so common to politicians. I grew restless and wanted to continue exploring the park, but Dawsley was still standing there, applauding on cue and even whistling from time to time like he had observed the others doing. The candidate seemed more and more sleazy the more I stood there. Apparently Dawsley did not agree. When the rally had ended and all the endorsements from the people on the stage had been uttered, the crowd dispersed and Dawsley turned to me.

  “It appears our friends from earlier will soon be in luck! This is a good man, this Kyle DuChamp.” he said.

  “How can you tell?” I asked, unconvinced.

  “Were you not listening? He cares about the people! He cares about jobs and healthcare and equal pay for women! This is exactly what is needed at a time like this.”

  “Every politician speaks that way. He is no different than the awful people in charge now.”

  “Do you think so?” asked Dawsley, frowning.

  “I do.” I replied.

  Dawsley contemplated what I was saying. We continued our exploration of the park in silence. Dawsley was thinking hard about the race for governor and I had gone back to taking in the sights. A young man sat in front of an easel, painting a tree with changing leaves. If I had money and confidence, I would have offered to buy it from him right then and there. An elderly man sat on a bench holding hands with an elderly woman, presumably his wife of many years. The sun was beginning to set and hunger began to take hold of me.

  “Shall we eat?” I asked Dawsley.

  “What’s that? Oh, yes, perhaps we should.” he responded, half attentively.

  “Are you still thinking about what I have said about the candidate?”

  “How can I not? The man is quite simply wrong for the job. If he is elected, then the suffering will continue! I must put a stop to him!”

  “How exactly do you plan to do that?”

  “I am not sure and so my mind remains confined by the question.”

  I nodded, unsure of what to say to ease him. We walked along the leaf-covered path that led back to the sidewalks and the streets. The birds were singing their evening songs and the sounds of children playing in the distance behind us echoed throughout the park. We came to the exit of the park and hailed a cab.

  The cabbie took us to a restaurant called “The Equator” in the same part of town as the park. He had personally recommended it, telling us how he had eaten there once and that it was too expensive for a cabbie to dine there regularly. Dawsley nodded automatically, still consumed by the perceived injustice of the candidate we had stood and watched. He was obviously not accustomed to politics and how they worked.

  We exited the cab and I paid the cabbie what money I had, as Dawsley had exited in a sort of trance without paying or saying anything to either the driver or myself. We entered the beautiful, white stone restaurant with the palm tree archway and spoke to the host.

  “Two please.” I said.

  “Do you have
a reservation?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “We do not accept walk-ins.”

  “My name is Dawsley.” said Dawsley.

  “My apologies, sir. Right this way please.”

  Dawsley did not bother to correct him about the title of sir and we followed the host to a small table for two toward the back of the restaurant. The table was covered in a white silk cloth and was adorned with beautifully crafted dining ware. How the cabbie had afforded this even once, I did not know. He must have saved up for years.

  We ordered absinthe, which was actually served this time, and roasted quail. The food was the best I had ever had, even surpassing the food I had eaten at the Dawsley estate. The absinthe tasted of herbs and was very refreshing. Dawsley sipped his lightly, still lost in thought.

  “Mr. Dawsley,” I said, “you really must not allow politics to ruin your evening.”

  “Dear Truman, how I wish I could solve the problem and ease my mind once more.” he replied sadly.

  “Why don’t you tell me about Mr. Finlow?”

  “Bah! ‘Twould be an enormous waste of time to even combine the sounds that create his name!”

  “Yes, but at least it would keep your mind from politics.”

  “I suppose it would, but it would be exchanging one poison for another.”

  “I apologize, Mr. Dawsley.”

  “Do not, dear Truman, do not.”

  We ate quietly and confined ourselves to our own thoughts. I looked around and noticed a man in a sweatshirt and jeans at a table nearby. His appearance contradicted the essence of the fancy restaurant and it left me perplexed as to how he had gained entrance in the first place. The man seemed disappointed by something another man across from him was saying. I could not make out the words, but I knew it was bad news. The man across from the plain-clothes man stood up and left the table with an apologetic expression on his face. The plain-clothes man ran his hand through his hair and drained the contents of his glass. He ordered another and promptly repeated the process.

  Dawsley observed me watching the man and looked at me curiously.

  “What is it about that man that troubles you?” he asked me.

  “That man seems to have been given bad news. Also, he is hardly dressed for such an establishment as this.” I replied.

  “Very true on both accounts.”