Everyday Happenings

Sir Alfred's Logic

Some place in the obscure, lesser-traveled regions of the Appalachians lived a peculiar man known to the locals as Sir Alfred. The start of his strangeness was that very name, as he had done nothing to be called 'sir' and very few people knew of anything else to call him. Alfred lived in a hut, or a shack if that have you, with no indoor plumbing and a leaking roof. A passerby could see the shack from the road and that is precisely how Mr. Rockefellar found him.

Stumbling blindly and drunkenly along the road, Rockefellar widened his eyes at the yellow light emanating from the bushes. The light was not of the bushes, however, and belonged to that shack. The sight of the small, rotted home seemed to sober our Rockefellar and he was drawn in. Finding himself on the doorstep of the shack, he felt as though he was also on the precipice of some great, enchanting chasm. A moth beat itself to death on the lit lantern beside the worn door.

Before he could knock, the door, which looked as though covered in linoleum, opened. A gentleman wrapped his arm around Rockefellar and brought him inside, setting him down on a stack of books ads though he were a doll. Rockefellar dimly perceived the room he was in was completely saturated with various tomes. The gentleman set a small porcelain cup in Rockefellar's lap. Our Mr. Rockefellar had never liked tea, but on this particular occasion failed to complain.

The gentleman introduced himself as Sir Alfred and adjusted his round spectacles.

"Rockefellar," replied our steward lamely.

The air of the room was loudly quiet and speaking felt as intrusive and cacophonous and shattering glass. Sir Alfred studied Rockefellar deeply and slid his glasses to the end of his thin, hook nose. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to speak, but licked his thin lips instead. Rockefellar watched as he slid a book from a nearby stack and opened it, all the while keeping his gaze on Rockefellar.

It was at this point that Rockefellar came to his senses and became aware to his sudden, if not unwelcomed, coolness. Despite the tacky, mid-July air, the inside of the sack brandished an icy atmosphere that was equal parts relieving as it was off-putting. Sir Alfred noticed his lucidity.

"Do you read?" He asked, his voice smooth and punctuated.

"Not often," replied Rockefellar.

"Do you know many authors?"

"Not many, no."

Sir Alfred nodded and tapped his chin, as if in thought. He leaned over the tower of books between them and replaced the unmoved cup in Rockefellar's hands with the opened book. The room was silent for all but the chaotic tapping of countless moths against lanterns.

"Do you read?" Asked Rockefellar, erring on the side of caution, never on to presume.

"No," replied Sir Alfred, lacking hesitation, "I do not have time."

Rockefellar was preparing to question what a man such as Alfred could be busy at, when Alfred spoke again.

"Would you please read?"

Rockefellar briefly considered protesting, himself never being considered of a literate family. He felt as though it would not hurt to heed the gentleman's request, after having been treated so kindly, and so he began his attempt at reading.

It was then, looking at the countless dissertations and anecdotes, that Rockefellar considered his own problems. Staring intently at the many characters on the page, Rockefellar thought of his own wife and how disappointed she would be to see him coming home at this hour, poor after having been gone for days. He tore his eyes away from the mesmerizing, nonsensical pages.

"I can't read this," he said, "it's hard!"

Sir Alfred nodded sagely and tapped a boney finger to the page, "But you must. I cannot read it, but reading must be done."

"I can't!" Cried Rockefellar, suddenly feeling accused.

He stood up, rebellious and allowed the still-open book to fell from his lap. He turned to the linoleum door and attempted to open it. Rockefellar twisted and shook the knob violently, but found with growing desperation that it would not give way. The entirety of the small structure he found himself in shook as he through his full weight onto the door. Eventually, he slid to the page covered floor in exhaustion and disappointment. The world dimmed to him for a moment, and when his eyes opened Rockefellar was on the floor no more.

Sir Alfred faced him once again from across the stack of books with a critical and expectant look in his eye, and in his hand he held a different volume than he had previously. A warm liquid trickled from some place on Rockefellar's head and pooled in the shell of his ear. Sir Alfred leaned across the books and again gave Rockefellar a book, which he wearily accepted.

"I can't read," he softly protested.

"Neither can I," Alfred replied in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Then who reads?" Rockefellar questioned.

"People with books," responded Sir Alfred, confidently.

At that moment, the person with the book was Rockefellar. Rockefellar was also the person with the flask in his coat pocket.

"Do you drink?" Asked Rockefellar.

"I cannot drink," replied Alfred, somewhat surprised by the question.

"You can't drink and I can't read," said Rockefellar, an idea to his words, "so if I read, will you drink?"

"Well, logically, I suppose so," responded Sir Alfred.

Upon hearing this satisfactory answer, Rockefellar retrieved his flask, full of some unpleasant thing, and passed it to his companion.

It was here that Rockefellar's plan fell to pieces, as staring at the incomprehensible babble on the page was in no way akin to reading, Sir Alfred did nothing similar to drinking. The two sat in the yellow light of the tiny hut, surrounded by stacks of books in an apparent stalemate.

Rockefellar ventured his voice into the silence, "What're you so busy doing that you can't read?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow and lifted a thin finger to adjust his glasses. "Presently, I am far too busy not drinking to do any reading."

Rockefellar saw this as a virtuous moment to be benevolent and spoke, "Well if I do the not drinking, you can do all the reading!"

Sir Alfred shook his head. "No, you see, if we switch tasks you will do all of the nondrinking that I am doing and I will do all of the nonreading that you are doing!"

"What if after we switch, I drink so that you read?" Offered Rockefellar.

"How do I know that you will actually drink?" Questioned Alfred, narrowing his eyes.

"Well," quipped Rockefellar, "that is my flask!"

At this, Sir Alfred seemed satisfied and nodded. He reached across the space between them to retrieve the book and Rockefellar did similarly with the flask. Rockefellar nodded to Sir Alfred and took his first swig of the odorous contents. Alfred began reading the book voraciously, as if starved, upon seeing the task completed.

When the flask was empty and the volume read, the two men looked up at each other again. It occurred to Mr. Rockefellar that with the reading done, he was free to leave. This he said to Alfred, and the gentleman agreed. Taking Rockefellar by the shoulder, he guided him out of the shack into the warm, sticky July night. Rockefellar drunkenly stumbled down the step of the shack, and a moth continued its suicidal beating as though no time had passed at all.