My father lived on in Franklin, in a box in my desk. The white legal-size envelopes with the barely legible penmanship, the stories typed on onionskin paper, the pages creased over time, the fold marks deep. If I wanted ever to hear his voice, I would open that box.
An Encounter at “Ralph’s Rest”
It was a wet autumnal night in New York, and I had found no taxis available. Since my left leg (the arthritic one) was giving me an unpleasant time, I had managed to drop in at a few bars en route home to give my agony temporary surcease, before proceeding further.
It was at the third bar, I believe, that I decided to risk a longer pause, and here I discovered two amazing things. One was that the name of the bar was “Ralph’s Rest,” which would seem to suggest a mortuary establishment rather than a hotbed of fun and games.
The second thing I noticed was my companion on my right. To describe him as a slithery creature would be perhaps an injustice, but this was the first adjective that drifted into my mind. In any event, we were the only two customers that Ralph had occasion to deal with that evening. The slashing rain that battered against the windows (its force had increased) was sufficient explanation for this.
As we were the lone patrons, I felt it perhaps incumbent on me to attempt a small conversation, particularly since, of the two of us, I was the only one in a virtually erect position.
“Have one with me? Can’t fly on one wing, you know,” I asked in my most amiable tone.
Then I glanced at my bar mate, and blurted out, “Oh, I say, I am sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” he said wearily. “Happens all the time. But I do accept your offer.”
“What will it be?” inquired Ralph, appearing suddenly from the wings.
“Eight scotches and sodas please,” said our friend casually.
There is really not very much further to tell about this particular encounter. The rain had abated, and since a young couple had just descended from a taxi, my drinking companion—having gulped down eight scotches—jumped into the cab and indicated to the driver eight different directions. The chauffeur departed with a pleased expression on his face.
“Isn’t that dreadful?” said the young lady, whose name turned out to be Sheila. “He’ll take him to the Empire State, the Midtown Tunnel, Shea Stadium, Bloomingdale’s, and God knows where else, and triple charge him. That’s what they do to these visiting octopuses.”
“Octopi, dear,” said her companion, whose name was, I believe, Sir Rodney Stedly-Smythe, who had apparently an almost morbid fixation with classical plurals.
My Friend Franklin
Note: JJ dear, here is an installment of Franklin. I finally managed it.
You’re getting too old for my stories, but as you keep asking for them, your wish is my command. But this is the last one I believe. With love and pride, Daddy
It was some three days after I had last seen my new octopus friend entering a taxicab headed in eight different directions that our paths crossed again. I was on the same barstool at “Ralph’s Rest,” since my left leg was still aching, and no medical man in his right mind would have recommended further physical exertion in these circumstances.
My friend—whose name, he now told me, was Franklin—drew up a stool next to mine, bringing with him a rather bracing ichthyne odor (I might possibly have coined this word). Franklin had, it appeared, done a Cook’s tour of Manhattan and escaped a taxi bill for seven hundred and fifty dollars by the simple expedient of going into Bloomingdale’s to buy a toothbrush, and emerging out the other entrance.
Despite this triumph Franklin looked unhappy, and after he had consumed twenty-four Scotches (eight triples) I tried to draw him out.
“It’s this damn social life,” he complained. “I may as well confess that I do not lead a totally celibate existence. Theodora (the metropolitan press insists on referring to her as my Constant Companion) is a great one for giving parties. Unfortunately, the CC is of my own species, with certain minor but fundamental differences, and she does not know her right flipper from her left flipper (she has, you will understand, a multiplicity of choices). Tonight, we are having for dinner both the Chilean Ambassador to Upper Volta, and the Turkish Ambassador to Outer Mongolia, and how we’re to seat them God only knows.”
Franklin ordered another round of scotches (he had cut down to sixteen) and a reminiscent look came into his eyes.
“Sometimes these things can be positively embarrassing. Once Theodora inadvertently put Dr. Walter Shadd, the eminent neurosurgeon, next to Miss Virginia Rowe, the authoress. The Shadd-Rowe combination caused our other guests considerable merriment (without which we could have easily done). And then, of course, there was the case of Sir Gilbert Prawn, KGBHQ2QED, Her Majesty’s Ambassador to the United Nations.
“Ambassador Prawn,” said Franklin, bolting down a potato chip, “had had his eye for some time on a young lady at the other end of the table, a Miss Esmeralda Curry who (I later ascertained to my dismay) was no better than she should have been. When the butler arrived with a steaming tureen of prawn curry, it was more than Sir Gilbert could resist and he swept Esmeralda (who was no better than she should have been) off into a waltz. This would have been perfectly correct, I suppose, except that the music had not yet begun. In any event, Esmeralda shortly suggested that they lie down, sorry, sit down, I meant to say. I have never understood whether it was the lack of music, or the fact that Ambassador Prawn kept massaging Miss Curry’s left buttock with an enthusiasm worthy of a nobler cause. Heaven knows how everything will end up this evening. CC’s parties usually result in total confusion. The Chilean Ambassador will probably land in Outer Mongolia and the Turkish Ambassador in Upper Volta. Their problem, not mine.”
“One more round for the road, sir?” said Ralph, the barman.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Franklin, “but only eight scotches this time. A wise man (or a wise octopus) knows when to taper off.”