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“Reading is my favorite thing to do when I have nothing else to do.” – P.D.
The money Zippy and I pocketed on the invisible ink idea was sufficient for us to move out of BJ’s house and into quarters at a local boarding house. We were able to start over, so to speak. I suppose you could say we were proof that plucky and innovative people, regardless of their social circumstances, can rise above the fray and be successful—if they have sufficient connections, a safety net, and a fair amount of good luck.
After a particularly scathing congressional proceeding where Thomas Jefferson called me a, “senseless, fat piece of refuse not worthy of being burned in a trash heap,” I decided that I should search out a cure for my blissfully ignorant existence. I didn’t know where to start, so I traipsed down to a bookseller and perused the shelves looking for a book that might remedy my inane personality. A few caught my eye, but I knew when I first laid eyes on Common Sense by a bloke name Paine that I’d found a real life-changer.
It took several weeks for me to work up enough boredom to crack the spine. Once I’d done that, I felt satisfied I didn’t need to start reading it yet. One day, after I’d twiddled my thumbs to the point of exhaustion, I decided to give Common Sense a try. The book was a page-turner, and I found myself laughing, crying, and cheering in the span of only a few letters and punctuation marks. The author made several valid points, but I can’t say the book had any lasting impact on my life. I’m as oblivious as ever! I still have that book around here somewhere.
One day in early spring, Sammy received a letter from Ann, stating that a sudden illness had beset her. He left immediately—and, by that, I mean the next morning. I tried to get him to let me go along, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Pritchard,” he’d said. “Ann would want you to stay and perform your duty to the congress. I’ll send her your well wishes.” I wrote her a brief, double-sided, ten-page letter asking after her during her illness and received back a reply that read, “I’m sick.” The very next day, I received a letter written in a strange hand that I didn’t recognize. It read, “She died.” It was signed with a rude drawing that indicated its author had most likely been Ann’s grandfather.
A part of me died with Ann that day—her first, then the part of me several weeks later upon receiving the news. I feel I need to clarify some of these things for fear you’ll take me too literally. My good humor and charming attitude soured a few degrees for at least a month before bouncing back to their previous levels. Even though my memory of her has faded, I can still recall Ann’s peculiar method of speaking and the way she mixed coughing and laughing. Some might claim that her life had been cut short, but it’d been about right based on life expectancy schedules. Years later, I returned to Annapolis and paid my respects at Ann’s grave. She’d loaned me a few coins once so I could buy an unsoiled handkerchief. I repaid her by dropping the coins on the loose dirt around her tombstone and covering them up with a little mound of soil. In her own way, Zippy paid her respects as well. She attempted to fertilize the flowers by the stone, but I think she was confused and thought it was a park. We left in a hurry.
News of Ann’s death filled me with sadness and a desire to pen a heartfelt and stinging proclamation to the King himself. If there hadn’t been a full-out war approaching, I could’ve been at Ann’s bedside when she’d passed instead of sitting in a room full of senile men in an architecturally uninteresting hall in Philadelphia. As chance would have it, I was soon after presented with an opportunity to channel my distress into quill fuel. We’re in 1776 now, if you’re still dutifully searching for continuity holes—June to be exact. After John Adams and his sneering group of lackeys who shouted things like, “Burn!” and “Oh, snap!” and “Yeaaaaaah” after every syllable that descended from Adams’ mouth—where was I going with this? Right, I remember. Once they’d goaded the congress into a riotous mob of independent men who didn’t want no King, the congress appointed a group of five delegates to draft a sort of letter proclaiming our liberation from the Crown and his little-crown-wearing offspring.
The first few selections for the group were legislative all-stars—BJ, TJ, Yawn Adams, and two people I’d never met. I’d seen them in the congress, but they had, compared to me and some of the other influential congressional powerbrokers, unmemorable faces, names, and lives. As I ponder their faint imprint on my memory, I honestly can’t recall anything about them. Normally, I’d remember things like, “That was the man with the funny, bulbous nose,” but I’m getting nothing for those two. In exchange for a bribe and a bit of blackmail—for a nominal fee, I used to intercept the mail of a client’s chosen enemy and drench it in ink as a harmless prank—I joined the declaration’s drafting committee. We maintained the name “Committee of Five” because odd numbered committees sound better when viewed in an historical context.
During committee meetings, I was the low man on the human pyramid—an anchor, I suppose you could say. I came prepared to the first meeting with a variety of resolution drafts, spanning a wide spectrum of offensiveness. (My drafts are available as appendices at the conclusion of the book.) The committee only met a handful of times, and most of that time was spent deciding on a name for the resolution, because it sets the tone for the entire proclamation. For example, no one remembers the Virginia House of Burgesses’ 1767 resolution, “On The True And Proper Pronunciation Of Our Nonsensically-Named Unicameral Legislature.”
After some deliberation, everyone—myself excluded—agreed that Jefferson should write the entire declaration. At first, he was reluctant to author such an important and potentially historical document, but once I’d expressed my interest in stepping up to fill the role or at least lend a critical eye, TJ recanted his apprehension and decided he’d write it by himself. I’m not one to typically cast blame and cry, “Plagiarizing wolf!” But, if the boot is able to be mashed onto the foot, then perhaps the matter deserves increased study. As you’ll notice when you examine some of my more moderate drafts, one could make the argument that Jefferson lifted a few words or phrases from my own verbose statements. However, I’m not going to sit here and make an outright accusation. Old Jeffy is still alive somewhere—a place called Monty’s Cello, if I recall. I wouldn’t dream of tarnishing his sterling reputation, lest he tarnish my sterling candlestick while fiercely striking me with it in my sleep.
Zippy tagged along to the committee meetings to keep me company when the others played a fun game where they pretended they couldn’t hear me. By that point in the second congress, I’d already forgotten the foot ailment bit several times. When John Adams attempted to out me as a fraud, I leapt onto my seat and declared, “I’m healed! It must’ve been this miracle-working Rinky-Dink Liniment.” I held up a bottle of my newest snake oil, extracted from a local nest of disobliging vipers. “That’s right. Just buy, apply, dry, and fly!” I ran around the room with my arms outstretched like a majestic eagle, soaring through the Appalachians.
At the end of my pitch, I dropped my voice and rattled through a brief product safety message, “The inventors, marketers, distillers, bottlers, and hucksters of Rinky-Dink Liniment are not responsible for any gruesome side effects associated with prolonged use of this lovely product. Known side effects include but are by no means limited to: sensitivity of the tongue, shriveling of the tongue, detachment of the tongue, involuntary swapping from an ‘outie’ to an ‘innie’ bellybutton or vice versa, a coarsening of the skin, fits of sneezing, fits of coughing, fits of fits—emotional or mental, spasmodic dancing, an insatiable desire to play the tambourine, and in general, the sudden appearance of worsening of various things which may cause you to scream in fright when viewing your reflection.” The new concoction didn’t sell well, but I still swear by it—that’s because the acidic oil burns anything it contacts.
The congress voted, allowing Zippy to stay because of her better-than-average comportment. Sure, she kicked a couple of holes in the walls out of boredom, but who hasn’t? Was I still talking about the committee? Yes. When TJ read the final draft of the declaration out loud to the entire congressional delegation, I was pretty hot under the collar. I was mad too. I typically don’t get miffed when things like this happen, but I’d worked hard on the committee in hopes of gaining Ann’s posthumous validation and approval. Then Jefferson got all the credit.
After TJ finished reading the declaration, compliments poured from the lips of various delegates like a waterfall who was angling for something. “Oh, Thomas, no one will ever write a document that compares to this one in eloquence or the number of times its passages will be used in stump speeches for future political candidates to prove they understand and respect our wishes centuries from now!”
“Jefferson, I’m sure your status as a prominent slaveholder will be forgotten to history after people get one look at this document! They’ll be like, ‘That can’t be the same Thomas Jefferson.’” They laughed. I didn’t.
When the time came for the delegates to sign the document, everyone rushed up to the table to get their name closest to Jefferson’s as if to inform those who’d later examine the declaration that they’d once sat across the room from him and on occasion licked his boot. But I’m not bitter. Everyone may have thought Jefferson was the best thing since bread pudding. I disagree.
As the delegates fawned over the document and signed it, I remained seated, my eyebrows turned down as I fixed my gaze on TJ’s well-dressed back. Up to that point in my life, I hadn’t been able to physically do that with my eyebrows, so it was an interesting sensation. I stared and stared at his back as if my eyes could kick him in the pants repeatedly. I remained in this position for several minutes while I stroked Zippy’s head. She’d taken to sitting on my lap during the proceedings.
BJ spied me sitting there, stroking Zippy with my face contorted into an atypical frown. He asked, “Aren’t you going to sign the document?”
“No thanks, Benji. I just ate. In fact....” I stood and coughed to get the attention of a few delegates. “I hereby resign from the congress and, in so doing, rejoin the private sector.” No one appeared to be paying attention—except for my old chums, who were in tears. Zippy let out an expletive-laced invective of her own which prompted me to shush her, saying, “Watch your mouth, Zippy. This isn’t the penal colony at Georgia.” Then, I hopped onto my mini mule’s back and beckoned her forth with an outstretched hand. On the way back to our boarding house, Zippy sent the delegates’ horses into confusion at the hitching posts, spooking some of them so terribly that they broke their leads and ran amuck. TJ and I have long since buried our respective ratchets and moved on.
Shortly after the Revolutionary War concluded, a tale was spun that goes something like this: John Hancock signed the declaration large enough that dowdy old King George could tell who’d signed it without his spectacles. I’ll sheepishly report that the story is only half true—the part where he signed his name larger than normal. The reason Hank did it was the result of a mishap on my part. I wanted to know what it felt like to occupy the president’s chair, so I waited until I was alone in the hall and did just that. In my rush, I hadn’t noticed that Hancock’s spectacles were sitting on the chair. The rest is revisionist history.
