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“One man’s death is an undertaker’s good fortune.” – P.D.
The gulls were singing when I threw open my bedroom shutters on that glorious day. I stuck my head out of the window and spied the body of the neighborhood constable sprawled on the cobbled street outside my home. “Constable, pray tell why you’re lying about in the street? You sure don’t like it when those poor souls at the docks do.”
The constable stirred, groaning as he always did in these situations. “Pritchard, it was your shutters. I wish you’d be more careful.”
“Sorry, sir, you know I can’t help it. I’m oblivious!” It was true. I was what some would later term “beyond help” or “a hopeless cause.” And those were just snippets from greeting cards.
The constable sat up and began brushing the dust from his jacket. “If you’re still planning to leave town and visit your kin, say the word, and I’ll help you pack.”
“That’s very kind of you, constable. I’ve decided that today’s the day I head to Maryland. I’m going for real this time. I’ll miss you, but never fear. I plan to maintain a lengthy correspondence with you, ole chap, to keep up with the town gossip.”
“Don’t hurry back, son. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen your relatives.” The constable picked himself up and continued his stroll down the street, making a wider birth around other neighborhood windows. To be clear, I’m not his son.
I pulled open the doors of my chifforobe and took stock of my possessions. I knew I’d be gone for several months—perhaps even years. The thought struck me that my cousin Sammy was roughly the same height and build as I was. Why even bother packing? Goodness knows my rich distant relatives could spare a few pairs of clothes for their childhood buddy, Pritchard. I packed up a few belongings—a comb, a mouth harp, and my daydreams—in an old handkerchief, stuffing it in the breast pocket of my coat. I’ll admit I had to leave a few of my daydreams at home to make sure I wasn’t overburdened. “Ready or not, Annapolis, here comes Pritchard!” I called from the open window.
As I shut the door to my cottage, the reality of my absence began to sink in. My relatives didn’t know it yet, but I wanted a piece of the action in the brewing conflict. At the time, I figured the colonies must have been preparing to fight with France or Spain. Regardless, I was ready to do my part. Since I had no reason to keep it, I threw the key to my house over my shoulder and proceeded down the street to the livery stable.
From past experience, I knew that livery stables were a racket. It’s best to go into a bargaining situation in a position of strength, or so the town’s motivational crier once told me. When I entered the stable, I clapped several times before shouting, “Your finest stallion, groom!” I tossed several hay pennies in the direction of the stable attendant. Nothing conveys strength better than throwing your money at people.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re fresh out of horses. All we’ve got left is a mule. She’s young but sturdy enough to ride.” The attendant opened the door to the nearest stall. By the height of the door—seven feet at least—I figured this mule would be more than suitable. I craned my head into the stall and was soundly kicked by the animal.
I staggered out of the stall with what felt like a horseshoe-shaped bruise forming on my skull. “I say, boy! Is this mule broken? If her warranty isn’t up, I’d send her back as malfunctioning!”
“If you mean, ‘has she ever worn a saddle?’ No. Is that a problem, sir?”
“No problem at all.” I rolled up my sleeves and pushed my way back into the stall. The experience that followed forever bonded me to that dear animal who I named Zippy. After a half-hour of brawling about her stall, we embraced, Zippy and I, and ceased our quarrel. I rubbed salve into the bite marks I had conferred upon her, and she massaged my numerous hoof-shaped bruises with her snout. Did I mention that Zippy is a miniature mule? In that moment, I felt that I had found the animal that could fill the miniature-livestock-shaped hole which had been present in my heart since birth.
“I’d like to buy this fine animal. How much?” I turned to where the boy had been sitting, watching the scene unfold.
“How much’ve you got?” The boy held out a hand which I shook without delay. Haggling might as well be my maiden name.
“Well, let me see.” Patting my pockets, I realized my wallet—the stocking in which I kept my money—was still sitting at home. “Could you put the mule on layaway for me while I trot home and get my billfold?”
“What about that locket?” The locket the groom had noticed hanging from my neck was a family heirloom brought to the Roanoke colony by one of my ancestors.
“You wouldn’t want this. It’s a pewter trifle I found in a trash barrel by the town green after an antique appraisal troupe passed through.”
“No, I do want it. The amulet for the mule. Deal?” The boy again held out his hand which I shook—more firmly this time. You’d think by now he’d have perceived my willingness to make a deal. I glanced over at Zippy. Her little eyes were welling with even tinier tears as she pondered not joining me in my travels. Her doleful expression was the only encouragement I needed. What can I say? I’m a sucker for impulse purchases. I snatched the locket from my neck and handed it to the groom. If the kid only knew, he got the worse end of the bargain. He pawned that solid gold amulet thinking it’s pewter—the poor fool.
I realized too late that my purchase hadn’t included a saddle. Ignoring my mistake, I mounted Zippy and held on the best I could. Zippy’s ears never stood quite as erect from that day forward. With a lurch and not a little swearing, we were off, Zippy and I, on the adventure of a fortnight, galloping down the highway through hedge and thistle. I can’t say Zippy has ever lived up to her name when speed was considered, but her stubby yet powerful legs pressed on toward Annapolis to my cousin Sammy’s home. For the first several hours, I had to take frequent breaks to rest my legs. It’s not easy to ride a miniature mule with your legs held out in the splits to keep them from dragging in the mud. In the past, I’d always ridden sidesaddle for any number of reasons, but try as I might, without a saddle, it was just too difficult.
While we—and by we, I mean Zippy—waded through a swamp, I chose a different riding method that I grew to enjoy even more than riding sidesaddle. To keep my clothes from being soiled by the murky swamp water, I stood on Zippy’s back. I’d seen some woodcut engravings in a traveling show depicting Russian aristocrats riding their serfs in a similar fashion. I decided to call it surfing. (I wouldn’t be a true American if I didn’t harbor a deep-seated disrespect for British spelling convention.) After considerable practice, I took to this method of riding my steed. I found that squatting down while throwing my arms to the side brought increased stability.
Other travelers on the road were captivated by my unique method of mule riding. They pointed and laughed with delight at my innovative spirit. One man was so shocked he spat at me—I was flattered. No rut, highway robber, or beggar could stop our incremental progress to Maryland. When we camped that night, I used the stars to measure how far we’d come with my pocket astrolabe. “Oh, yes, Zippy, we’ve come....” I spun knobs, made some subdued whirring noises, and clicked my tongue in feigned understanding. “Yes, we’re several degrees from somewhere. You know, I should’ve taken some coordinates before we left. Oh well, I’m sure we’ll find Annapolis if we ask around.”
I curled up on a mossy boulder and fell into a deep sleep while Zippy grazed and kept watch. I dreamed that a cute fawn and his woodland animal friends took turns licking me and tickling me all over. I awoke to find Zippy in the fight of her miniature life. A fawn was doing its best to beat her senseless, but my mini mule got in a couple of good blows. When I tried to separate them, I came away from the scuffle with a limp and an elbow that made a creaking sound. Before I managed to borrow a musket from a passing traveler, a mother deer charged up and clobbered her fuzzy spawn. That put an end to it.
After tending our wounds and preparing a sizable helping of deer jerky, I jumped onto Zippy’s back and assumed my surfing position, digging my spurs into her sides. I cried, “Zippy, where are we headed today?”
Rearing back her head, Zippy let out a piercing, “Hee-haw!”
“That’s right, mini mule, onward to Annapolis!” In all honesty, Zippy could have been crying out because of the spurs, but that’s beside the point. Regardless, Zippy lurched into motion, and we began our travels anew. I’d lived my whole life in Rinky-Dink. I knew I’d miss it, but I had bigger fish to flambé, so to speak.
