Barkley Bohner, Celebrity Philosopher

Chapter Fifteen

The Sufi mystic known simply as The Poet once wrote of the ecstasy of the spiritual drunkenness of the golden cup of splendid scented nectar. The 20-year-old Betsy the Resourceful was the likely source of the aging Poet's rapture.

Six years earlier, following her triumphal entry into Jerusalem, Betsy announced that, in memory of her martyred half-brother, she would dedicate her life to the service of God. The next day, using her holy lance as a dowsing rod, she dug up the Shroud of Bonheur, in miraculously pristine condition. 

The Christians in the city celebrated with feasting, prayer, and ecstatic slaughter of convenient Muslims. As there were no longer very many convenient Muslims to be found in Jerusalem, the Christians had to venture further afield.

This brought Christians and Muslims to the brink of a war for which neither side was prepared. Ever helpful, Betsy struck a deal with both parties. This involved safe passage to Baghdad, the center of the world, together with fine quarters and servants to attend to her capricious amusements. 

In return, Betsy turned over her lance to Jerusalem's Latin Patriarch for safe-keeping. 

Soon after arriving in Baghdad, a learned physician diagnosed her with the mysterious malady of the orange bile. This freed her from all social obligations and allowed her to focus on her capricious amusements, free from distraction. 

Her amusements involved intensive tutelage under the finest scholars in the world. In no time, she attained proficiency in philosophy, astronomy, algebra, three languages, and a sampling of the practical arts, plus some music and poetry.

"Purple plums never tasted sweeter," The Sufi Mystic known simply as The Poet rhapsodized in reference to Betsy. The Poet proved critical in Betsy's quest to bring back to England many of the learned men who had tutored her, together with their precious books and gadgets.

With the merest of encouragement from Betsy, the Poet penned verses extolling the lusty lasses of Albion, they of fair skin and melon breasts, they of melodious voice and playful spirit, they who seek fulfillment in the warm embrace of Apollonian perfection.

It's amazing how easy it is to trick a scholar.

Soon after, a team of physicians pronounced Betsy free of the malady of the orange bile, which cleared her to return home. 

Once home, Betsy experienced a warm reunion with Betsy Virgin Prefect of Bonheur, together with a mysterious half-sister, Betsy the Voluptuous, also known as Betsy the Unquenchable, Abbess of Bonheur, of pious disposition but well-regarded as ripe and juicy. There was no time to lose. Hard times were about to befall the land, and the three women needed to plot their course and prepare for the worst. 

This was the beginning of the Secret Betsy Sisterhood. The three Betsy's drew up the Secret Charter of 1128, which has governed their Sisterhood into the present day. Men were welcome into the Secret Betsyhood, but only upon proving themselves worthy through death in battle. 

At the conclusion of proceedings, Betsy Virgin Prefect of Bonheur remarked: 'How many men does it take to change a candle?'” This – the precursor to the light bulb joke – became the basis of every Secret Betsy initiation to follow. History would never be the same.

I heard a rattling on the door. Suddenly I was back in the present, in Ungentrified Harlem, in my wretched room, very rapidly turning into a brick oven. "Dunstar, it's me." Moosh let himself in.

I noticed I still had Quincy's M16 in my hand.

"Why don't you set the gun down in the corner?" said Moosh.

"Yeh, sure," I said. Slowly, deliberately, I propped the thing against the wall, being careful to keep it from exploding.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeh."

"You're looking great for a guy who's supposed to be dead." He pulled a bottle from a paper bag he was carrying. "Pull up a chair. I'll find us a couple of glasses." 

"What happened?" I asked, once I was able to put two words together, once my first glass was empty.

"Quincy's on his way to Bellevue, the psychiatric ward."

"You got him to go quietly?"

"I called in some plain clothes help. No uniforms. Didn't want to scare the poor guy. You know, sirens, flashing lights. He got in the back seat, no fuss. They'll put him on a 72-hour hold, settle him down."

"You didn't tell the plain clothes guys about the M16?"

"Then they'd have to take him downtown, book him, charge him with a whole bunch of shit. No, don't want to put the poor guy through all that."

I could see Moosh's point – sort of. "How did he find me?" I asked. "Did he follow you here?"

"Not according to him. He says he used Quantum Bohnerology. I'm inclined to believe him."

I didn't see how this was possible.

"You're only a practical Bohnerologist," Moosh reminded me. "You know, an industrious drudge, a stuck-in-the mud."

Yeh, well okay. We drained our second glasses in silence, then Moosh got up to go.

"You're not taking the machine gun with you?" I asked.

"You hold onto it for awhile."

"But …"

"There's no ammo in it. It's as lethal as a vacuum cleaner. Nothing to worry about.

Except for maybe Quincy wanting to drop by. "You said he's on a 72-hour hold?"

"Yeh, that's right. The rest should do him good."

"And what happens when he gets out?"

"Probably return to work, good as new."

"Uh, you don't think he might want to pick up where – uh, you know – he left off?" 

"No. He promised me he wouldn't."

There was something in the way he said it that made me almost believe it. Then again, my brain wasn't working. "Yeh, okay," I said.

Moosh produced a small hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket. "Take a couple of hits on this before retiring," he advised. "You'll sleep like a baby."