The Life and Times of Wilberforce Jones: The Saga of Wilberforce, #2

By D. Throop

The story of Wilberforce Jones continues.  Includes the Man Too Stupid To Fail as book 1, adding the Courtship of Wilberforce Jones and Wilberforce Jones and the Bachelor Party at Dave's.  More of the man whose touch turns everything to gold!

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Throop
• Release date: Sep 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536599077

Book preview

BOOK I

The Man Too Stupid to Fail

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FOREWORD

A while back, the editor of the rather small and undistinguished periodical for which I worked decided that we needed to adopt a more holistic viewpoint.  In practical terms, this meant that he wanted to send someone down to the southern part of the state, relocating to a more provincial setting.  Writing from there, he would become something of a rural correspondent.  I still haven’t figured out what a Rural Correspondent is supposed to write about, especially since the publication in question has always catered to a purely metropolitan audience.  But this was our commander-in-chief’s bid to be properly liberal-minded and non-exclusionary toward all facets of society.  I have learned that it is impossible to debate a man with a vision.

As a lifelong city boy, I wasn’t too worried about being approached for this assignment.  That is, until the editor did just that.  He informed me that I was the lucky candidate who had been chosen to pioneer this bold, new field, and before I could raise a protest, he also informed me that my position in the city had been eliminated to make room for the rural experiment, as it came to be called.  Now, I was really about to raise a protest, but was then given to know that an extra hundred dollars a week accompanied the new position.

What the hell, I decided.  I have marching orders and a raise from the guy who signs my paychecks.  How bad can learning to hunt and fish be?  I know guys who spend their vacations doing such things every year.  I packed my things, rented a trailer, and prepared to relocate south.

As a parenthetical aside, I want to mention that I used to read social and political cartoons with great enjoyment.  It always amused me to see Bosses depicted as people who had received surgical procedures similar to lobotomy—making them bureaucratic idiots—before they were deemed worthy of leadership positions.  In recent years, however, I’ve come to embrace the idea as doctrine.  If the reason for my shift in paradigm is not already obvious, it will become so in short order.

When I got to the town to which I’d been assigned, I was supposed to meet with a man my editor was particularly interested in.  He was reputed to be quite the social philosopher, possessing more intellect—and even poetry—than many folk suspect can exist in a small town setting.  The editor figured we’d get along famously.  My boss had called ahead, arranging for me to meet the guy at a bar with an outdoorsman’s setting.  Having no better idea of how to start my new job, I went to the appointment.

I was met by exactly the sort of large, muscular, corn-fed country boy that most of us suspect only exists in very cliché movies.  He genially shook my hand in a fist the size of a bone-in ham, steered me to a corner table, and proceeded to order us drinks for which I paid.  I found myself wedged between our table and the barroom wall.  My companion occupied the only path out, effectively cutting off escape.  He then proceeded to tell me the tale of one of his more colorful relatives.

I must admit that the man’s storytelling technique was marvelous.  He varied the pitch and volume of his voice to match perfectly each situation he described, and did not use hand gestures more than necessary.  His distinct country drawl did not so much distract the listener from the stories he told; rather, it added a certain dramatic flair, not to mention down-to-earth authenticity, to everything he said.

I have changed all the names in this narrative, and mentioned no locales.  Not for the purpose of protecting the privacy of others, but to forestall any lawsuits that may arise.  While no celebrities enter the story directly, a few are mentioned.  I have left these descriptions as-is; since these people have sought the public eye proactively, they do not have the same rights to privacy as others, and I like my chances should they decide to litigate.  With these caveats in mind, what follows is a more or less faithful rendition of the tale that was told to me that day, as far as my notes and my memory can be depended upon for accuracy.

I.  THE BINGO GAMBIT

Call me Cletus.  I’ve lived here all my life, so I suppose I’m as qualified as anyone to tell you about this area.  And I’m guessin’ the best way to introduce an outsider is to tell you about my second cousin, six times removed—Wilberforce Jones.  And yes, before you ask, that is his real name.  Let’s just say he comes from a side of the family the rest of us don’t talk much about, and leave it at that.

Wilberforce likes to think of himself as an open-minded, forward-thinkin’ sort of person.  He had a domestic partner named Lulabelle Jim-Bob, a personage of indeterminate gender and—lord help us all—orientation.  (No one ever broached the subject with them, of course.  In our provincial corner of the world, there are some questions one simply does not ask.)  They lived in a converted storage shed on a parcel of land no one seems to own; the county recorder gave up tryin’ to figure it out two years ago last spring.  There, they would eke out a marginal existence growing rutabagas and cabbages.  They also raised rabbits, which they sold to outlying pet stores and research labs, when they weren’t dining on the little critters themselves.

Well sir, a while back, Lulabelle worked out the perfect, cain’t-lose bingo system.  Guaranteed at least a hundred bucks every Friday night.  Wilberforce was so excited by dreams of wealth that he tried to mortgage the shed and the rabbit hutches for what might be called seed capital.  Unsurprisingly, none of the banks and finance companies were having any of it.  So he came to me.

Cletus, he said, this is an opportunity of a lifetime.  In exchange for your loan, we’ll show you how well the system works, and then teach it to you for free.  And pay your money back besides.  You cain’t lose.

Wilberforce, I replied, you’re my cousin, and if I did this for anybody, it’d be you.  But you gotta understand, all the gamblin’ games you ever heard of were invented by the best mathematicians money could buy.  It don’t matter whether it’s a church or a casino—the house just ain’t gonna lose.

We discussed it a while, but there ain’t no arguin’ with a man who has a vision.  Wilberforce was able to get a loan at pawn, which says somethin’—not so much about the intelligence of the local pawnbrokers, as it does about their ethics.  Mr Haney was a schoolmate when we were all younger, so it’s painful to say anythin’ hard about him, but ownin’ a business changed him a bit.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  Takin’ on some responsibility can be the makin’ of a body, but it can also be his ruination.  Take the case of Mr Haney.  He used all his savings from part-time jobs in high school to buy a run-down, nearly bankrupt pawn shop.  Everyone thought it was real risky, but it would give him good experience.  Instead, he watched one of them old mafia movies about fifty times in a row, and came away a bit harder than he may have intended.  Just a few years later, he moved the whole operation to a brand-new facility.  Nowadays, he makes everyone kiss his pinky ring, which used t’ be Estelle Jamison’s wedding band.  None of us get to call him Dennis anymore; it’s Mr Haney.  The fact that Wilberforce went to him shows just how far gone in the sure-fire myth my cousin had become.

Wilberforce, I said to him, tell me you didn’t go to Mr Haney for a loan!

Don’t worry Cletus, he replied.  We’ll still teach you the system.  You’ll have to pay a fee now, but we won’t forget about you when we’re rollin’ in money.  We remember our kin, even if some folks don’t.

Ignoring the barb, I tried to talk sense t’ him.

I’m more concerned about where yer gonna live if Mr Haney decides to forclose on the shed.  You can still return the money, with only one of his processing fees to pay.

Have you ever tried rescuin’ somebody who refuses t’ be helped?  My cousin shook his head with a smile, patted me on the shoulder, and told me once again not to worry; he wouldn’t forget me.  I left, unable to watch so much willful self-deception at close range anymore.

The big night came—the night for the maiden voyage of Lulabelle’s sure-fire system.  The giddy couple was even talkin’ about adapting the system to casino games, once it was proven at bingo.  They invited most of their relatives to come out and witness their triumph, and a few of us even showed up.  I guess you could say we just wanted to make sure they didn’t do anything desperate or foolish, should things not turn out exactly the way they planned.  Okay, I wanted to make sure.  The others came because I begged, pleaded, and finally paid them ten bucks apiece.

I made one last attempt to talk them out of the venture.  It didn’t go well.  Lulabelle even accused me of tryin’ to keep Wilberforce from succeeding out of jealousy.  You can put all the warnin’ signs you want around a bog, or a patch of quicksand.  Some folks will insist on walkin’ into it before they believe you.  I took a seat and waited.

Would you be surprised if I told you the outcome was a disaster?  These two ain’t exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer, if you take my meaning.  Lulabelle’s top secret system turned out to be a rather simple variation on doublin’ up the bet each time you lose.  Even us unsophisticated country folk know how fast the powers of two can add up, and it was relatively early in the evening when they were cleaned out.

When they realized their entire investment was gone, Wilberforce and Lulabelle just stood up in their places, kinda dazed and bewildered.  I expect they hadn’t considered losin’ a real possibility.  I motioned to our kinfolk, and we quietly led the two unfortunates outta the church.  They were peaceful, even docile.  Sorta like stunned cattle.  We got them to their shed, and Wilberforce finally spoke.

Cletus, he said to me, you were right.  What do we do now?

I looked the couple over.  Wilberforce was real worried, and Lulabelle was still in an almost catatonic state.  I decided it was time to be real gentle with them.

Cousin, I said, the first thing we need to do is get a good night’s sleep.  Things’ll look better when the sun’s up.

Wilberforce started to protest, but I cut him off.

Look, financial matters don’t have t’be settled overnight, regardless of what Mr Haney might want you t’believe.  The best thing is not to worry about it right now.  Get some rest, and we can look into our options tomorrow.

This seemed to settle their minds somewhat, so we all said goodnight, and retired to our homes for the evening.

The next morning, I went to Dennis Haney’s big, new pawn shop, which he now calls Haney’s Emporium.  As I entered, he came forward, extending his right hand so I could kneel and kiss the Pinky Ring.  I ignored the gesture, which you don’t need to tell me was probably not the best way to start the conversation.

Dennis, I said, we need to have a serious talk, without all the ceremony you’ve surrounded yourself with lately.

Mr Haney stiffened at my words, and drew himself up to his full five feet, seven inches in height.  I suppose he was puttin’ on his dignity, or some such thing.

Around here, folks generally call me Mr Haney, he said, with a condescending sort of formality in his voice.  "I hope you’re not one of those people who have no respect for a person’s position, or for time-honored traditions."  He held out his hand again, a bit more insistently this time.

Dennis Haney, I said, you’re a pawn broker, not a cardinal in the Catholic church.  And yer ‘time-honored tradition’ is nothin’ more than a cheap knock-off of the godfather movies.  And in case you’ve forgotten, I was state rasslin’ champ back when you were still tryin’ t’ make the team.  I can still give you a demonstration of that, if you want.

Mr Haney scurried back behind his counter, maybe lookin’ a little green around the gills.

Cletus, there ain’t no need for violence here, he said.

I’m glad we agree on that.  Look, Dennis, I just want t’ talk to you about Wilberforce and Lulabelle Jim-Bob.  There’s gotta be a way we can work out their loan.

As long as they make their payments on time, there won’t be a problem.

Dennis, I said, this is Wilberforce and Lulabelle.  They ain’t the two brightest people in the world.  What happens if they cain’t make the payments?

I’d have to foreclose.  I’m sorry, but I cain’t make any exceptions.  If I forgave one person’s payments, I’d have t’ start forgiving them all, and I’d be outta business before the year was out.

"Well, the money did go to a church, Dennis.