Gabble, Rabble, & Ross

“It’s story time,” said Gabble, who was ten years old.

“There will be dragons tonight, probably,” said Rabble, who was eight.

“Horses!” said Ross, who was but six.

The children waited for Father to come and Father came. Home at last. Probably they summoned him in one of the old ways of summoning known to children and idiots and some artists but mislaid when thinking comes. I don’t know. It’s not my story, it’s Father’s, and not my father’s, but Gabble’s, Rabble’s, and Ross’s.

Father appeared in his evening jacket – we know the one – with a drink in one hand and he sat in his Father-chair, lighting a pipe. For them this was evening, like all the others, and as for how it had happened, why should they care? It was story time.

Father blew sweet smoke rings. He said, “I am going to tell you a story, children.” The children gathered around, Ross upon Father’s knee, like always. Like before.

“Will there be adventures?” said Gabble. “A hero named Perseus, Brigham, or Liam?”  

“And is he handsome and brave?” said Rabble, hoping for the best.

“With horses?” said Ross, who was a bit obsessed with horses just then.

Even the shutters outside rattled, it might be said, in this story at least if not others, for the night-wind shook them in anticipation of the story to come.

Father wrinkled up his nose. He stared at his drink. He sniffed at his pipe’s deep scorched bowl. For him, the memory of his trip home from London was a blank. A complete mystery. No train-ride, no newspaper, no pleasant conversation with the train’s ticket-taker. He was there and then he was here and nothing in between. Is it always this way? he wondered.

“No,” Father said to the children. “No horses. Not like that. This story is nothing like that.”

Gabble, Rabble, and Ross were silent but skeptical now. Skeptical but hopeful. This story could go either way.

Father said, “There once was a man named Harry Hamid, and he wasn’t a hero at all. Not handsome and not brave. Harry was a bit of a loser, actually, and his beard didn’t make any sense.

“One day, a Girl With Red Pants – who wasn’t wearing red pants on that day – invited Harry out to dinner, which was the thing exactly which Harry’d dreamt of for so long, and so wanting to impress, he said yes (Yes!) and then took her away in his Honda Civic. But hardly had they departed the parking garage when the city before him – his city! – transformed into something strange to him, like an alien landscape probably, unrecognizable.”

“Did it look like Piranesi’s prisons?” said Gabble.

“Or those drawings by Rizzoli you showed us?” said Rabble.

“Were they on Mane Street?” said Ross, still hoping beyond all hope to steer the story back around to horses.

“No,” Father said to the children. “Not like that. This story is nothing like that.”

“Harry stopped at a stoplight,” Father said, “and he looked out about him at his formerly familiar city. He wondered where he might bring The Girl With the Red Pants to eat to impress her. One restaurant might well be like any other for all he knew. And while so engaged in these thoughts, he happened to see, stumbling down a convenient sidewalk nearby, his sometimes-drinking buddy, Banta.

“Banta had green hair and she had tattoos like the circus-lady – remember the circus-lady, children? – but she was looking what is sometimes called ‘worse for wear’. Harry pretended not to notice, not to know her at all, for seated right next to him was none other than The Girl With the Red Pants, and after so very long!

“But as the red stoplight said green again, out of the corner of the corner of his eyes, Harry spied Banta falling to the sidewalk and thrashing all about violently. And o children, a conscience can be such a terrible burden, he would not leave Banta in such a state. Harry pulled the car to the side of the road. He got out, collected up Banta’s purpling form and he lay her down within the safe confines of the Honda Civic.

“‘She has to get to a hospital,’ he said, and off they all went: Harry Hamid, the Honda Civic, The Girl with the Red Pants, and Banta.”

“I knew all along he was a hero!” said Gabble.

“Harry’s going to save the circus-lady!” said Rabble.

“They’re going to ride in on a big white horse!” said Ross.

“No,” Father said to the children. “No horses. Not like that. This story is nothing like that.”

To be continued soon…