Post by Reba on Aug 19, 2022 20:28:34 GMT -5
Was tempted to post this in Creative works from childhood cuz it feels like that to me, buuut. this is a story I wrote in 2016. upon rereading it, I enjoyed it more than I expected. it owes a lot to Mr. Snooket.
JIM IN A BEAUTIFUL SUIT
On the last Saturday of the year, Father and I were visited by Jim in a beautiful suit. The suit was deep brown, and the cloth was velvety. There was a matching hat.
We were having our dinner. Jim knocked on the door and Father answered.
“Hello,” said Jim. “I’m looking for a place to sleep.”
Father said, “We have a bedroom. Why don’t you come in?”
Jim bowed his head in thanks and then entered our home. He saw me at the table and I saw his eyes.
“Hello, boy,” he said to me.
I waved instead of speaking, because my mouth was full of food.
“This is my son,” said Father. “His name is Hiram. What is your name?”
“My name?” replied Jim. “Oh… My name is Jim.”
“A good name. I knew a Jim once, but he wasn’t dressed as fine as you.”
Jim smiled at the compliment. Then my father showed him to our spare bedroom. It was a very small room, which was why no one used it. It had one bed, one closet, and no windows.
My father peeked inside the closet and saw that there was an umbrella in it. “Don’t mind the umbrella,” he told Jim. “Otherwise, the room is all yours.”
Jim took off his hat and laid it on the bedspread. Then he replied, “I thank you very much for your hospitality. I think that I will spend an excellent night here.”
This pleased my father, because he had never considered his home to be very impressive. He had already taken a liking to Jim, so instead of leaving the man immediately, he invited him to sit at the dinner table with us. Jim accepted graciously.
I had just eaten the last sausage when Jim sat down. I said, “I’m sorry, sir, but there are no more sausages.”
Jim waved his hand dismissively and replied, “No need to worry. I don’t eat sausages anyway.”
“No sausages?” I exclaimed. They were my favorite dish, but they were also an extremely common food around the country, so it made sense that I was so surprised.
“No. No sausages,” said Jim. He sounded mournful as he said this, but there was a cheery glint in his eye that told me he did not actually regret the lack of sausages in his diet.
My father interjected, “Well, we have more bread in the oven, if you would still like something to eat, Jim.”
“That’s quite alright,” said Jim with the same dismissive wave of his hand. “I really am not the type to eat another man’s meal.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I insist! No food for me.”
So Jim sat as we ate our dessert. Instead of using his mouth to eat, he used it to speak. He told us that he had an important job at the capital for which he was paid a lot of money. He told us that he was traveling through these parts because he didn’t want to lose touch with the common people. Every year, he set out on foot, and he walked several hundred miles across the country, surviving on the hospitality of his fellow citizens. He told us that it was an enlightening experience for him.
“What do you learn?” I asked.
“Well,” he began, “at the capital, I only talk to one other person. She is a very rich woman who makes sure I am doing my job correctly. She follows me for half an hour every day, as I do my job, and then we have a small conversation in which she tells me about her life at home. Neither of us have interesting lives at home.
“I don’t believe that anyone I’ve met on the road has had an interesting life at home either; that’s simply a fact of the world. But all our lives are uninteresting in vastly different ways. That’s the lovely part. When I’m on the road, I learn about other jobs, and my mind swells from the stress of processing how diverse these jobs are. We all have a completely unique role in the grand scheme of things. Isn’t that excellent?”
I nodded. I had never thought of it like that, because I had never met anyone who didn’t have the same job as I did. Father and I were farmers. We dug up vegetables. What did Jim do at the capital?
“Oh, nothing like what you do here,” said Jim. “I never touch vegetables. I usually walk on tile floors rather than dirt.”
Father and I both thought that Jim was a very good man. He spoke to us like a friend, and he made his bed in the morning. Before he left, he took his chair at the table and carved his telephone number into it with a fork. It was a long number because the capital was far away.
JIM IN A BEAUTIFUL SUIT
On the last Saturday of the year, Father and I were visited by Jim in a beautiful suit. The suit was deep brown, and the cloth was velvety. There was a matching hat.
We were having our dinner. Jim knocked on the door and Father answered.
“Hello,” said Jim. “I’m looking for a place to sleep.”
Father said, “We have a bedroom. Why don’t you come in?”
Jim bowed his head in thanks and then entered our home. He saw me at the table and I saw his eyes.
“Hello, boy,” he said to me.
I waved instead of speaking, because my mouth was full of food.
“This is my son,” said Father. “His name is Hiram. What is your name?”
“My name?” replied Jim. “Oh… My name is Jim.”
“A good name. I knew a Jim once, but he wasn’t dressed as fine as you.”
Jim smiled at the compliment. Then my father showed him to our spare bedroom. It was a very small room, which was why no one used it. It had one bed, one closet, and no windows.
My father peeked inside the closet and saw that there was an umbrella in it. “Don’t mind the umbrella,” he told Jim. “Otherwise, the room is all yours.”
Jim took off his hat and laid it on the bedspread. Then he replied, “I thank you very much for your hospitality. I think that I will spend an excellent night here.”
This pleased my father, because he had never considered his home to be very impressive. He had already taken a liking to Jim, so instead of leaving the man immediately, he invited him to sit at the dinner table with us. Jim accepted graciously.
I had just eaten the last sausage when Jim sat down. I said, “I’m sorry, sir, but there are no more sausages.”
Jim waved his hand dismissively and replied, “No need to worry. I don’t eat sausages anyway.”
“No sausages?” I exclaimed. They were my favorite dish, but they were also an extremely common food around the country, so it made sense that I was so surprised.
“No. No sausages,” said Jim. He sounded mournful as he said this, but there was a cheery glint in his eye that told me he did not actually regret the lack of sausages in his diet.
My father interjected, “Well, we have more bread in the oven, if you would still like something to eat, Jim.”
“That’s quite alright,” said Jim with the same dismissive wave of his hand. “I really am not the type to eat another man’s meal.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I insist! No food for me.”
So Jim sat as we ate our dessert. Instead of using his mouth to eat, he used it to speak. He told us that he had an important job at the capital for which he was paid a lot of money. He told us that he was traveling through these parts because he didn’t want to lose touch with the common people. Every year, he set out on foot, and he walked several hundred miles across the country, surviving on the hospitality of his fellow citizens. He told us that it was an enlightening experience for him.
“What do you learn?” I asked.
“Well,” he began, “at the capital, I only talk to one other person. She is a very rich woman who makes sure I am doing my job correctly. She follows me for half an hour every day, as I do my job, and then we have a small conversation in which she tells me about her life at home. Neither of us have interesting lives at home.
“I don’t believe that anyone I’ve met on the road has had an interesting life at home either; that’s simply a fact of the world. But all our lives are uninteresting in vastly different ways. That’s the lovely part. When I’m on the road, I learn about other jobs, and my mind swells from the stress of processing how diverse these jobs are. We all have a completely unique role in the grand scheme of things. Isn’t that excellent?”
I nodded. I had never thought of it like that, because I had never met anyone who didn’t have the same job as I did. Father and I were farmers. We dug up vegetables. What did Jim do at the capital?
“Oh, nothing like what you do here,” said Jim. “I never touch vegetables. I usually walk on tile floors rather than dirt.”
Father and I both thought that Jim was a very good man. He spoke to us like a friend, and he made his bed in the morning. Before he left, he took his chair at the table and carved his telephone number into it with a fork. It was a long number because the capital was far away.