Teddy Town
Aug. 14th, 2011 05:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolTimes were tough in Teddy Town when the stranger arrived. Big Bill had taken over the town and was running it like his own private kingdom, taking whatever he wanted and laughing at those who opposed him. Every man and woman in Teddy Town carried a stick, many quite large in size, but Big Bill's stick was taller than a man and as big around as his arm. It was more of a big log, and it dwarfed the other sticks in the town. Nobody wanted to mess with a stick that big.
But there was more. Everybody in Teddy Town spoke softly, but Big Bill's voice never rose above a whisper. He was the softest-spoken man in town, everybody had to admit that; and to hear what he was saying to you, you had to bend your head close to Big Bill's mouth – putting your person within the reach of that enormous stick. It was intimidating, that inhumanly soft voice, and between that and Big Bill's giant stick, nobody dared say much to Big Bill. When anybody tried, he would laugh, but silently, his gargantuan chest heaving and panting, but his open mouth never making more sound than a soft wheeze. That was enough to cow anybody.
Spirits were low in Teddy Town when the stranger rode in. They stared glumly from clapboard porches and from behind split-rail fences, watching the curious character on his palomino. He was small, and bespectacled, and he dressed like a city slicker. But that wasn't the strangest thing about him.
Old Tom, the drunk of Teddy Town, said what everybody else was thinking. He staggered up to the stranger's horse as it plodded wearily through the muddy street and trotted alongside. He tugged at his battered trapper's cap.
"Say there, feller," he said, so quietly that the stranger had trouble making out what he was saying. "Where's your stick?"
"DON'T NEED ONE!" the stranger exclaimed cheerfully. Old Tom and the other townsfolk clapped their hands over their ears.
"Keep it down, willya?" Old Tom whined.
The stranger blinked in surprise. "I beg your pardon," he said in a somewhat softer voice – much softer for him, but still uncomfortably, rudely loud by the standards of Teddy Town. "Is this any better?"
"Sure, sure, stranger," said Old Tom toothlessly. "But what kind of tomfoolery is this, saying you don't need a stick? Everybody needs a stick!"
"I don't," said the stranger. "I find that sticks just get in the way of doing what I need to do with my hands."
"Well, let me give you a piece of friendly advice, mister," Old Tom said. "In Teddy Town, we speak softly and we carry a big stick. You'd best remember that now, or you'll be sorry later on."
The stranger tipped his bowler hat. "I'll remember that, Old Timer," he said. "Would you know where a thirsty man could get a drink?"
"That'd be the Rough Rider Saloon up yonder," Old Tom said, waving down the road. "Don't say I didn't warn ye!"
Puzzled, the stranger tipped his hat again and rode on. Old Tom dropped away, shaking his grizzled head, and watched the stranger plod into town.
The stranger tied his horse up outside the saloon. He was about to walk through the swinging doors when a man was unceremoniously tossed through them, almost knocking the stranger over. The thrown man landed in the mud beside the boardwalk, with his modest-sized stick landing on top of him. The stranger was a solicitous sort, and he moved to give the stricken man a hand up. The muddy fellow laboriously stood, leaning on his stick while the stranger hauled up under his armpits.
"Thank ye, stranger," said the man in a pitifully soft voice. "Mighty Christian of ye to…" His eyes fell upon the stranger and widened when he saw no stick in evidence. The bedraggled character's quiet voice trailed off, and he lurched away across the muddy street as quickly as he could walk, looking like he had seen a ghost.
The stranger shook his head, then walked into the dim saloon. A piano was playing; a huge square nail had been driven through the soft pedal to permanently fasten it to the floor. Gamblers were playing poker around the big round table, trying to juggle cards and chips and their sticks with only moderate success. The vest-wearing bartender was polishing the insides of glasses with a cloth on the end of a cane. Two dozen sets of unfriendly eyes watched the stranger as he strode up to the counter.
"Whiskey," ordered the stranger. The bartender's eyes took in the stranger's sticklessness, but also noted the fineness of his clothing. He put a bottle on the counter, then an upside-down glass over the cork, and slid them both down to the stranger. The stranger poured himself a tall glass.
Eyes glittered in the darkest corner. The massive figure of Big Bill stirred, and he took his massive booted feet off the table and put them on the ground: CLOMP CLOMP. Then he took his stick in hand and rapped that on the ground: DOOM. Slowly, menacingly, Big Bill approached the bar: CLOMP CLOMP DOOM, CLOMP CLOMP DOOM, CLOMP CLOMP. DOOM.
Big Bill looked down at the stranger. He was over a head taller and twice as broad, and the stranger fell entirely within his huge stick's shadow. Big Bill grinned. The stranger smiled back.
"Have a drink on me, friend," said the stranger, passing the whiskey bottle down to Big Bill. Big Bill didn't touch the bottle; he just kept smiling down at the stranger. The stranger started to feel a little awkward.
Big Bill's mouth opened and he said something. It was barely a mumble; his lips had hardly twitched. Frowning, the stranger said "I beg your pardon?"
The bartender leaned over the bar. "Mister," he said sotto voce, "Big Bill says you talk mighty loud for a feller with no stick."
"Oh yes," nodded the stranger. "That's true, I suppose. You see, I'm an orator, back east in Philadelphia. I speak for a living in public places. Of course, to make yourself heard, you have to learn to project. I'm afraid old habits die hard. But as to sticks, I'm afraid I've simply never been fond of them."
Big Bill laughed then; he raised his head and howled inaudibly, then panted and slapped his knee. The rest of the saloon joined in, laughing nervously. The stranger gave everybody the side-eye, then decided to join in. He tittered, then howled raucously, slapping the top of the bar, making such a racket that the piano player was obliged to stop playing and turn to see what the commotion was all about. The rest of the bar stopped laughing too, and Big Bill glared direly at the still laughing stranger. The stranger realized that all eyes were upon him again, and he arrested his laughter with a self-conscious snort.
"You talk too loud, stranger," whispered Big Bill, his smile gone. "So unless you plan on crossing sticks with me, you better just ride along."
The stranger swallowed. "Well," he said, "as you can see, sir, I have no stick to cross with you – not that I would choose to engage in such a contest, given the Brobdingnagian nature of your cudgel – but it is much too late to ride on, so I must respectfully decline. I shall have my whiskey back now, sir."
Big Bill stepped back and brought his log down on the whiskey bottle, smashing it and scattering glass and booze all over the bar-top. A dribble of whiskey spattered across the sleeve of the stranger's neat woolen coat. He wiped it away, perturbed. Big Bill held his stick in a two-handed grip, murder in his eye.
"I take it," said the stranger calmly, "that you are challenging me to a duel."
Big Bill's answer was inaudible, but the eager gleam in his eye was unmistakable. The stranger nodded.
"All right," he said. "As the challenged, I believe I am permitted the choice of weapons."
Big Bill frowned. "I suppose," he whispered grudgingly. "I got a pistol." He patted the gun in his belt holster. Big Bill was unfond of gunfighting; guns were hard to reload one-handed, and usually his stick did all the talking that needed doing.
"No no; that won't be necessary," said the stranger. "I choose the Winchester Rifle. I happen to have two of them packed with my saddle outside."
It was Big Bill's turn to swallow. How could he operate a rifle with two hands, and still hold his big stick? "No way," he whispered.
The stranger smiled faintly. He pitched his voice louder now. "I'm sorry, could you speak up?" he said, loud enough for the entire bar to hear. "I don't believe everybody in the saloon heard your cowardly refusal."
Big Bill's face turned red. "I ain't…"
The stranger bellowed now, forcing Big Bill to wince. "WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY?" he shouted, using the power of his trained voice to its full advantage. "DID YOU SAY THAT YOU ARE DISINCLINED TO FIGHT A STICKLESS MAN?"
"Goddammit," started Big Bill menacingly, but the stranger didn't let him finish. He strode to the swinging doors and raised his voice to the fullest limits of its oratory volume.
"JUST SO WE ARE ALL CLEAR!" shouted the stranger, his booming voice echoing down the single muddy street of Teddy Town. "ON THIS DAY, BIG BILL REFUSED A RIFLE SHOWDOWN AGAINST A LOUD MAN WITH NARY A STICK TO HIS NAME!" At the far end of town, Old Tom held his hands over his ears and flapped his gums in confusion.
It was too much for Big Bill. He brushed past the stranger on his way out to the street. "Let's have these rifles, then," he whispered.
The entire population of Teddy Town filed out to the street to witness the duel. The two men counted off ten paces in each direction and turned to face each other. The stranger carried his rifle lightly and with practiced ease. Big Bill, on the other hand, was having problems. He tried to grip his stick between his knees while aiming the rifle, but the stick was too heavy and fell into the mud, forcing Big Bill to hastily pick it up, lest anybody see him not holding it. He tried to grip it under the armpit of his left arm as it steadied the rifle, but he found it threw his aim off. He even put the stick on his left shoulder and balanced it there with his cheek, but then found he couldn't lean into the rifle to sight along it. Finally he was forced to hold the stick and the rifle together, pressing them together with his hands, the end of the stick digging into his shoulder next to the rifle butt, an awkward situation at best.
The mayor of Teddy Town produced a red silk handkerchief, and he raised it over his head. Big Bill was quietly cursing and sweating, trying to hold the long, heavy stick steady; the stranger was cool as a cucumber. The handkerchief dropped.
Big Bill fired. Unfortunately his stick wasn't perfectly straight; the bullet creased the end of the stick, splitting the butt of it open, and deflecting his shot to miss the stranger. Meanwhile the stranger fired as well. His bullet was aimed true, and it struck Big Bill's stick on the leading end where it had been cracked open. The second bullet finished what the first had begun, splitting Big Bill's enormous stick lengthwise and reducing it to an armful of splinters.
When the dust had settled, both the stranger and Big Bill were still standing, but Big Bill was horrified to find himself without a proper stick to be carrying. He snatched at the bundle of fragments for the largest piece remaining, but it was barely a yard long and ragged at both ends – a laughably tiny stick for such a large man with such a quiet voice. Embarrassed beyond his capacity to endure, Big Bill took his fragmentary stick and fled Teddy Town, amid laughter that was more raucous than was usually considered polite, and was never seen again.
Then all the townsfolks converged on the stranger to congratulate him. And if he received their plaudits with a voice too loud for their taste, the people of Teddy Town chose to say nothing. And though his sticklessness continued to be a matter of askance notice, the mayor arranged to host him in his own house, where he was persuaded to play frequent games of billiards – and therefore was frequently in possession of a cue, which made everybody more comfortable.
In time the stranger moved on, as strangers are wont to do, and though the people of Teddy Town were sad to see him go, they were also relieved to return to a quieter life with a more decent stick-to-person ratio. But if, on occasion, the barkeep put down his stick in order to polish his glassware more effectively, nobody was apt to comment. And should Old Tom drunkenly raise his voice in the saloon to call for a toast to the health of that nameless stranger who drove Big Bill away, most folk in attendance would smile and hoist a glass, not frown and shake their heads, despite the racket. Indeed, the piano player took a claw hammer to the soft pedal, prying the nail up and allowing that instrument a greater range of volume, and there were no complaints, but a few extra smiles.
The good people of Teddy Town learned an important lesson that day. To speak softly, and to carry a big stick, they still considered the proper order of things. But, too, they realized that there are fine exceptions to every rule, even good ones, and those that forget this are fools.
So, gentle reader, hear my advice. A stick is a valuable tool, a weapon and a crutch besides. But a voice is as fine a tool, and as with all skilled work, a tool's value is determined by the nature of the task that must be performed. Some tasks cry out for a stick, and when this happens, by all means let your stick swing. But when sticks must be set aside, do so with equal confidence, and let your voice be heard by all.
But there was more. Everybody in Teddy Town spoke softly, but Big Bill's voice never rose above a whisper. He was the softest-spoken man in town, everybody had to admit that; and to hear what he was saying to you, you had to bend your head close to Big Bill's mouth – putting your person within the reach of that enormous stick. It was intimidating, that inhumanly soft voice, and between that and Big Bill's giant stick, nobody dared say much to Big Bill. When anybody tried, he would laugh, but silently, his gargantuan chest heaving and panting, but his open mouth never making more sound than a soft wheeze. That was enough to cow anybody.
Spirits were low in Teddy Town when the stranger rode in. They stared glumly from clapboard porches and from behind split-rail fences, watching the curious character on his palomino. He was small, and bespectacled, and he dressed like a city slicker. But that wasn't the strangest thing about him.
Old Tom, the drunk of Teddy Town, said what everybody else was thinking. He staggered up to the stranger's horse as it plodded wearily through the muddy street and trotted alongside. He tugged at his battered trapper's cap.
"Say there, feller," he said, so quietly that the stranger had trouble making out what he was saying. "Where's your stick?"
"DON'T NEED ONE!" the stranger exclaimed cheerfully. Old Tom and the other townsfolk clapped their hands over their ears.
"Keep it down, willya?" Old Tom whined.
The stranger blinked in surprise. "I beg your pardon," he said in a somewhat softer voice – much softer for him, but still uncomfortably, rudely loud by the standards of Teddy Town. "Is this any better?"
"Sure, sure, stranger," said Old Tom toothlessly. "But what kind of tomfoolery is this, saying you don't need a stick? Everybody needs a stick!"
"I don't," said the stranger. "I find that sticks just get in the way of doing what I need to do with my hands."
"Well, let me give you a piece of friendly advice, mister," Old Tom said. "In Teddy Town, we speak softly and we carry a big stick. You'd best remember that now, or you'll be sorry later on."
The stranger tipped his bowler hat. "I'll remember that, Old Timer," he said. "Would you know where a thirsty man could get a drink?"
"That'd be the Rough Rider Saloon up yonder," Old Tom said, waving down the road. "Don't say I didn't warn ye!"
Puzzled, the stranger tipped his hat again and rode on. Old Tom dropped away, shaking his grizzled head, and watched the stranger plod into town.
The stranger tied his horse up outside the saloon. He was about to walk through the swinging doors when a man was unceremoniously tossed through them, almost knocking the stranger over. The thrown man landed in the mud beside the boardwalk, with his modest-sized stick landing on top of him. The stranger was a solicitous sort, and he moved to give the stricken man a hand up. The muddy fellow laboriously stood, leaning on his stick while the stranger hauled up under his armpits.
"Thank ye, stranger," said the man in a pitifully soft voice. "Mighty Christian of ye to…" His eyes fell upon the stranger and widened when he saw no stick in evidence. The bedraggled character's quiet voice trailed off, and he lurched away across the muddy street as quickly as he could walk, looking like he had seen a ghost.
The stranger shook his head, then walked into the dim saloon. A piano was playing; a huge square nail had been driven through the soft pedal to permanently fasten it to the floor. Gamblers were playing poker around the big round table, trying to juggle cards and chips and their sticks with only moderate success. The vest-wearing bartender was polishing the insides of glasses with a cloth on the end of a cane. Two dozen sets of unfriendly eyes watched the stranger as he strode up to the counter.
"Whiskey," ordered the stranger. The bartender's eyes took in the stranger's sticklessness, but also noted the fineness of his clothing. He put a bottle on the counter, then an upside-down glass over the cork, and slid them both down to the stranger. The stranger poured himself a tall glass.
Eyes glittered in the darkest corner. The massive figure of Big Bill stirred, and he took his massive booted feet off the table and put them on the ground: CLOMP CLOMP. Then he took his stick in hand and rapped that on the ground: DOOM. Slowly, menacingly, Big Bill approached the bar: CLOMP CLOMP DOOM, CLOMP CLOMP DOOM, CLOMP CLOMP. DOOM.
Big Bill looked down at the stranger. He was over a head taller and twice as broad, and the stranger fell entirely within his huge stick's shadow. Big Bill grinned. The stranger smiled back.
"Have a drink on me, friend," said the stranger, passing the whiskey bottle down to Big Bill. Big Bill didn't touch the bottle; he just kept smiling down at the stranger. The stranger started to feel a little awkward.
Big Bill's mouth opened and he said something. It was barely a mumble; his lips had hardly twitched. Frowning, the stranger said "I beg your pardon?"
The bartender leaned over the bar. "Mister," he said sotto voce, "Big Bill says you talk mighty loud for a feller with no stick."
"Oh yes," nodded the stranger. "That's true, I suppose. You see, I'm an orator, back east in Philadelphia. I speak for a living in public places. Of course, to make yourself heard, you have to learn to project. I'm afraid old habits die hard. But as to sticks, I'm afraid I've simply never been fond of them."
Big Bill laughed then; he raised his head and howled inaudibly, then panted and slapped his knee. The rest of the saloon joined in, laughing nervously. The stranger gave everybody the side-eye, then decided to join in. He tittered, then howled raucously, slapping the top of the bar, making such a racket that the piano player was obliged to stop playing and turn to see what the commotion was all about. The rest of the bar stopped laughing too, and Big Bill glared direly at the still laughing stranger. The stranger realized that all eyes were upon him again, and he arrested his laughter with a self-conscious snort.
"You talk too loud, stranger," whispered Big Bill, his smile gone. "So unless you plan on crossing sticks with me, you better just ride along."
The stranger swallowed. "Well," he said, "as you can see, sir, I have no stick to cross with you – not that I would choose to engage in such a contest, given the Brobdingnagian nature of your cudgel – but it is much too late to ride on, so I must respectfully decline. I shall have my whiskey back now, sir."
Big Bill stepped back and brought his log down on the whiskey bottle, smashing it and scattering glass and booze all over the bar-top. A dribble of whiskey spattered across the sleeve of the stranger's neat woolen coat. He wiped it away, perturbed. Big Bill held his stick in a two-handed grip, murder in his eye.
"I take it," said the stranger calmly, "that you are challenging me to a duel."
Big Bill's answer was inaudible, but the eager gleam in his eye was unmistakable. The stranger nodded.
"All right," he said. "As the challenged, I believe I am permitted the choice of weapons."
Big Bill frowned. "I suppose," he whispered grudgingly. "I got a pistol." He patted the gun in his belt holster. Big Bill was unfond of gunfighting; guns were hard to reload one-handed, and usually his stick did all the talking that needed doing.
"No no; that won't be necessary," said the stranger. "I choose the Winchester Rifle. I happen to have two of them packed with my saddle outside."
It was Big Bill's turn to swallow. How could he operate a rifle with two hands, and still hold his big stick? "No way," he whispered.
The stranger smiled faintly. He pitched his voice louder now. "I'm sorry, could you speak up?" he said, loud enough for the entire bar to hear. "I don't believe everybody in the saloon heard your cowardly refusal."
Big Bill's face turned red. "I ain't…"
The stranger bellowed now, forcing Big Bill to wince. "WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY?" he shouted, using the power of his trained voice to its full advantage. "DID YOU SAY THAT YOU ARE DISINCLINED TO FIGHT A STICKLESS MAN?"
"Goddammit," started Big Bill menacingly, but the stranger didn't let him finish. He strode to the swinging doors and raised his voice to the fullest limits of its oratory volume.
"JUST SO WE ARE ALL CLEAR!" shouted the stranger, his booming voice echoing down the single muddy street of Teddy Town. "ON THIS DAY, BIG BILL REFUSED A RIFLE SHOWDOWN AGAINST A LOUD MAN WITH NARY A STICK TO HIS NAME!" At the far end of town, Old Tom held his hands over his ears and flapped his gums in confusion.
It was too much for Big Bill. He brushed past the stranger on his way out to the street. "Let's have these rifles, then," he whispered.
The entire population of Teddy Town filed out to the street to witness the duel. The two men counted off ten paces in each direction and turned to face each other. The stranger carried his rifle lightly and with practiced ease. Big Bill, on the other hand, was having problems. He tried to grip his stick between his knees while aiming the rifle, but the stick was too heavy and fell into the mud, forcing Big Bill to hastily pick it up, lest anybody see him not holding it. He tried to grip it under the armpit of his left arm as it steadied the rifle, but he found it threw his aim off. He even put the stick on his left shoulder and balanced it there with his cheek, but then found he couldn't lean into the rifle to sight along it. Finally he was forced to hold the stick and the rifle together, pressing them together with his hands, the end of the stick digging into his shoulder next to the rifle butt, an awkward situation at best.
The mayor of Teddy Town produced a red silk handkerchief, and he raised it over his head. Big Bill was quietly cursing and sweating, trying to hold the long, heavy stick steady; the stranger was cool as a cucumber. The handkerchief dropped.
Big Bill fired. Unfortunately his stick wasn't perfectly straight; the bullet creased the end of the stick, splitting the butt of it open, and deflecting his shot to miss the stranger. Meanwhile the stranger fired as well. His bullet was aimed true, and it struck Big Bill's stick on the leading end where it had been cracked open. The second bullet finished what the first had begun, splitting Big Bill's enormous stick lengthwise and reducing it to an armful of splinters.
When the dust had settled, both the stranger and Big Bill were still standing, but Big Bill was horrified to find himself without a proper stick to be carrying. He snatched at the bundle of fragments for the largest piece remaining, but it was barely a yard long and ragged at both ends – a laughably tiny stick for such a large man with such a quiet voice. Embarrassed beyond his capacity to endure, Big Bill took his fragmentary stick and fled Teddy Town, amid laughter that was more raucous than was usually considered polite, and was never seen again.
Then all the townsfolks converged on the stranger to congratulate him. And if he received their plaudits with a voice too loud for their taste, the people of Teddy Town chose to say nothing. And though his sticklessness continued to be a matter of askance notice, the mayor arranged to host him in his own house, where he was persuaded to play frequent games of billiards – and therefore was frequently in possession of a cue, which made everybody more comfortable.
In time the stranger moved on, as strangers are wont to do, and though the people of Teddy Town were sad to see him go, they were also relieved to return to a quieter life with a more decent stick-to-person ratio. But if, on occasion, the barkeep put down his stick in order to polish his glassware more effectively, nobody was apt to comment. And should Old Tom drunkenly raise his voice in the saloon to call for a toast to the health of that nameless stranger who drove Big Bill away, most folk in attendance would smile and hoist a glass, not frown and shake their heads, despite the racket. Indeed, the piano player took a claw hammer to the soft pedal, prying the nail up and allowing that instrument a greater range of volume, and there were no complaints, but a few extra smiles.
The good people of Teddy Town learned an important lesson that day. To speak softly, and to carry a big stick, they still considered the proper order of things. But, too, they realized that there are fine exceptions to every rule, even good ones, and those that forget this are fools.
So, gentle reader, hear my advice. A stick is a valuable tool, a weapon and a crutch besides. But a voice is as fine a tool, and as with all skilled work, a tool's value is determined by the nature of the task that must be performed. Some tasks cry out for a stick, and when this happens, by all means let your stick swing. But when sticks must be set aside, do so with equal confidence, and let your voice be heard by all.
