Four More Respected Gentlemen

Every now and then someone would mention to Evelyn: "You really ought to be more careful. Young ladies, ones like you, dear, shouldn't wander so casually through the streets of the big black smoke", or something to that effect. But Evelyn took little notice, for she had never come to harm. In all of the different cities that she had lived in while growing up, the street had never been a place of danger for her.

Her latest city had been no different so far. She was aware of the risks of the street, but considered herself vigilant. Mostly, she had a special kind of luck. After all, this place had more than its fair share of dispossessed. They seemed to be attracted to this city like ferrite to a magnet, drawn by its pleasant climate, rough sleep, and by the ocean.

Numbers increased daily. Some were the economically dispossessed: talented, capable individuals who could not get a lead on modern society, no matter how hard they tried. After a while, some gave up trying to be legitimate and picked up on and adapted to the law of the street. A few from this group were particularly dangerous. Others were just dangerous for their own reasons, or for no good reason at all.

Her number called, Evelyn had her first encounter not far from her home. She was walking alone, preoccupied by the moments outside of time that had become her recent life. Genus male and female approached her along the busy, but dim sidewalk. They passed by, stopped, and moments later turned to follow.

Evelyn became aware of them but too late, when upon passing an alley, they physically forced her to follow them in. The woman, about Evelyn's size, but with a hardened, coarse look about her, started to gabber menacingly.

"Take off those things. Give them to me."

"Take off my clothes? Here, I'll give you money, but I won't take my clothes off."

The man pushed her roughly against the wall. "Shut up. Don't be stupid and do what she tell ya." He started grabbing at her garments in a vicious, but clumsy way. "Who you think you playin' wit here. We may tear you apart if we feel like it."

Evelyn felt a wave of fear. She felt hot, tense, and then, enraged. She struck out at her assailants, and managed to break free. Or was she? Scrambling out of the alleyway, she ran straight into the arms of two teenage youths. One of them grabbed her, and immediately got her into a firm hold from which she could not escape. Evelyn screamed.

"Be quiet. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Let me go!"

"Just hang on and do as I say." The youth turned to his friend, who was preventing the pair from escaping.

"Where are Peter and Dave? We're gonna get crapped on if more like this pair show up."

The other youth nervously replied: "Can you give me a hand with these two here?"

Evelyn found the grip on herself loosened.

"I'm letting you go, but hold my hand, okay?"

Coming down from `fight' and `flight', Evelyn found herself ready to agree. She leaned on his arm and watched as the two youths faced off the street life, matching insult for insult, vibrato for pitch, assault hyperbole for posture, and so on. She felt weak and frightened by what might have happened to her.

Two other youths approached from down the street. They walked up to the group.

"Hey Pete. Took you long enough."

"I was just down that dead end street. Trying to find Victoria. I didn't catch her, but I did run into Rosemary Rose. Should be here in a few minutes."

"Nice outfit. You always want to be a well respected man, Quaifie, but you'll always be a chunka chunka chunk man when it comes to paint by mumblers poetry. To me at least." "Why don't you write that one down," Quaife replied.

"You do something to me, baby Ray, boyo. And I just can't get to sleep trying to figure out what it is."

Ray looked over at Evelyn. "I'm Ray, by the bye, and you nearly got yourself taken to bits, Miss..."

"Evelyn."

"Yes, well Evelyn. Around here a girl such as yourself does not walk about freely, looking as good as you do, without having someone there to make sure `they' don't get the wrong idea," he said, motioning to the two now being cordoned by Dave, Pete, and Mick.

"I need some water", Evelyn said, feeling the weight of the events, swooning. Just then, an ancient foreign station wagon with the words `Crown Custom' on the side pillar, pulled up. A man in his sixties got out and approached the three youths.

"We can go now," Ray motioned. "Let me take you off the street for a little while." He motioned for Evelyn to accompany him down the street toward a nearby shop. It had an old facade, plainly painted, and looked like it hadn't changed in at least fifty years.

Appropriately, enough, it was called the Fifty Shop, sellers of fine merchandise.

It fit in well with the general run down character of the street. It was one of those businesses that nobody seemed to go in to, the type of shop that mystified planners, because it refused to go out of business and make way for something more modern like a knife, gun and razorblade shop. Despite being all wrong, contextually, and perhaps in spite of it, It was the type of store that still made an effort to keep the sidewalk cleanly swept, and clear of graffiti. That it was losing that particular battle was reflected in the paint chipping off of the sign. This was the type of store that attracted a new customer only rarely. ...The type of store that would probably die with its present owners.

Evelyn was too weak to do anything but let herself be guided by Ray. She followed him into the Fifty Shop, and felt as if she was stepping into another world, one long since forgotten. The store was clean, and stocked with a large variety of dry provisions. Evelyn recognized none of them, until she looked a bit closer. Her mother had used some of these products when she was just a child.

The floor beneath her was linoleum, with a rich polish. The cabinets on the wall were all made of wood. Carved wood. The light fixtures were incandescent, free of ornament, somehow classic and timeless. It was as if she had been transported back to the childhood of her parents. She felt immediately comfortable.

Ray called to the elderly group gathered at the back of the store. "Hi everybody. This is Evelyn. Hey, Mr. K., got any water?

"Hello Evelyn, come on back and make yourself at home," Mr. Kroeber called out. "This here is Chet, Chester, Mary, and my name is Kroeber Leguinness. I see you've met Ray. I hope that he's been taking good care of you."

Ray found himself steadying Evelyn. He said nervously: "I think she needs to lie down for a bit, Mr. K."

"Mary, why don't you take Evelyn into the back room. Let her lie down on the couch for a bit."

Mary moved to take Evelyn out of Ray's grasp. "You come along now, dear. You've had a good fright, by the looks of things."

Evelyn's vision turned orange, and she fainted.

*******

Ray turned to Kroeber. "It was bound to happen, that encounter." I watch her cut through here all the time from the Park. We caught it before it went too far, but next time..."

"Now listen Ray. Evelyn's no fool. She just got caught off guard, and you were there in any case. We can't go about doing special things for her, beyond what we do for anybody in our neighbourhood. If you want to put yourself at her disposal and she agrees, well, that's one thing. But I suspect no special harm will come to her if you just carry on doing what you boys do."

"I'd like to do more."

"Well then, walk her home. Get to know her as a person, a friend, mind you. But don't be surprised if she views you as a boy, no matter how much you may feel like a man. You're not exactly in her league, Raymond.

"That aside, there's going to be lots of work for you guys on the street. More of the dispossessed are wandering west each day, it seems. Most of it is converging on Electric Lay, for the sunset, no doubt, but we seem to get a lot of those who view our city as a sort of mecca for the lost. Be wary, Ray, and don't forget your duty to these streets, in your search to know the girl who holds your hand in the time you stand in."

Ray turned away. He could not escape from those feelings he had experienced. Holding Evelyn, even if it had been to protect her from harm, had affected him strongly. There had been something different in that embrace. He had felt much like a different person in those moments. Stronger, more self assured.

Ray wandered out, back to the street. Walking westward, he encountered a man in his thirties that he spoke to from time to time. "Hey mister B.P., how goes things?" Peter Bowman-Pease was a man from up north, that's all that Ray knew. But he had an amazing knowledge of music, and music, writing it, singing it, making it, that was what Ray lived for. B.P. had promised to help Ray get some of his music down, once Ray felt that his band was up to it.

Bowman-Pease looked up. "Hello, Ray. I heard from your brother David that you fellows had a run in. Nobody hurt, I hope?"

"No, just some wardrobe wannabees out looking for the latest fashions. The girl was a bit shook up, but I think that she will be okay."

"Ah, rescuing a damsel in distress. A long time ago, it was a gentleman's duty to do such a thing. Not too long ago, it was a man's duty, no matter what his station, to try to be a gentleman. Or so I've heard. In any case, hats off to you four gents. Lets see... Yes, I know. From now on, I'm going to call you chaps the "Four More Respected Gentlemen." And by so doing, I'm going to think of you in the same way as gallant men have been considered throughout the ages.

Ray, beaming from the compliment, considered the smiling countenance of Bowman-Pease. There was a slightly mad look about this man. His clothing gave no hint to his status in society, and minus the sunglasses, he bore a resemblance to... No, that photograph was taken some twenty or thirty years ago, when Mr. K. was a young man. Interesting.... A relative?

Bowman-Pease stopped and turned toward Ray. "We're going in the wrong direction, Ray. I'm hungry, and I've just discovered a great new restaurant where they cook food in the old style: wood ovens and fresh ingredients. I'm in the mood for it. Think the FMRG's are in up for a treat?"

Ray exclaimed: "You don't know us well mate, if you ask that question. Let's go."

*******

Evelyn came to in a darkened room. She found herself lying on a comfortable couch of indeterminate age. The room was large, at least half the size of the store up front, and was filled with shelves of books, a large desk, upon which sat a Macterminal, and to the side, a television with three colour bars proudly displayed that looked to be thirty years old.

Beside the couch lay a pitcher of water and a glass. She gratefully reached for them, and drank thirstily at first, and then with some relish. This was not at all like the water that came out of her taps at home. But if it was bottled water, then why not just place the bottle out with the glass. Why the trouble of a pitcher?

Where there were no bookshelves, Evelyn found the walls covered with photographs. Some were of the neighbourhood before it was a neighbourhood. The landscape was a rolling savannah, with open dunes showing in some spots. Other photographs showed the construction of streets and buildings. They were a document to the creation of the neighbourhood, photographed by a master of composition, and were beautifully printed.

She paused. She stared at a group photograph taken in the store itself. In the photograph were two faces that she thought she recognized. One was of Mister Leguinnes as a young man, the other was of the face that she could not get out of her mind. It was unmistakably him, the face in the ad for the company, the face of the gardener in front of the large house, and in the park.

Just then, Mr. Leguinnes walked in. "Ah, you've come to, Evelyn. I hope that you are none worse for wear by your experience".

"No, I'm fine. Tell me, who is this man, in the photograph?" She pointed to the face.

"That is a man who came into our lives a long time ago. I was a young man then, about to take over the business from my father. At that time, our kind of store was losing touch with the times, and we were losing money every day that we flipped the sign from closed to open. It seemed as if nobody wanted to buy our merchandise, and even our suppliers were falling on hard times.

"You see, all of our products were based on, give or take a bit, natural ingredients. We sold cleaning solvents that did the job, but took a bit more work to get the job done. People were no longer interested in buying from us, because the supermarket down the way sold things that made the job more convenient. Our personal hygiene products fell out of popularity too. People wanted to buy name brand soaps, when we were selling, well, bars of soap. Castile soap, honey soap, no fancy packaging. Anyhow, it looked like our number was up, when this guy walked through the door.

"He offered to buy our business outright for way more than we figured that we would be able to get, but on the condition that nothing was to change in the way that we did things, without his approval. He also guaranteed us a salary that may not seem like much today, but was downright attractive at the time.

"He promised, at the time, that there would be plenty of business for our little store, and I must admit, we do get new customers every now and then. But what we have gotten, is something that we have found to be a whole lot more important. We have met a whole range of people who, like us, do things in a certain way. He said to me at the time, something that I didn't quite appreciate, but I sure do now. He said `in time you will find that your customers are my kind of folk, and your kind of folk, too. Treat them as such, and you will never be short of friends.' Those words grew to be more true, as time has gone by.

"In any case, the company that he was acting as an agent for has been very good to us, these past years. Our little store makes enough profit to let us live well, and we find that the other stores that are connected to the company that owns our little store, provide good value, and excellent service. So we seem to find it best to stick to our own kind, what he would call `my kind of folk.'"

Evelyn stared at him with intensity. "What was his name?"

"Why do you ask? What's in a name?"

"I ask, because it would solve a puzzle for me. I think I have seen this man, twice recently. And not long ago, I had a very strange experience that I don't understand. I saw this face, together with mine, on an advertisement for a company with a numerophonetic name."

Leguinness started, for a moment. He debated whether he should try to play down Evelyn's experiences as mere hallucinations, but he knew that they were not. What he could not calculate was whether he was supposed to reveal to her the name of a man who prized anonymity the way some cherish possessions.

But he found that he could not deceive Evelyn. The expression in her eyes carried such sternness and dignity, that he felt compelled to tell her the truth.

"That face belongs to a man that I know as Mister Noir, or Bartholomew," he said, feeling suddenly weak. "He came to an arrangement with my Father that I inherited, but I have had no direct contact with the man since our first encounters many years ago. Perhaps you have met this man, but think: this is an old photograph, the man I knew as Noir certainly must have aged since then."

The last bit, Leguinness said as a slight discouragement, but he himself had his own set of questions about Bartholomew. There were times when he had thought that he was catching a glimpse of the man. That Bohemian-looking fellow that Ray hung around with. More than a slight resemblance. But he wasn't certain, and his own private suspicions were just that, private.

"So what do you think of my office? I should say that most of the books are rather old fashioned, and the pictures, well, I guess you've looked them over. Some people would find it strange that a storekeeper would have an office, but my Father put it in when he built the store, and I sort of find it a good place to think, and get work done."

"Everything seems so old, except the computer," Evelyn noted. "Don't you believe in getting new things from time to time?"

"Well, I suppose if the new thing was a whole lot better, I might be persuaded to replace the old one. But I'd have to have a good reason. In the case of anything in this office, I'd need to get approval from my employer."

"And this old TV and radio?" she challenged. "Do you mean to tell me that nothing better has come along?" Evelyn felt like she was entering a domain that she knew something about. She looked at television screens quite a bit at work, and at home.

"Well, they are old, I'll admit. This radio was purchased by my Dad in about 1938. Nice big wooden job, wouldn't you say? It was made by a company called Stromberg Carlson. The little radio on top is one of the first Frequency Modulated tuners that was ever made. I brought it back from out east, just before the war, in the expectation that something called the Yankee Radio Network would reach the west coast. Just a few years back I got to hear it work for the first time, when somebody put a station in service at a frequency that it can catch. Have a listen."

He turned it on. A green tube at the center of the dial lit up. There were knobs with names that she did not recognize. Sound gradually filled the room. It was music that she was unfamiliar with, very ephemeral, somewhat etherial and outer worldly.

"All kinds of music comes through, and there is a news report once a night. I listen every so often. A man named Armstrong gave that radio to us, Bartholomew told me, when he saw it."

Leguinness bent down and switched on the TV set. "Give it a minute or two to become stable, and then tell me why I should replace this set." To her amazement, Evelyn found herself looking at a picture that was profoundly superior to her own TV at home, even better in some ways than the professional monitors she used at work. The colours, the shadings, resembled the real thing in a way that astonished her.

"Lots of jokes about Damm Yank colour television sets these days. Don't ask me why. This Sylvania was built here in the U.S. of Amnesia, back around the time you were born, I'd imagine. I had to replace some of the tubes, a few years ago, and just two years ago, I thought it was time for a new picture tube. The store where I bought it still services what they sell, so whenever I think that the time has come for a checkup, I just drop in to say hello, and ask them to come by."

Evelyn was surprised. "You mean to say that you manage to get your TV serviced? When my old set broke down, they told me to replace it with a new one. They said TV sets were not designed to be repaired."

"Well, Evelyn, I wouldn't know about new sets today, but I've never made a purchase of anything, no matter how small, that was not designed to be repaired."

"But how do you manage? Nowadays everything is designed to be disposed of, and the message that gets sent out is that this is for the better." The latter statement was based not only on her own experiences as a consumer, but also on the message of her own industry. She challenged, "what if nobody bought new things? What would happen to our economy?"

"That's a tad on the naive on two counts. Firstly, if things were made to be repaired, then there would be a whole lot of people out there earning a decent living on that basis. Plus take a look around you. The country is filled with people who can't get a job. Think about it; when was the last time that you bought something that was made here? Sure, for the time being you can buy a car, but a TV set? Anyways, making purchasing decisions based on whether something, no matter where it comes from, can be repaired, makes buying things surprisingly easy. If it's not made to be serviced, then it won't find its way into my house."

There was an indisputable logic to what the man said, even if it seemed a bit archaic in this day and age. Evelyn decided that she would start to consider stores like his more carefully in the future, and perhaps, even possibly, change her own patterns of consumption.

The door opened, and a handsome older gent appeared at the threshold. "If the young lady is ready to leave, I can give her a run home."

Evelyn turned to Mr. Leguinness.

"This is Arthur. He runs a sort of taxi service for some of the people in the neighbourhood, when they need a car for some reason."

Evelyn turned to Arthur. "Yes, thank you, Arthur. I'd very much like a ride home."

*******

The newly titled Four More Respected Gentlemen sat at the round table with Bowman-Pease and his lady friend Lesley Sohl, who met them there. The restaurant that they were in had the look of a place that was still trying to impress its customers. Cynics would say that soon, it would raise its prices, after it was `discovered.' In truth, it had been open for some time. Nobody noticed. Like many who embark on a venture only to find it failing, the proprietor had a look of nervous anxiety about him that the wary might detect. Outwardly, he displayed courtesy and tact.

The assemblage were devouring the best pizza in the city, or certainly the best pizza they had ever tasted.

Lesley was introduced as a musician, someone with whom the boys could talk shop. She was not widely known, but they had heard about her voice. It was a pure, beautiful, gentle voice, one not widely popular since the days of Mary Ford.

Lesley was also captivating, both in beauty, and in personality. Her voice did Ray a turn. He had once heard a tape of Peter's where she sang Oldfield's Incantations to Bowman-Pease's accompaniment. Her beauty was in the flavour of Bouquet in `Trop Belle Pour Toi,' Ray's second favourite film of the lost decade, right after Cox's `Man of Flowers.'

But Ray was only partially enchanted. His mind was still on the events of the day, and on Evelyn in particular. Still, Lesley had her special charms, and Ray found himself growing slowly smitten.

"Peter tells me that you four are into music. Not that new stuff, I hope. I don't know what young people find appealing about it." Lesley looked inquiringly at the quartet.

Ray responded: "We like most things, and we play with real instruments. We can set a pretty good piece of song down as a band, but I don't think we're ready for exposure yet. Maybe in a year or two."

"I hope to hear you play sometime. Do a song that I know, and maybe I'll sing."
Ray found himself at the receiving end of a smile from both Bowman-Pease, and Sohl. Play, sing... Would there be clouds tonight? Blush.