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“Tuesday is a funny word. Say it with me: Tue-s-day.” – P.D.
The stories I’m about to relate are some of my favorites as I recall my youth. Sammy gave me a tidy sum of money, and I rented a modest flat in Boston’s grandest and most luxurious boarding house. My cousin returned to Annapolis, leaving Zippy and me to our own devices for many months, but never fear, I wrote him endlessly. On the few occasions when my proverbial word well ran dry, I would just send him scraps of poetry I copied from books. Zippy and I found work rolling newspapers alongside Pat, our fraternal disciple mentioned before. We didn’t earn much, but it paid bills of the currency variety, so we were satisfied.
You’re probably starting to wonder how Paps and Mum were doing, since I’d left Rinky-Dink nearly a year before. From their letters, I gathered they were well. The cork business was taking a blow because of a foreseeable economic downturn and the rapidly diminishing size of whale pods in the north Atlantic. Other than that, their life was peachy—they’d bought an orchard. A late frost killed the blossoms, but Paps was hopeful that someday the additional revenue stream would help them maintain a sustainably humble lifestyle.
One day in mid-August, Sammy surprised me at work. I remember it was August, because Pat was going by Gerard that month. My cousin pushed his way into the room, nearly breathless. I say nearly, because he was still breathing—heavily too. “Sammy! Step-cousin spouse of mine! How’ve you been?”
His first few guttural statements sounded like, “Hurpdi-gulp-gulp-gulp.”
“That well? How are Ann and the children? Has Ann’s grandfather descended into blithering insanity yet?”
Sammy began waving his arms wildly as he gasped for air. He leaned over and braced himself by gripping his knees.
“I love this game! Is it a mineral? No, it’s never a mineral. How about a metal—or is that the same thing? Zippy, take a stab at it.” My little mule daughter scampered over to Sammy, opened her jaws as wide as she could, and prepared to bite Sammy in the leg. I rushed over to her, pushing her under the workbench. “Ha. Ha.... Good one, Zippy. I’m sure you’re just confused from this heat wave or by the upcoming planetary alignment.”
My less-winded cousin straightened. “Pritchard, before I tell you this, promise me you’ll keep your caterwauling to a minimum.” I crossed my heart, prepared to die if necessary. “I need your help.”
“Say no more, good cousin. I accept. I’ll thrust my bayonet, shoot my musket, and sing rousing campfire medleys with the rowdiest of them.”
“What I had in mind does relate to the coming conflict, but it doesn’t involve fighting per se. We’re short one representative from Massachusetts for the congress next month. Can you fill the seat?”
“No guarantees, Cousin, depending on the size of the chair. I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t feel obligated to agree. Take some time to think about it. If you’re not up to it, I’m sure we can bribe someone else to fill it. Zippy, are you busy next month?” Sammy glanced down at where Zippy was peeking from under the workbench.
“Sammy, don’t be ridiculous. If you’re not sure I can fill the seat, why would you pick someone whose dimensions are considerably and visibly smaller than my own?”
“Fantastic.” Sammy spoke that word with a touch of sadness before continuing, “Have you squandered the allowance I left you with?”
I was too ashamed to admit that I had. My original reasoning for pursuing work had been my innate desire as a resident of the colonies to fulfill the Protestant work ethic. After about a week, it turned into a financial necessity, so I told my cousin, “Maybe.”
“Here’s one hundred pounds. Get yourself a few new suits and be at Carpenters’ Hall in Philadelphia by the fifth of next month.”
“That’s hardly enough time to get my affairs in order.” At the time, shamefully enough, I had many affairs which needed severing before I left for PA.
“There’s plenty of time. I must fly.” My cousin whirled around and left my place of employment, but not before ripping his cloak on a loose nail in the doorframe. When we were kids, Sammy was always inventing things, so I wasn’t surprised that he’d learned to fly. I wish Zippy was resourceful like that. It’s too bad Pat didn’t have a chance to meet Sammy. She was attending a Jaysonic retreat, and I was covering her shift.
One of the Jaysons cut me a deal and made Zippy and me a few suits. Well, he made suits for me and used the scraps to fashion a jacket with coattails for Zippy. I chose not to have a dress fashioned for Zippy, because I didn’t think she’d be taken seriously at a gathering of colonial leaders tripping around in a dress.
After two days of preparations, my mule daughter and I hopped into the chartered carriage which would take us to Philadelphia. If Sammy had given us more warning, Zippy and I would’ve pocketed the money he gave us and surfed there because, as Paps always said, “If life gives you lemons, sell them and buy a cheaper fruit.”
We hadn’t even made it out of Boston before the first highway robber attempted to highjack the carriage. Zippy kicked at his ankles, and I used my dagger-like fingernails to claw at his eyes and tug on loose threads on the hem of his jacket. In our haste, we attacked our carriage driver and not the robber, but we realized our mistake with sufficient time to overpower the criminal and throw the correct man through the open window of a building that looked like it could’ve been the town jail. We tipped the carriage driver handsomely when we made it to Philadelphia, all the same. It was about time he got a new jacket anyway.
Save the occasional turbulence—hedgehogs, mostly, our trip to Philly was rather uneventful. In the late morning of September 4th—you’re welcome, fact checkers—our carriage rolled into the beautiful but stinky city of Philadelphia. Our driver pointed out Carpenters’ Hall as we passed. “Look, Zippy, it’s the hall!” I held my mule daughter out of the carriage window, so she could get a better look. After a few more minutes, the carriage came to an abrupt stop in front of a row of boarding houses. I thanked our driver and gave him one last poke of my walking stick. I’d picked up the stick from a haberdasher back in Boston. And, oh, how I miss it!
Several of the boarding houses were already full, but I managed to find a spot at one across town. When we were checking in at the front desk, the attendant casually asked, “So what brings you to town?”
Knowing there could be villainous agents of the Crown behind every candle and drape, I peered around the small lobby and leaned in before responding, “I’m here for a pretty important convention. Some might even say a convention of an historical nature. We’re going to plant more trees.” I chuckled at my own deviousness. Look at me, Pritchard Daviess, keeping secrets! That didn’t last long after I found the pubs. Once I’d received my key, Zippy and I made our way to the room, unpacking our possessions. When we checked in, we didn’t know whether the room would be our home for days, weeks, or decades, so we trashed the place to make sure we got our money’s worth out of the deposit.
The next morning, Zippy and I donned our respective suits, fluffing each other’s ascots. As we walked through town, I tipped my hat to passersby and kept close watch on shuttered upstairs windows, lest I be covered in filth on the day I began my proxy political career.
I took a moment before entering the hall to revel in the gravity of the moment. Turning to my mule, who carried a small walking stick of her own in her teeth, I said, “Zippy, other than the day that we found each other, and the day Paps took me ice-fishing—oh, and that time I found a snail on my windowsill—this is truly the most joyous day of my life. Now, let’s get in there and blow some minds with germane political discourse—whatever that means.”
We entered the hall and followed the Continental Congress directional signage to the unattended registration table. I grabbed an agenda packet and scribbled my name on a nametag pre-printed to read, “Good Morrow, I be....” I shoved my packet into the large pocket the tailor had installed in Zippy’s coat at my request. I stood before the double-doors leading into the meeting chamber and took a deep breath. My mini mule looked up at me and gave me a good luck snort.
I raised my walking stick and rapped on both of the doors, respectively. Placing one hand on each door (my walking stick was somewhere in there too), I pushed with all my might against the doors, which I found to be locked. To get the attention of those in the room, Zippy and I took turns knocking.
After a minute, someone called out, “Will someone go and see who that is?”
Another voice joined in, “By the sound of it, there’s two of them—a tall one and another who’s much shorter. Or, perhaps, they’re kicking. Could they be kicking, Thomas?” I placed my hands and staff once more against the door—symmetrically, because that sends a more powerful impression once ingress has been achieved. When I heard the lock click, I shoved with all my strength, and the doors flew open with a crunch. The crunch, I later discovered, was a surly John Adams becoming lodged betwixt the door and a very sturdy wall. This was my moment.
