[thisislife]

“Hello? Is that Mr. Jeremy Clapham? I’m afraid that I will be requiring your services tonight.”

When Evelyn’s eyes rolled to again, the operation was complete. Jeremy Clapham, pet taxidermist and avid amateur surgeon, had transplanted the courage of eleven or twelve gerbils – we still are not sure if one got away – directly into Mr. Peters’ brain. He gave a few blinks and regarded us wearily.

“Now, Mr. Peters,” I asked him one last time, “what did you want to say? Please do hurry; I am late for dinner and my wife will be furious.”

Evelyn stammered and stuttered and mumbled and gaped, but at last managed to jot out a few minute sounds. “Professor Peach,” he wormingly whispered over the course of a few minutes’ hesitations, “what does your field do? I really have no idea, but am thinking of enrolling in a course or two.”

And at that, I frowned. And I creased. And I regarded this poor young man with a simmering pity as he dripped away in the chair. Already I could see the fear growing in his eyes. (The courage of gerbils is hardly of sterling quality.) But although I knew my time was brief, no answer came. “I am sorry,” I said, “but even I am not certain. The entire field of Razzamatology is devoted to reflexively determining what it, in itself, is.” And although I knew this was hardly a satisfactory response, I had to let Evelyn go.

It was such that I remained in the flicker of the candles while Mr. Evelyn Peters tramped off outside. I do not know if it is just my fancy, but I remember him turning back one last time before disappearing into the streetlamp gloom. The rest of my memory is nothing more than dull flame, and the raindrops that martyred themselves on the upturned collar of his coat.

-END-