OBERON ‘S GIFT
by
Richard Dante
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Richard Dante on Smashwords
OBERON’S GIFT
Copyright © 2010 by Richard Dante
* * * *
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
****
OBERON’S GIFT-a Political Fantasy
by Richard Hardaway
PREFACE
To counteract the gloom and doom of the daily news--here’s an upbeat alternative:
Blessed with a wee bit of magic and his own considerable abilities, George Bertram Potter (No relation to Harry) enters the picture and ultimately pours light and joy into the dark corners threatening mankind. Accompanied by his beautiful wife, Lydia, their son George Two, and his nanny, Liza Cooper, Good ol’ George sets out to right the world’s wrongs and bring sense to government turmoil. Though OBERON’S GIFT may at times seem bizarre and a bit over-the-top, that’s part of the fun of this feel-good tale. After a brief bumpy beginning, poli-sci major George Potter meets the amazing Oberon, the leprechaun, and he’s off and running! Once you are caught up by the good fairy’s spell in the first chapter you’ll be hooked. So Read On...and Enjoy!
ONE
The rusty, dusty VW Bug roared and clattered down the night-quiet streets of old
Oakland. It was two A.M. After squeezing through three yellow lights and blatantly running a red one, the small car swerved into the circular drive of the Amos Plunkett Memorial Hospital; and came to a screeching halt in the white passenger zone at the front steps.
The driver side door flew open and a tall, black-bearded, long-haired young man in faded jeans and a sweatshirt with cut off sleeves, leaped out and rushed around to the passenger door. A pretty blond with a pained expression emerged. Her bulging camel coat did nothing to hide the fact that she was extremely pregnant. The girl groaned softly as the young man grabbed an old shopping bag from the back seat and gently, tenderly almost carried the young lady up the steps, through the glass and brass doors and into the hospital lobby.
The young man looked wildly around for a moment until he spied the admittance desk in the far corner. The girl bent forward and moaned: “Hurry, George! Please!” He seated her carefully on one of the couches and ran to the desk.
“Please!...my...Lydia...she’s...she’s about to have a ...baby!” he stammered desperately.
The thin-faced, gray haired woman seated at the desk looked up. In his haste, George had neglected to comb his hair and beard. With his scruffy appearance and worried, wild-eyed look, she must have mistaken him for an escapee from the mental ward upstairs. Her startled expression was magnified by the thick-lensed glasses she wore. Then a flicker of distaste touched her face. Hippies! her look seemed to say.
She stood up, stepped to the counter and smiled as she glanced at Lydia across the lobby. Her lips smiled only. Her eyes still held the same coldness.
“Yesssss...of course,” she hissed at George. “You do have the one hundred dollar admittance fee, don’t you?”
George turned white. “”Admittance fee?--Hundred dollars?” came his choked reply. “I don’t...”
“Well, we can’t admit her unless you can pay the fee. Hospital policy--this isn’t Community General, you know.” She spoke with a condescending tone, slowly and distinctly as though Lydia had all the time in the world, when actually the young lady was nearing the critical three-minutes-between-contractions stage.
George’s own sympathy pangs were coming even closer together and he wasn’t sure he could stand much more of the old gal’s total indifference. George looked over at Lydia. She was holding herself and looking at him with such pleading eyes, he wanted to throttle this bitter old woman who was keeping his girl from the attention she needed.
“I...I just don’t have it.” he said hopelessly.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to take her to Community.” she said, obviously enjoying their discomfort.
Lydia groaned loudly, and the woman, exhibiting no concern whatsoever, gave the girl a look of impatience.
“Wait a minute!” cried George, grasping at straws. “How about the pink-slip to my car?”
The woman narrowed her eyes at him for a moment before she spoke. “Well...that is highly irregular, but I think it has been done in the past. Yes--if that’s the best you can do.”
George turned on his heel and sprinted for the car. In the glove compartment he found the pink paper. It was fresh and new. He had received it only day-before-yesterday. He’d scraped up enough from his tutoring to pay for the car, the only thing he owned except for the clothes on his back.
He ran up the steps and back to the desk where the sour-faced old biddy waited with outstretched hand. She flinched slightly as their hands touched. Then she studied the document for a few moments and nodded. She pressed a button. A nurse came from another room. Without a word she saw what was needed and quickly brought in a wheelchair. The nurse, at least, showed some compassion for Lydia. Clucking like a mother hen, she and George helped Lydia into the chair. George hooked the old shopping bag over the handles of the wheelchair and said apologetically: “Uh...her things. She might need them.”
Lydia gave him an adoring, though pained look as he kissed her. The nurse flashed him a friendly smile, turned the chair around and pushing it ahead of her, trotted off down the long white hallway.
George blew a kiss after them
“Young man,” croaked the woman at the desk. “You still have to fill out these papers and sign them.”
George gave her a piercing look and glanced back down the corridor. Lydia was out of sight.
He filled out and signed the papers without bothering to wade through all the fine print and legal mumbo jumbo. He felt a bad case of writer’s cramp coming on before he finished filling in the blanks and signing his name, George B. Potter, again and again. All the while the unkind woman looked disapprovingly down at him.
“There now, That’s just fine,” she said with her best cold smile as she gathered the forms together. “You will please wait in there!” she commanded as she pointed a bony, yet well-manicured finger toward a doorway clearly marked, Waiting Room.
“How long does it take?” asked the dazed young man.
“Oh really! Don’t you know anything?!” asked the woman, her short supply of patience at an end. “It could take minutes. It could take hours--sometimes even a day,” she grumbled.
George turned and slowly walked away from her toward the waiting room.
****
He paused in the doorway and surveyed the small, well appointed room. Much of it was in shadow, yet here and there pools of light illuminated comfortable looking leather couches and chairs. There was no one in the room. He had his choice of parking places, so he selected his corner and waded across the plush carpet to an inviting leather armchair. As he plopped himself down into it, he felt his weariness take over.
Most of good ol’ George's friends and professors thought him to be, clear of eye, steady of hand, resolute of purpose, tried and true, and serene of spirit
Actually, and few people knew this, deep within his rather impressive, sturdy frame also beat the heart of a lover and poet. But that was when he was possessed of all his faculties. At the moment, he was none of the above. His exhaustion and the events of the past hours had driven out his usual cool, leaving him just a bit dizzy and dopey. A list of confusing thoughts coursed through his momentarily befuddled, though usually intelligent, sensitive mind:
One: Whoever kept the timetables upstairs must have goofed it, he thought. Lydia’s premature labor had sent poor George into a state of dazed panic. He’d glimpsed frightening visions of himself trying desperately to deliver the baby enroute, in the VW. Needless to say, he was relieved when his hopelessly ill-qualified help was no longer required.
Two: The impending blessed event had foiled his own secret scheme to become a husband before he became a father. He loved Lydia and wanted the baby, but now it looked like marriage would be after the fact. The truth was, he’d been caught off guard and hadn’t even informed Lydia of his matrimonial plans. He could see his peers laughing at him for his pangs of conscience. Well, darn! He had old fashioned moral standards and was determined to set the date as soon as Lydia was able.
Three: Then there was the little matter of money. He’d been unwilling to risk a run to the University clinic and had rushed her to this, the closest hospital. It looked pretty elegant and expensive. He’d already hocked the VW, and wasn’t sure he’d ever get it back. Maybe he could borrow a few bucks from the University Student Fund.
Four: And, what about their plans for his career? George had just completed his master’s thesis in political science to the praise and plaudits of the faculty judges. They enthusiastically advised him to go on for his doctorate. Sorry folks...his entry into the political arena would have to wait. He had a real family to take care of now. First a job, then he’d see about working out a study schedule.
There, that was better. He’d rationalized his problems into a neat package and heaved a long sigh of relief. Everything would work out. It always did.
He glanced over at the collection of publications stacked neatly on the table next to him. George had read the newspapers already. As a devoted student of the political scene, he liked to stay informed.
He rummaged around under the newspapers and smiled. Now here’s something of real interest! he thought as he extracted the latest copy of Playboy. He hadn’t seen one for a long time--couldn’t afford the price. He thumbed through it and skimmed an interview with the House Majority Leader. It was informative, and as usual, just a bit provocative.
He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to clear the drowsy fog that was creeping into his consciousness. He forced his eyes open and continued to thumb through the magazine. Another overpowering urge took him and he yawned a big, self indulgent yawn. He shook himself. He must stay awake! No use. His efforts were in vain. The power of sleep overtook him and he fell into a fitful slumber. His unkempt, dark beard and full mustache fluttered slightly in the breeze produced by his deep even breathing. In fact, the elegant surroundings clashed sharply with the scruffy appearance of George Bertram Potter, BA, MA, U.C. Berkeley Class of ‘82.
The hospital quiet was broken only by the soft chiming of the call bell and the whisper of crepe soled shoes as nurses scurried along the corridor outside.
Suddenly, an unexpected sound jarred him awake. His magazine started to slide from his lap and he made a grab for it, then sleepily spread the centerfold across his knees. A voluptuous Miss April offered him a sultry smirk. He was about to give her a groggy grin in return, when he was startled by the sound of someone clearing his throat, and realized he was no longer alone. George peered over the edge of the centerfold and focused his eyes on a puddle of light on the plush carpet nearby. Standing in the puddle was a pair of very shiny, very green, patent leather shoes.
The remarkable shoes impelled him to look further. He allowed his eyes to travel upward, where he next took in sharply creased, bright green trousers, followed by a smartly tailored matching vest and suit coat. Then a pale green shirt came into view, adorned with a green-on-green polka-dot tie. The tie was held precisely in place by an enormous, glittering, green-jeweled tie tack.
Finally, his eyes came to rest on the most extraordinary face he’d ever seen! The pointed, bright red-orange beard went perfectly with a halo of flame-colored hair. the face was wreathed in a merry smile and the twinkling green eyes were the same hue as the mans dapper, three-piece vested suit. His eyes were separated by a pointed nose that turned up slightly at the end. The trim little man was rather short, thought George; less than five feet tall.
The two men studied each other silently. George couldn't take his eyes off the amazing little gentleman. The man in green continued to smile as he surveyed the graduate student in the chair. He raised an eyebrow and said to himself, So this is our candidate? He could see he had his work cut out for him. The young mans disheveled appearance wasn’t very encouraging.
At last the little man broke the strained silence.
“Good morning, George Potter,” he said softly, with just the hint of an accent.
George was naturally surprised the bizarre little fellow knew his name and stammered. “Who...who are you?!”
Little Red Beard drew himself up to his full height and made a slight bow.
“I am Oberon, the Good Fairy,” he said proudly.
George bristled and growled at the man in green, “A fairy, eh? Buzz off man. I’m not interested!”
“No, no, George,” said the stranger with a high piping laugh. “You misunderstand my meaning. I am the real Good Fairy. We’re sometimes called leprechauns”
This was too much for George. “Oh, come on now!” he scoffed. “There’s no such thing!” Then all of a sudden a small chill went through him. He’d just noticed something else about his visitor. The red-bearded man cast no shadow. Stranger still, this Oberon character seemed to create his own light. A mysterious aura of green radiance shimmered about him. George blinked his eyes and rubbed them. He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck where the hair had begun to rise.
Impossible! Maybe he had been studying to hard. Yes,that was it. And he decided he’d better have his eyes examined in the morning.
The little man’s smile faded and his face registered disappointment. “You mortals! We offer you the world and still you doubt us. I suppose you want proof?”
George said nothing, but was even more perplexed when the little man reached for his inside jacket pocket and withdrew what looked like a golden pointer, one of the collapsible kind. The strange little fellow extended it to its full length and made a few practice passes through the air above George’s head. The tip of it sparkled and gave off a strange greenish light. Finally, the leprechaun turned the tip downward and touched the paper image of the Play-Girl-of-the-Month, who lay well exposed in George’s lap.
George watched with fascination, and gave a start when the buxom young lady stretched her arms, yawned, and looked up at him with such a come-hither glance, he blushed. Since George hesitated to join her between the satin sheets on which she lay, the delightful creature reached up with her tiny hand and touched his cheek. Still he didn’t move, so she gave his cheek a tweak. He flinched slightly and she reached up and kissed him tenderly. Oberon the Good Fairy, watched all this impatiently. At length he waved his wand again, and with that, the nude girl returned to her page and two dimensional form.
George continued to stare in awe at the magazine. His mouth hung open.
Suddenly George scowled at the leprechaun. “Now hold on a darned minute! You’re messing with my mind. That was a very clever trick, but I think you’re nothing but a hypnotist!”
Oberon groaned inwardly, Why are some mortals so skeptical? At first glance, he’d hoped for an easy victory, But appearances can be deceiving. Initially he’d seen only a scruffy student sitting before him. One who seemed to have none of the requisites of world leadership. He smelled clean enough, but looked rather shoddy. Yes, Oberon had at first decided, a genuine hippy in patched jeans; and at first glance seriously lacking in the brains department. Still, he’d read the committee’s spy report. and Potter’s brilliant master’s thesis. Presumably, hidden in the deep recesses of the young man’s rough exterior was a heart and mind filled with grand ideas and potent emotions. It was the ultimate goal of Oberon and his fellow beings to help bring those internal forces to the surface and project them to the world. That would come later. This initial visit with the candidate was merely to show him anything is possible with a little push and extra will power. Just now he’d caught a promising glimpse of the young candidate’s true colors in his extraordinary blue eyes. He’d been warned this George Potter was more than usually rational, realistic and logical--potentially a tough nut to crack. Oberon realized two powerful wills now filled the room. The leprechaun only hoped he was up to the challenge. He had to win. The subject must accept the first wish or the game was over.
Close your mouth, George, “ snapped Oberon. “It’s time to get down to business.”
George looked up and clapped his mouth shut.
“Do you believe I am who I say I am, George?!” Oberon demanded.
“Sorry, I’d like to believe...I really am trying...but...” stuttered the student.
The leprechaun sighed a resigned sigh, “Well, at least you’re making an effort, I guess this is as good a time as any to explain why I’m here.”
George nodded uncertainly as the little man continued.
“George, have you ever wondered why it is, every few years, a unique human being makes an appearance on earth? Someone, who by sheer will and personality, is able to change the course of history?”
George furrowed his brow and shrugged his shoulders
“Surely you don’t think it was mere chance that produced Alexander the Great, Elizabeth I, Napoleon, Winston Churchill, Abe lincoln, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Mao Tse-tung, Gandhi, et cetera, ad nauseum. The list goes on and on, but I think you get the idea.” He could see a vague glimmer of understanding come into the still dubious young man’s eyes.
“You see, George, it’s a little game we Good Fairies play. When it gets dull here on earth, we like to stir things up. Every once in a while, just for the fun of it, we select someone. Our candidates are carefully screened. They must meet certain qualifications.” He waited for this to sink in, then pointing a finger at George, he said very positively,
“This time, George, we’ve seleted...YOU!”
Again George’s jaw began to dangle in disbelief.
“Here’s how it works,” continued the man in green. “We grant you three wishes. I’m sure you’ve heard that one before. Whatever you want, though we sometimes make a suggestion or two.” Oberon, the leprechaun warmed to his subject as he saw excitement begin to show in George’s face. “Then we just sit back and see how you turn out. That’s the best part o the game. You can imagine the wagering that goes on back home. It’s a gamble. Oh, we’ve come up with some real lu-lu’s, That damned German paperhanger was a source of great embarrassment to us. All in all, though there have been some outstanding successes!”
“Are you really for real?” squeaked the graduate student.
You said you’d at least try to believe, George,” admonished Oberon.
“I’ve tried...but it’s all so unbelievable!”
Concerned that he might lose this young man, and thereby lose the wager, he resignedly continued his sales pitch.
“Listen, George, and this is important! The way we play our game is crucial. You do get three wishes, but to make the game more interesting, the rules committee instructs us to dole out the powers one at a time. Surely, you can see how this adds to the suspense.”
George nodded vaguely.
Oh brother! groaned the leprechaun to himself. Then he continued. “Tonight you get your first wish, Then, after this meeting, I will show up periodically to grant the other two. Get the picture?”
Still not totally convinced, George grunted in assent.
“The rules committee also retains the right to revoke the remaining wishes if our candidate becomes difficult or causes trouble, as in the case of the aforementioned dictator. Also, if necessary, they may suggest a wish, if the chosen fails to come up with something. You must see how all this could make the game more exciting for both the candidate and the folks back in Neverneverland”?
George replied, “I guess....”
Hoping he was finally getting through to his subject, the leprechaun made a final plea.
“George, this is the chance of a life time! Don’t pass it up!”
Fearing ostracism by the committee or lost points in the game if he failed, the good fairy gestured desperately toward the centerfold still draped over the young man’s lap.
In his exhausted state, George finally decided the only way he was going to get some peace was to give in to the bizarre little man’s unbelievable arguments. Then, maybe this Oberon character would leave him alone.
“Okay...Okay. What do I have to lose?” he murmured giving up and giving in.
“Nothing”, agreed the relieved Oberon, “and you have so much to gain! Now”, he urged, “ How about that first wish?”
Still pretty sure he’s dreaming, George thought for a moment before answering.
“Well...face it. I’m a poor starving student. I had to hock the VW to get Lydia into this snooty hospital.” He blushes. “And though I love the heck out of Lydia, we’re not even married. The rent is way overdue on our little dump, and now, with a growing family, we need a bigger place.” He paused and cleared the fog from his voice. “If any of this madness is possible, I guess my first wish has to be money. I’m not greedy, but a few thou right now would sure come in handy.”
Though Oberon cringed at the young man’s stubborn doubt that fairies exist, he came back with, “Wealth, yes, that's usually the first wish.” He waved his wand over George and some sparkles slid down the young man’s cheek. Though he felt the tingle, he really didn’t feel any different. Perhaps riches had to grow on one.
“Well, George, that’s your first wish. We’ll meet again. How soon depends on you.”
Oberon eyed the young man in the chair and wondered just what sort of choice he and his brothers had made. He knew the human spirit often contains that elusive spark of greatness. It lies hidden within the deep recesses of the mind. Though it may yearn to break free, it’s usually stifled by life’s petty responsibilities or destroyed by everyday frustrations. All it really needs is a little encouragement. Oberon and his brethren had furnished the first measure of fuel, now with any luck, they could ignite their candidate with the prime ingredient--Opportunity! The Good Fairies planned to put George’s political and language skills to good use later, but wanted to have a little fun with him first.
Oberon concentrated his extraordinary mental powers on his subject.
“George, I read in your thoughts that your only concern is for your Lydia and the boy-child who is going to enter this mad world in...” The leprechaun checked his green-glowing, digital watch.“...in exactly five minutes and twenty seconds.”
George caught the Good Fairy’s meaning and beamed from ear to ear.
“A boy? Oh boy!” He yelped.
“Yes, a boy,” Then a thought apparently struck the amazing Oberon. “Oh...before I forget. You are going to come into a wee bit of money almost immediately. When you do, your common sense will dictate you only spend it for the welfare of your new family. Use the money wisely, George, but don’t be be afraid to take a little gamble.”
“So, that’s it. Good-by, George and good luck!” the little man in green concluded, as he waved the wand one last time over the young man’s head.
This time George’s eyes became heavy and his head bent forward as he fell into a deep sleep. He seemed to float in the darkness for a long time. Then a blinding light cut through the black--a bright spotlight. The light was followed by a whole panorama of sights and sounds that came sweeping though his mind: A voice singing a clear high note; roaring, screaming applause; banners waving; crowds cheering. The visions went on and on, though they may have been only moments in actual time.
TWO
The dream-pictures and voices danced and leaped through his brain, until another sound violated his sleep. It came from far outside the fantasy world in which he swam. Somewhere, in the distance, someone was calling his name.
“Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter, please wake up!”
It was a long way back, but George finally roused himself and looked into a vaguely familiar, friendly face. The mass confusion of the preceding hours came back to him: The panic stricken moment when Lydia announced she was in labor; the fear they’d never make the University clinic in time,; and their last minute dash to this high class private hospital. There was the instant regret when the night clerk turned out to be the reincarnation of the Wicked Witch of the West, who refused them asylum without a deposit, while Lydia moaned in pain. A moment of inspiration had prompted George to offer the pink slip to his old VW. The crone had practically cackled with malevolent glee as she accepted it, then grudgingly called the nurse who now smiled so warmly down at him.
“Yes...y--es. Lydia?” George croaked. “How is she?...Th...the baby?”
“Your...um...ah...wife is fine, and you are the father of beautiful eight pound boy,” smiled the nurse.
`”A boy? Whoa!” breathed George.
George’s heart was so full of new-father pride he didn’t bother to correct his and Lydia’s marital status.
“Are they okay? May I see them now?!”
“They’re both fine--just fine.” the nurse thought for a moment before she continued. “Well, ordinarily I’d say you should let your...ah...wife rest. But she came through labor well. She’s a healthy girl and recovered quickly. I guess it’ll be all right if you don’t stay to long. Just take this hall to the end and turn left...room one forty-five.”
George missed her amused, slightly disapproving look as he thanked her. Resisting the impulse to run, he hurried down the hallway, quickly found the number and pushed open the door.
George entered the small room and saw Lydia sitting up, bolstered by pillows on the adjustable bed. She held a small creature in her ams who was sucking and smacking at her breast.
The soft light from the lamp fell across the bed and Lydia appeared to him like a vision; like a madonna in an old painting, all white and pure.
“Oh wow!” he exclaimed in a whisper.
Lydia looked up and smiled at him. “George, come and meet your son.”
George walked hesitantly, almost reverently to the bed and knelt beside it, without taking his eyes off the miraculous pair.
He gazed at the tiny creature she held--so shriveled and wrinkled and beautiful. The tiny fingers were clenched and the eyes were closed in secure ecstasy as he sucked. George’s own eyes misted over and Lydia could read his feelings. She took one of George’s hands and pressed it to her lips.
“Big George and little George, she whispered.
“Lydia,” he replied softly. “I love you so much!”
They stayed like that for a long time until the tiny boy-child finished his breakfast and fell asleep. The nurse came in and took the baby away.
George sat on the bed and Lydia took him in her arms as she had the baby. She kissed him and laid his head on her soft bosom.
Suddenly, he started to chuckle and Lydia squirmed uncomfortably. “George, stop that”
Your beard...it tickles. What’s so funny, anyway?”
“Oh, just a dream I had. One of those fabulous, incredible dreams that never come true.”
Distracted from what he was saying by her own thoughts, she whispered hesitantly.
“George?”
“Uh huh.”
“I hope you wont’ be angry, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What’s that, Love?”
“Well, ah...I think we agreed that if the baby turned out to be a boy, we’d call him George, after you. That was okay, but I had to give a last name too...and, I...I gave him mine!”
George sat bolt upright and choked out. “Why Lydia?! Why did you do that?!”
He could see tears welling up in her eyes.
“We...we’re not married, and it’s legal to give the mother’s maiden name,” she sobbed.
“Now, wait a minute--married or not, our son's going to have my name, and besides...”
“Oh, George,” she interrupted, smiling through her tears. “I just wanted to hear you say it. I wasn’t sure. They said we could change it to your name if we did it before the records went out.”
“What do I do?” he demanded, a little irritated at the adorable girl on the bed.
“Just ring for the nurse,” she said, smiling as she handed him the buzzer cord. She still
wondered if he might change his mind, but he took it and pressed the button without hesitation.
The nurse came in immediately. She looked as if she knew why she’d been called and gave Lydia a wink.
George said in very positive tones. “The child’s name is George Bertram Potter the Second.
The nurse smiled, went over to where George sat and gave the surprised graduate student a kiss on the cheek.
“Of course that’s his name. I knew it all the time.” Then in a more serious tone she added. “I think it would be best if you let Lydia sleep. Why don’t you go next door and have some breakfast? You should be able to see your family again in an hour or so.
“I am a little tired, George.’ sighed Lydia. “Maybe you should let me rest be for a while.”
George nodded with an understanding grin. He had important decisions to discuss with Lydia but decided they could wait a while longer. He gave Lydia a gentle kiss and turned to the nurse.
“You said there’s a place to eat next door?”
“Yes, the Happy Pancake. Out the front door, turn left and it’s a half block down.”
“Thanks, I guess I could use some breakfast,” said George. He patted Lydia’s knee and she took his hand.
“ George...I love you.” she whispered as he got up to leave.
George made his way through the lobby. Old Witchie-Bitch Looked up, gave him her best look of disgust and returned to her paperwork. George was too full of the wonder of fatherhood to let her dampen his spirits.
As he walked happily out into the early Oakland dawn and down the steps he had to resist the impulse to skip the half block to the Happy Pancake.
The eatery was one of the usual fast food outlets, prefabricated of pseudo-wood, glass and plastic. George pushed the door open and was greeted by a rush of food smells tinged with the odor of rancid fat. He was so hungry, he didn’t even notice the sign in the window inviting all comers to: Play Breakfast Bonanza and Win up to Three Thousand Dollars!
THREE
George stepped up to the counter and was greeted by a sleepy eyed young lady. Dressed in an orange and yellow uniform, her name-tag read--Agnes. As she wiped her perspiring face on her sleeve, she did her best to give him a weak smile.
“Yes sir, may I help you?” she said.
George ignored her question for a moment. He was so proud, he had to announce to her he was the father of a brand new baby boy. The young lady showed a great lack of enthusiasm at this bit of news.
George thought, Probably get a lot of new fathers in here, Then added aloud. “The hospital recommended your establishment as an excellent place to partake of some sustenance.”
The girl gave him a blank look, thought for a moment and then made a stab at a reply.
“S--Susti-nuts?” she stuttered. “ I don’t think we have that on the menu,” and glanced at the list on the wall behind her.
“Oh, sorry,” smiled George at her discomfiture. “Well then, how about something for breakfast. What do you suggest?”
It was obvious the poor girl was reluctant to make decisions. Her weak smile faded and she scratched her head as she thought for a moment.
“How about some Happy Pancakes, scrambled eggs and sausage?” she inquired tentatively.
“Whatever you say,” replied George. He was starved and willing to try anything.
“Fine, sir, If you’ll just have a seat, your food will be ready in a few minutes.”
George took a table near the window and the girl called back his order to the assembly line. He was the lone customer in the place when Miss Agnes came over to pour him a cup of coffee. He thanked her and sipped his coffee as he looked out at the awakening city. The streets were still in deep shadow, but the sky to the east was brightening and people were beginning to scurry about, hurrying to work or hustling to get ready for the day.
George saw none of the early morning bustle. His mind was full of other things: His new family, his new responsibilities, and Lydia. Lydia! What a terrific girl she was! What a beautiful life they had together! He thought about how they’d first met--on the UC Berkeley
campus.
The dirty window he was looking through dissolved away and he was projected back to that moment one and a half years ago. It was a hot day, he remembered. He’d headed for his favorite tree, brown bag in hand. The tree was off the main traffic patterns and he usually had it all to himself. But, today there was a girl sitting under his tree--a beautiful girl!
He stopped a short distance away. She was concentrating on a text book as she absently munched a sandwich. The girl didn’t see him at first, so he had a chance to study her. George had never been so impressed by the mere look of a girl before. She was very pretty, yet there was an open honesty in her face that was different from the flighty breed of coed he knew.
There was no doubt about it. He had to meet this girl. Several devious plans seeped through his mind, but he discarded them. He didn’t want to rush her. That might scare her off.
Then he saw her paper bag lunch and remembered his own. It wasn’t much of an excuse for conversation, but better than none. He moved closer to her, and clearing his throat, made a profound opening statement:
“Hot,” he said, mopping his brow.
The girl looked up.
Would you look at those baby blues?! he observed to himself as their eyes met.
The girl said nothing and George plunged on with his suave, though one sided conversation.
“Do you brown-bag often?” he inquired.
She nodded, but still said nothing as she went back to her book..
He pursued his quest. “It’s a very warm day. May I borrow a bit of your shade?” It was damned warm, but the girl seemed cold and indifferent toward him. She didn’t seem to want him around at all. It was embarrassing. He could feel the blood creep up under his beard as he blushed. He hesitated a moment, then with a burst of determination, decided to go ahead and sit. It was his tree, after all.
She didn’t react to his move, but he had the distinct impression she was on her guard. Was he that creepy looking?
It was true--her first impression of George wasn’t as favorable as his of her. With his long hair, black beard and clean but scruffy shirt and coveralls, he looked like a hippy--the genuine article.
Later, he learned that she was from the midwest where hippies were rare, and she’d heard strange tales about them. Her parents narrow minded attitude and exacting code of behavior also affected her first impression of him.
They didn’t say much to each other at first, but finally George took the bull by the horns and began a monolog about his field--political science.
Soon she began to see more than his rough facade. There was a modesty about him and an easy sense of humor the made her feel comfortable in his company. She could see that he was attractive under his beard. His finger nails were clean and clipped and he sat close enough for her to smell the fresh soap scent about him.
At last, just before the buzzer rang for the next class period, she spoke. Wonderful words flowed from her lovely lips. He’d been waiting anxiously for her to speak and any sound she made would have been music to his ears. He learned that she was at UC Berkeley to study journalism and this was her first semester.
Politics and Journalism, thought George. How ironic. The two often went hand-in-hand to support one another, or they worked from opposite poles in a tug of war. In any case, hand-in-hand or as opposites that attract, he was sure they had much in common. George was determined to find out how much.
As they gathered their books and collected their litter, George asked if they might meet again for lunch the next day. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t say No; only gave him a long look and pretty Mona Lisa smile she walked away toward the English building.
****
“Oh, sir?” George was awakened from his reverie by Miss Agnes motioning to him from the counter. “Your breakfast is ready.” He paid for the meal with his last bit of change.
“Sir,” she said as he turned to go back to the table. “Don’t forget your Bonanza Game coupon. You could win.”
George took the small card from her. “Now what’s this?” he muttered to himself as he sat down. He looked at the card absently and tossed it on the table.
George wolfed down the breakfast without noticing the pancakes were a little soggy, the scrambled eggs dry and too scrambled. All he knew was it was filling and soon he felt better. Several other breakfasters came in while he ate. He barely heard them order: Happy Pancakes, eggs, sausage, etc.
Finally he lost interest in the cold plate before him, and found himself staring at the contest coupon. He picked it up and turned it over. There was a square black patch on the back side.
The counter girl leaned over his shoulder to refill his cup.
“Yes, sir. You just rub the coating off the black window there,’ she instructed.
“Like this?” he asked as he began to rub his thumb over the area she indicated.
“Yes. See, it’s starting to come off.”
He could see that his thumb was beginning to turn black as he rubbed. Suddenly a dollar sign appeared, followed by the numeral three.
The girl leaned in closer. “Sir, I think you’ve won something!” she exclaimed with mounting excitement. People around them stopped eating and turned to stare.
Then, as George rubbed, a zero was uncovered. He kept rubbing--then another and another...until George and the girl could plainly see a dollar sign, a three, and three zeros.
The waitress squealed. “Ooooooh, hot damn, sir! But it can’t be! Why we’ve never had a...wait here...don’t go away. Let me get the manager!”
George continued to rub as the girl ran to the back of the restaurant. Several of the Happy Pancake customers came over to watch. Perspiration broke out on George’s forehead as he worked. Finally, he stopped and looked again. All the black was gone; transferred to George’s thumb and fingers. But there, in a neat red frame on the card, George, as well as those standing behind him, could clearly read:
YOU HAVE JUST WON THE $3,000 BREAKFAST BONANZA--CONGRATULATIONS!
People crowded closer to make sure. Then they gave a hoot and a holler,clapped George on the back and congratulated him. The winner sat staring silently at the card. He didn’t hear the commotion going on around him. Across his mind flickered the image of a dapper little man in green with a red beard. He also saw visions of Lydia with the baby in her arms.
At length, the breakfasters quieted down, rushed back to their tables and began to rub off their own coupons. There were a lot of disappointed groans in the now crowded room, but from one corner, someone yelled:
“Hey! I won ten bucks!”
“Be with you in a moment, Sir,” came a new voice from the back of the Happy Pancake.
A sandy-haired, freckled- faced young man was being practically dragged to George’s table by Miss Agnes.
“Look! Look for yourself, Mr. Kelly.”
The newcomer leaned over George’s shoulder and studied the card for a moment.
“Well, golleeee! You’re right Aggie. He’s won the big one all right. Congratulations, Sir!” Freckles grabbed George's free hand and pumped it vigorously. “Boy, wait ‘til they hear about this downtown. You’re our first big winner!”
George looked half dazed as he turned toward the manager who was now shoving some papers in front of him.
George was used to filling out forms and now he signed right on the dotted line.
“And this form is a release so we can use your name and picture in the newspapers and on TV,” beamed young Freckles as he placed another paper in front of George.
The winner, who was feeling just a little out of phase, murmured as he signed, “Newspapers?...TV?”
“Yes Sir, This is big news!”
At last George regained some of his composure and asked. “What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock, Sir.”
At last it hit him. He’d just won Three Thousand Dollars. Thinking of his new family he realized this could make all the difference in their future.
“I’ve got to tell Lydia,” he said aloud, jumping up and handing the coupon to young Frec.
“No, sir, you keep that. Bring it back at ten thirty and I’ll have your check for you.”
“Thank You! Thank you!” stammered George as he started for the door. His knees were all wobbly and he couldn’t feel the floor under him. Suddenly he was running...running back toward the hospital. He dashed into the hospital lobby, shouting,
“I won! I won!
Old sour face Witchee-Bitch looked up from her desk in dismay. “Sir, Please be quiet! “This is a hospital.”
George’s yell was quickly reduced to a whisper.
“I won! I won!” he chirped.
The old biddy still had his pink slip, but he decided to deal with her later. Her had to see Lydia first.
He hurried to Lydia’s room only to find her asleep. Torn between his desire to tell her about his good fortune and her need to rest, he stood for a few moments looking down at her. He thought she looked angelic with her long blond hair spread out on the pillow. There was a faint smile on her lips. As he looked at her, she stirred, opened her eyes and gazed sleepily up at him.
“Hi, Honey, she said, stretching and yawning. “Oh, I had such a good sleep. What have you been up to?” She sat up and patted the bed next to her. George sat down. Hardly able to contain himself, he handed her the card.
“Lookee, lookee, Lyd. Look what your ol’ Dad’s brought you,” he said with a big, boyish grin.
Lydia squinted at the card, reached for her glasses on the table, put them on, and studied the winning Breakfast Bonanza coupon.“What does it mean, Georgie?” she asked with a puzzled frown.
“It means I just won Three thousand dollars at the Happy Pancake,” he beamed.
For a moment she didn’t get his meaning until she read the contest rules on the reverse side of the small card. She clapped her hands together in amazement and laughed.
“It can’t be true!” she exclaimed.
“But it is...and here’s how the whole thing came about.” With that he told her about Little Red Beard.
“Oh George, you have such a vivid imagination. Sounds like another of your crazy dreams. You’ve worked too hard to finish your master’s thesis, that’s all,” she patted his knee.
“I think it’s given you hallucinations.’
George deflated a little. “But it seemed so real. Guess you’re right though--just a dream.But the contest money is real enough Lyddy It’ll help pay the hospital bill and I can get our car out of hock.”
“Yes darling of course,” Lydia replied, pulling him down to her for a big kiss.
He wriggled loose and gave her a pinch. “Here, girl enough of that. We have serious things to discuss. There’s a pressing problem that must be rectified.”
“What’s that Georgie,” she asked with a puzzled frown.
“It’s high time we got married,” he replied with mock seriousness.
‘I don’t see why,” Lydia replied, but joy filled her when he spoke the words. All along, the thought had gnawed at her perhaps it would be better for them to give the child up for adoption. She knew it would be impossible for her now that she’d held little George Twoand nursed him. Yet the truth was, they weren’t married. Though they had discussed it, time and nature had gotten away from them. Perhaps now George should dump her and go on with his career.
“We need to marry for the boy’s sake,” George went on with a straight face. “Because he needs a father...” he saw her face fall and added with a big grin. “And because I love the heck out of you and need you so much?”
Her heart leaped as he kissed her tenderly. At last she was sure George really loved her as she loved him--with all her heart; and this wasn’t just another college romance that had gone too far.
Lydia squeezed his hand. “Yes, and I suppose our folks need to know they are grandparents.”
“Won’t this frost ‘em?!” laughed George. “Tell ya what, honey, why don’t we plan the wedding for a week from today...next Saturday. That way you and George Two should be strong enough. I’ll send your folks and mine telegrams, asking them to be here on the twentieth.”
Lydia squirmed a little, then gave a wicked little laugh. “This’ll give my parents a kick right in their mid-Victorian pants. George, they don’t even know about you, let alone little George. You’d better put my name on the telegram and don’t mention the baby. One shock at a time. I love my folks, but they’re not going to understand any of this.
They talked for a while, planning their future and how they’d use their new wealth. Two hours went by and another nurse came on duty as Lydia and George talked. The new nurse frowned at George and said, “Bath time, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside.”
“Oh, man!” exclaimed George. “What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty, sir.”
“I’d better get going then. Gotta pick up our money.” He gave Lydia a kiss and rushed past the astonished nurse.
When he arrived back at the Happy Pancake, a small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. A van was parked at the curb. On its side panel, giant letters stated the vehicle belonged to Channel Two. An obviously bored cameraman with a TV mini-cam balance on his shoulder was standing to one side. A pleasant looking young man stood near him with a microphone in hand. He was studying the toe of his shoe; checking it’s shine in the morning light. Miss Agnes was coyly trying to get his attention, but he ignored her.
Meanwhile Freckles, the Happy Pancake manager, was deep in conversation with a short, bald headed man. The spectators looked on with mild interest, wondering what it was all about.
George glanced in through the windows of the eatery. He could see it was empty. Too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. He stood with the onlookers for a few moments and viewed the scene. Then Freckles caught sight of him and called out a greeting.
“Mr. Potter, we were getting worried.”
He motioned George over to meet the bald headed man who turned out to be Happy Pancakes Bay Area public-relations man. He made a big fuss over George.
George Potter was the first big winner in Happy Pancakes first contest, and this was in- deed an historic moment!” George thought they were overplaying it a bit, but smiled and acted out the part of an excited winner as best he could. The P.R. man was very proud he’d been able to round up so much media publicity in such a short time. He introduced George to the newsman, who kept repeating he wasn’t sure this story would get on the news. George got the impression that Channel Two carried a big chunk of Bay Area’s Happy Pancake advertising budget and they were only covering the story to keep their client happy.
The newsman coached George on what to do and how to stand. The cameraman faced them into the morning sun so they had to squint. Freckles went through the motions of presenting George with a check as the man pointed his camera at them. The newsman smiled a toothy grin and asked George how the whole thing came about. George was tempted to tell them about little Red Beard but, Lydia's skepticism and his own common sense had reduced that whole episode to a dream. His good luck was just that, and nothing more.
Finally the show was over and everyone scattered. The Channel Two crew packed up their gear and left. the P.R. man snapped a few pictures and he took off. The spectators lost interest and went about their business. Freckles and Miss Agnes congratulated him again, then went back inside to get ready for the lunch bunch.This left George standing by himself on the sidewalk. At last he looked down at the check in his hand. Sure enough it was for three thousand dollars! His mind started spending it so fast he got the sinking feeling it wouldn’t last long. But it would be a big help...that was certain. First, he had to do something about the car and the hospital. He leaned through the doorway of the Happy Pancake.
“Could you please tell me where I might find the nearest bank?” he called after the retreating figure of ol’ Frec, the manager.
“Oh, of course, Mr. Potter. There’s one right around the corner. Just have them call us if they have any questions.”
****
George hurried to the bank, entered and rushed up to the nearest teller. She took his check and looked at it without expression. “Let me confirm this, Mr. Potter. Just a precaution. It’s for your own protection, you know.”
George nodded. the girl went to the phone at the back of the bank and he supposed she talked to Freckles. She nodded, hung up the receiver and returned to the window with a smile.
“Yes indeed, Mr. Potter! Everything is in order and congratulations! How do you want the check handled? Perhaps you’d like to open an account. We’re having a contest and I could win a trip to Hawaii.”
George thought for a minute while the girl continued to beam at him eagerly. Finally he said. “Yes--I don’t have an account anywhere. Never had any money to put in one. Let’s see...I’ll open an account for twenty-seven hundred; and take the balance in cash. I’ve got a few expenses I gotta take care of right away.”
“Checking or savings?” asked the girl, earnestly.
“Oh, checking I guess. It won’t last long enough to make any interest anyway.”
The girl made out the necessary forms and George signed them. Then she counted out the three hundred in cash. He inspected the pockets of his old jeans for holes and carefully folded the money away in the watch pocket. He turned to thank the teller, but she was already helping another depositor.
****
George hurried back to the hospital and found Lydia still asleep. He had plenty to do anyway. First he settled accounts temporarily and got his VW out of hock.
He went out to where he’d parked the small car. He got in and was about to put the key in the ignition when he heard a voice at his elbow.
“Say, Bud!”
Startled, George turned to see a man leaning on the second hand VW as if he owned it. He reminded George of a caricature of a used car salesman. Dressed in an outlandish, wild plaid jacket with yellow trousers, his hair was plastered to his head and a giant cigar stuck into his slash of a mouth, he looked pretty sinister, but too flamboyant to be a real crook. Nonetheless, George was immediately put on his guard.
“Yes...Yes--sir?” George stammered at the bizarre looking character.
“Say, Bud,” the man repeated. “ I saw ya dis mornin’ at da Happy Pancake.”
George’s reaction was to reach down and put his hand over the money he’d stashed in the watch pocket.
“I know ya got money burnin’ a hole in yer pocket,” continued the man as he took the cigar from his mouth and studied it for a moment. Then he fixed George with the steadiest look his shifty eyes could manage and leaned closer to the student.
“A lot of folks would like to help ya part wit dat roll,” he continued. “Don’t get me wrong. I ain’t one of ‘em. I got a real proposition for ya.”
Oh sure! thought George with a frown.
“Ya ever play da horses, Bud?” the man asked.
“No, I don’t believe in gambling. You never win in the long run,” was the student’s ready reply.
“Au contraire--au contraire,” smiled the man. “You’ve heard of the Irish Sweepstakes? You’re a lucky guy. Look at this morning. Ya won three thousand buckolas. Wit luck like dat
you could easily win da Sweepstakes--A million smackers!”
“You’re selling Sweepstakes tickets.” stated George, flatly.
“That I am, Bud. I just know I got the winning one here somewhere.” He shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth as he pointed to the book of tickets in his hand. “I can feel it in my bones, and I’ll sell it to ya for the low price of five bucks a ticket.”
A bell went off in George’s head and once again he could see the red bearded face of the little man in green. Remember, George, be wise with your money, but don’t be afraid to take a little gamble. Oberon, the leprechaun’s words echoed in his mind. He saw the red beard thrust toward him as one of the little man’s green eyes winked.
“Gosh, was it only a dream?” said George aloud.
“Wazzat, Bud-- a dream?” he went on. “Sure it’s a dream, A dream come true of you should win.”
George thought of Lydia back at the hospital and he thought of George Two. They needed money badly, a larger home, diapers, baby food, doctor bills. His conscience was torn between Oberon’s advice and his own good sense. Still, if the little guy in green wasn’t a dream--and if this was a chance to win a million dollars. Decisions, decisions! But after all, this was his lucky day, or was it only luck? Oh, what the hell!
Finally the face of the man in the garish plaid jacket came back into focus. “You okay, Bud?” he asked with a puzzled frown.
“Oh, s...sure, fine. Give me ten tickets,” sighed George.
“A fine investment, Bud. Ten tickets, that’s only fifty buckolas. Sure you wouldn’t like to buy more? You can afford it, and it would better yer odds.”
“Just ten, please,” replied George impatiently. Those fifty buckolas would buy a lot of baby formula and he was already regretting his decision.
“Okay man, here are your tickets. Just make out the stubs, give me the cash, and I’ll be on my way.”
George signed his name, gave his current address and then reluctantly peeled off fifty dollars. He handed the ticket halves and the money to the man. He got an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched the man fold away the money and put it in his money belt. Turning to leave, the man called over his shoulder. “Well, good luck, Bud. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
George watched the man disappear around he building and looked at the ten stubs in his hands, numbers X-222-4378-2190 to X-222-4378-2200.
He looked at the sweepstakes tickets for a moment; suddenly feeling discouraged. Why had he wasted a perfectly good fifty dollars on these most probably worthless tickets? Then from some where, he thought he heard a familiar voice with a soft accent say:
Don’t worry George. Remember, we’ve selected you!
The voice in his brain startled George and he decided he was having delusions, just as Lydia had said. Lack of sleep and sitting up all night probably.
A bit angry with himself for his foolishness, George tossed the tickets into the glove compartment.
FOUR
He glanced at his watch and growled, “Tempos Fugit!” He had a lot of things to do before the hospital released Lydia and little George Two the next morning. Fired by his new responsibilities, George came back to life; his brain once again on full power. ”Time to get organized,” he said to himself, grabbing his old clip board from the back seat. He clamped on a fresh sheet of paper and made a list, checked it twice, then muttered “Time’s a wastin’!” as he shifted the VW into gear and raced out of the parking lot. He had a plan, if only the three thousand bucks held out long enough to put it into action.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-31 show above.)