[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-

I thought of leaving him, but resolved that he would only fester in my cupboards and cause a great mess, and so I was forced to root him out using an ingenious – if I do say so myself – trap composed of a burning watermelon. Sure enough, he was drawn out of the dark and toward the sizzling, succulent flesh of the fruit. (I cannot think of a single man who would not do the same.) After that, the procedure was easy enough: I merely detained him in a bag until he tired himself out – passed out, rather – and then fastened him securely to the aforementioned chair.

He came to when a particularly boisterous gust of thunder rolled through the office. Eyes darting about, heart palpitating rapidly, I was forced to give him a sip of Fireball, and then myself a sip of Fireball, and then him a sip of Fireball again. “Mr. Peters,” I stated with equanimity, looming over the poor soul as Jesus must have loomed over Lazarus – although I’m certain that in his mind it was more akin to Poseidon towering over Aeneas – “what exactly is it that you came to ask me?”

There was no answer. Instead, Evelyn’s face contorted into a sordid mess of sweating stress, the bone-numbing fear preventing him from exuding any utterance. I was about to reach for the pliers when he squeaked nothing more than an undecipherable gasp; still, it was enough to prevent my further interrogation. I had realized what needed to be done. I turned to inform the poor Evelyn of my plans, but the unfortunate thing had passed out again. No matter. I lit a new cigarette and picked up the phone.

He fumbled his way into my office a mere three weeks after enrolling in a course I was teaching. I cannot remember the subject. But I can remember the look on his face as he inched forward across my office floor — it was like a sea cucumber, all damp and terrified. Trying to ease his evident panic at having to face another human being, I offered him a cigarette. It was an hour later that I convinced him to leave the broom cupboard, and resolved to allow him ample time in order to prepare for his interaction with a fellow life-form. While he gathered all reserves of his will I turned up the chandelier and lit a few sticks of incense. He had regressed to merely soggy by the time he opened his mouth to speak.

And alas, no words came. His voice, so terrified from the previous encounter, had gone into shock and was currently on hiatus, not to be returning for a good while yet. He was bewildered by this more than anything, and began to slink off into the shadowy corners of the room. But I gathered myself and swept behind him, cut him off, and ushered him into a chair. “Mr. Peters, Mr. Peters,” I murmured as I adjusted the bulb on the desk lamp, “you seem to have a persistent problem.” But the chair did not respond; although it was slightly damp from Evelyn’s visit, he was no longer in it. Outside the rain drummed apologetically. Some lightning went off self-consciously.

Mr. Peters – Mr. Evelyn Peters – was a milquetoast man of moderate height. He had been abandoned at the age of five for his overtly curious nature, and was adopted by a family of stray cats until they died. At the age of ten he was found in a gutter and promptly sent to the most esteemed boarding school in the Vatican countryside. It was there that he had his curiosity surgically removed; although, in all likeliness, they probably took out a good chunk of his courage as well.

A mere seven years after his operation he had quibbled his way into acceptances from the top universities in the northern hemisphere, but upon realizing that his timidity was not as they thought – they had mistaken it for an introverted cleverness akin to that of the mightiest savants – his offers were revoked and he found himself in the more fitting environment of Bagtown.

It was during a brief stint as Professor Emeritus of Razzamatology at the University of Bagtown that he came to me one hallowed eve. To this day I cannot possibly postulate why he might’ve ventured toward me – perhaps it was merely the glow from my room on such a brumal night – but no matter the reason he managed to sadly wobble into my office, dribbling a pool of blackened water behind him as he entered, rather like a snail. I barely bothered to look up until he began to dampen my Bunsen with his soaked-through self. As the flames soon sputtered and died, darkness began to creep across my table and I found it increasingly difficult to focus on my work; I had no choice but to address the shadowed form before me. Given the circumstance, I could not help but do this with a bitter sigh on my tongue. “I would appreciate it, Mr. Peters, if you would keep the rain outside.” I must have boomed mightily, for he hastily fumbled at his jacked and cast it back into the storm. As he was chasing those watery demons from the room I took the time to light a few candles. He then approached me once again from the doorway.