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“My visage will never grace a mountain face. No, it’ll take at least seven mountains to do it right. Oh, and a smaller, adjoining one for Zippy.” – P.D.
When I’d exhausted all other options, Zippy and I took up residence in the streets of Philadelphia. I went to the congress each morning, cavorted and mooched drinks from my friends by night, and at twilight, found an abandoned vegetable garden to lie down in until the morning dew soaked me and my miniature mule, causing us to awaken. I must have looked a sight. In fact, one day, I discovered during the lunch recess that I had not only a small bird’s nest in my unkempt hair but also a sizable piece of broccoli.
I don’t remember the exact date, but in early fall, Benji Franklin pulled me aside during a pause in the deliberations. He said, “I can’t help but notice you’ve hit hard times.”
“Me? No, Zippy’s the one looking shabby of late. I’m doing just fine. How are you?” Every word following the first was spoken through sobs as I hugged Franklin.
“Chase told me he threw you out. Said you were probably searching for work. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you’re beginning to disgrace the congress.”
I cried and cried. Frankie patted and patted. “Can I stay with you, BJ? At least, until I get back on my foot. I’ll work—Zippy will too. I may have flamingo syndrome, but I’ll do whatever it takes to support my daughter.”
“Yes, but this isn’t a permanent solution. I’ll board you and put you to work for no more than six months. At that time, you must make your own way. And don’t speak a word of this to anyone.”
“You’re a noble man, BJ. You may be unscrupulous in matters of love, but you probably mean well.” By this point, my leg had fallen asleep, and I’d slid down Frankie’s body until I was hugging his knee and lower leg. The congress soon resumed. Every time I heard BJ’s voice, tears pooled once more on the floor beside me as I contemplated his charity in taking me in and tending my wounds. That first day, I really did need him to bandage my various scrapes and flesh wounds. The feral squirrel gangs I’d encountered in the wilds of suburban Philadelphia had shown me no mercy.
After the day’s proceedings had concluded, my new boss pulled me aside and whispered, “My carriage is waiting outside.” Hancock walked by, and Franklin raised his voice, “No, I don’t want to be your plus one at the opera!”
“I didn’t ask....”
Franklin raised a hand to cut me off and dropped his voice back to a whisper. “Never mind that. You’ll follow my carriage at a distance—a considerable distance. I don’t want anyone to suspect I’ve taken you in.”
I walked forward, arms outstretched, to embrace Benji. He placed a palm on my forehead and held me at arm’s length. He probably didn’t want to catch my cold, but he couldn’t stop Zippy from trundling forward and nuzzling her head against his shin.
Another representative walked by, and Frankie shouted, “For the last time, Daviess, I don’t want to examine your canker sores!” He pushed me away from him, sending me tumbling to the floor.
BJ leaned down and whispered again, “Remember, keep a distance.”
By the time I managed to hop outside, Franklin’s carriage was just beginning to lurch up the road. I made excuses for why I couldn’t join the mates at the Snapdragon that night, “It’s this darn tuberculosis. Been coughing up blood for hours. I’m sure I’ll be better by tomorrow. Have a good time!”
Zippy did her best to keep up with Franklin’s carriage, making sure to back off a bit when his coach paused to allow passage of livestock or pedestrians. While awkward, I was beginning to get my sea leg and could keep my balance for ten seconds or so, keeping one leg stretched out before me. We’d made a few turns before a brilliant red carriage pulled by several black horses overtook us at great speed. It was driven by the great bore himself, Yawn Adams. I waved as he passed, but he didn’t notice me, lashing his horses harder still. He careened toward Zippy and me to miss a mud puddle. He still hit it. Potholes are tricky like that. It’s not easy to surf through a six-foot tidal wave of muck, but my mule daughter and I managed well enough.
Soggy but otherwise unhindered, Zippy and I continued to tail Franklin’s carriage. My mini mule had weakened somewhat during our time as destitute street dwellers. I only wish we’d been as lucky as the town’s panhandlers, for we had not even a pot or saucepan to grip in our poverty. A few blocks ahead, I saw BJ’s carriage come to a stop in front of an impressive house. When he exited the carriage, Frankie’s baldness let off a shine that temporarily blinded Zippy, causing her to crash into an oncoming wheelbarrow. After extricating myself from said barrow, we pressed on and called at Franklin’s residence.
A woman answered the door. “Hello, madam. Is Mr. Franklin at home?”
“Yes, who shall I say is calling?”
“Tell him it’s a couple of old acquaintances from the club. Not Masons, though. We’re from a much cooler and more selectively inclusive organization.”
Before the woman had shut the door, Frankie pushed her aside and pulled us into the house. He slammed the door behind us and spoke in a halting voice, “Are you certain no one saw you heading this way?”
“I think so. Zippy, did you see anyone following us from the hall?” My teeny mule shook her head a few times. “She might have, BJ, but I’m afraid she’s not being cooperative.”
“When you’re here, we’ll have to call you both by different names to not arouse suspicion. Do you have a preference?”
“Certainly—I shall be Val, and this is my donkey mix, Tina.” I’d thought up those names long before in case either or both of us should end up in a witness protection situation.
Franklin took us on a tour of his home, leading us to our quarters. The room wasn’t in the house, but it wasn’t far. Zippy and I were to live in a room in the print shop. There was only one room in the shop, so I suppose you could say it was a live/work studio.
When we entered the print shop, I immediately tripped over something hard and unyielding. In my defense, the candles were off. Once we’d lit a few, shadows crept up the walls and illuminated an array of printing machinery that would have made a medieval jailer giggle and sneer before he realized their true purpose. Zippy spotted a small cushion in the corner, tittered over to it, and took a lie down while Benji showed me the ropes.
“There are an awful lot of ropes in here, Ben. I’m not sure I’ll be able to remember all of their functions and purposes.”
“You don’t need to. You’ll just be tidying up and setting print. You can spell, can’t you?”
“How dare you insult my intelligence? Zippy, we’re leaving.” My mule stood to her feet. “Wait—sorry, I forgot that we’re indebted to you forever for putting us up. You’ve convinced me. We’ll stay.” Zippy plopped back onto the cushion and chewed on a piece of charcoal she’d picked up somewhere.
“So, you can spell?”
“Back in Rinky-Dink, my spelling services were often sought after.” In truth, I can’t spell. It’s a common issue back home. The proofreader of this text suffered a breakdown after a few pages. Don’t worry. She’s now living at a farm for gifted former proofreaders where she can relax.
“The type is in the boxes in the corner. You arrange the letters on rows there.” Franklin pointed to a table where several frames lay waiting to be filled with tiny pieces of type. “Otherwise, stay out of trouble. Here’s the first article I want you to set. I’ll be back later to check on you.”
“Wait,” I ripped Franklin’s sleeve from his coat as I clutched at his arm, in part to keep him from leaving and to keep my balance. “You need to find a new tailor. That shouldn’t have happened. Like I was saying, I feel it necessary to admit to you, now that I’m under your employ, that I don’t have flamingo syndrome. Furthermore, there’s no such thing. Can you hear me up there?” I’d fallen to the floor and wished to give up the ruse at least for a few hours each day.
“No! You’ve been fibbing this whole time?” Frankie’s voice rose and fell like Singsong’s. “You had me and the others going. Get to work.”
I still vividly remember the article I set that night. It was a bit of investigative journalism which discussed a rash of gardens that appeared to have been slept in. “Zippy, did you read this article? It says here some weirdo has been sleeping in people’s gardens all around Philadelphia. I’m sure glad we’re off the streets. We might have had a run-in with him. I hope the proper authorities get him in custody and throw him off the docks.” Back in Rinky-Dink, our criminal justice system was pretty simple. Break a rule and be thrown from the dock, regardless of one’s ability to swim. If you accused someone of being a witch, they tied a stone to your foot first.
By the time BJ came to check on me, I’d only managed to get the title down. “Don’t worry, boss man. I’ll get it done by morning if it kills me.”
“I’m counting on it,” was Frankie’s quick reply.
I finished setting the type early the next morning, leaving me just enough time to wash up and wink a few times to make sure my eyes were still functioning. They felt like they’d been forged from lead. It was a busy time in my life. I was working two jobs all while being a single dad. When did I find time to sleep, you ask? During the congress, of course. As the representatives blathered on and on, I took the liberty of catching a few blinks.
By day, I was Pritchard Daviess, representative of Massachusetts colony. By night, I was a poor man named Val who printed things under the watchful eye and quick lash of BJ. He didn’t whip me, but he had a habit of blinking rapidly when I made too many mistakes. Frankie always pretended to be a grumpy old man, but as I got to know him better, I knew that I’d be BFFF—Ben Franklin’s friend forever.
