The Two Men
In the living room of a large white house, two men were doubled over with laughter. One was a short, bulbous, bald man with glasses. His face was red, and tears, courtesy of the laughter, formed on his forehead as the wine glass in his hand trembled and threatened to pour its contents on the floor. The man across from him, the owner of the house, a tall thin man with gray hair brushed back, was equally as doubled over. His glass was luckily on a coaster on the table beside him.
The two were exchanging stories around a fire to pass the evening. The bald man had just finished his turn telling a tale about how a young boy fell into a puddle when the bald man swung a door at him. The two settled back into their chairs, wiping their eyes.
“I’ve got one more for the evening,” said the tall man.
“One more! Tell ten more, Thomas!” said the bald man.
“Just one more tonight, John. It’s late, and besides, I might run out of good ones!” said Thomas.
He waved to his servant, who went into the kitchen and brought out the bottle of wine the men had been drinking out of all evening. The servant, looking to avoid either man’s scrutiny, poured it carefully into each of men’s glasses. He finished without looking at either man’s eye and walked quietly back into the shadows of the kitchen wall.
“We might run out of this wine before the stories,” said John. He sipped it some more.
“We might indeed,” said Thomas. “I’ll keep it short.”
He looked at the ceiling for a moment to think.
“I’ve got it,” he said. He moved excitedly. “This happened a while ago. I think you’re unaware of it. Do you know the story about the boy?”
“I do not.”
“It was during the summer, and a boy, who was maybe around the age of ten or eleven, came up to me while I was down at some store along the main road of our town. I could tell he was poor. His clothes had dirt on them, his hair was tousled and he was thin. His mouth was shriveled like a rat’s, and I found that amusing, so I kept the conversation going.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ I said.
‘Peter, sir,’ he said.
‘Why do you want to work for me, Peter?’
‘You live in the big house up the road, don’t you?’
‘I do.’
‘So you have money.’
‘I do.’
‘My family needs some money, and I think you need some help taking care of the house.’
He looked at me with that incredible face. I figured that it would be all right to have him work for me as long as he cleaned up, so I accepted his proposal.
He arrived at his allotted time, and I let him in and set him to work as a cleaner. I figured that cleaning things couldn’t be that hard, although looking around now, I see that there are many things to clean. In any case it was hardly a problem with his youth and energy, and he did an excellent job, overshadowing even the best of the staff at the time.
I soon trusted him with kitchen work. As you know I take pride in my food and drink, and I only put the best people there. I want to make sure that both food and drink are as good as can be.”
“It certainly shows,” said John. He looked at his glass.
“Thank you. It’s new,” said Thomas. He held it up to the light. “This is the kind of thing I expected to trust Peter with, but he never got to handle that.”
Thomas finished his glass and signaled for more. The servant came with the bottle, poured him a glass, John’s glass and walked away.
“What happened?” said John.
“I had a long day that I don’t remember the details for, and I came home tired. Peter and a few others were working in the kitchen. He came up to me after drying his hands.
‘Sir, I was wondering if I could stay later than usual to get a few things done,’ he said.
‘What things?’ I said.
‘A few things in the kitchen. There are dishes that will take a while longer to clean than usual, and I’d like to take care of the counters too. I’ll leave before dark.’
I looked at his pleading face and almost laughed.
‘It seems ridiculous to me that you would need more time, but that’s fine,’ I said.
I took off my shoes and lay on the couch. I saw some of my staff leave as I drifted in and out of sleep. My eyes finally shut but not for long.
I woke up when I heard a crash from the kitchen. I was disoriented because of how dark it had gotten, and was quite scared. None of my staff lives in the house, and aside from Peter, who said that he would leave when he would, I am alone in the evenings unless I call upon my evening staff.
I found something heavy — I think it was a poker — and slowly walked towards the kitchen. I felt a cold breeze on my feet and heard someone sweeping the floor of broken glass.
‘Who’s there?’ I said.
There was a shuffling, and I turned the corner. On the counter was Peter. He was reaching into a cabinet for a loaf of bread. On the floor was a broken dish.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
He looked back and tried escaping through the window. I grabbed his arm and pulled him in front of me.
‘What are you doing, Peter?’ I said.
‘Nothing, sir,’ he said.
‘You were stealing from me.’
‘Just the bread, sir. I never meant to steal the dish.’
‘You might as well have. You broke it.’
‘I never meant to do that either, sir. I just needed the bread.’
‘What for?’
‘My mother, sir.’
‘Don’t I pay you enough?’
He started crying.
‘What’s wrong with your mother?’ I said.
‘She’s sick, sir. Her stomach can’t handle much beyond bread. I can’t get any.’
I let go of him and stood there. I was angry, but I did nothing just then.
‘Take the bread,’ I said.
Shaking, he reached for the bread then ran out the front door. I closed the cabinet door and the window, cleaned up the broken dish and lay on my bed. I made a mental note to remind him of his error.
The boy came back the next day and went straight to the kitchen. He kept his eyes down as he passed me.
‘Peter,’ I said.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said. He walked over.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I’m thinking about yesterday.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about yesterday,’ I said. I grabbed his shoulder. He was staying with me. ‘Did your mother eat the bread?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
‘Good. Let’s go to the kitchen.’
I led him in and stood him in front of the staff. I squeezed his shoulder.
‘If I could have everyone’s attention please,’ I said. The staff looked up. ‘Peter here made a mistake last night. Can you explain what you did, Peter?’
He explained what he did.
‘We don’t like rats, house, do we?’
Everyone shook their heads no.
‘Does everyone agree that Peter is a rat?’
A few shook their heads with trepidation.
‘At least some can see clearly that he is. Peter can’t help being one, and that is a terrible thing.’
I sunk down low so I could see his face.
‘You are a rat, Peter. A rat!’ I said.
He broke out in tears. Some of the staff looked upset, and a few of them started mumbling amongst themselves. I thought about how they might have complained, or worse, quit, but nothing bad ever came of it.
I was quite satisfied at what I did, and that is the end of my story.”
Thomas leaned back and smiled. He felt that he had told the story well. The smile went away when he looked at his friend’s face, which carried a look of disappointment and anger.
“Thomas, I must say that the story upset me. Punishing the boy for breaking a dish is a fair thing to do, but to humiliate him in front of others is too much,” said John.
It became quiet. Thomas moved in his chair.
“You think so?” said Thomas.
“Yes. It reminds me of my youth, which is hard to think about even to this day,” said John.
Thomas looked at the floor.
“Have I lost my touch, then?”
“You’ve lost it completely. He was a poor kid, and he stole the bread because his mother needed it. He didn’t choose to be in his position. It was a cruel thing to do.”
Thomas looked at the fire. It was getting hot. He heard his staff’s feet shuffling over the carpet. ‘Oh, what do I do this for?’ he thought. ‘I have all of these things, but I treat them like so.’ It was getting too hot now. He took off his jacket, and as he threw it to another chair near him he met his friend’s eyes again. They were squinting slightly, and he was grinning. The heat was momentarily lifted.
“You — you were joking,” said Thomas.
“Of course I was, Thomas! That was a wonderful story!” said John.
Thomas sank back into his chair in relief then threw his his head back and laughed. John joined him. Their faces were turning red, and they wiped tears from their eyes.
“Oh, and I can imagine so well how that boy’s face looked when he cried,” said John. He shriveled his face up and held his hands up as if they were paws and started sniveling.
“It was exactly like that!” said Thomas. “I forgot to add that it was only a short time later that he quit and walked out the front door. He looked like a drowned rat off a ship!” He stood up and mimed it out, and his friend soon joined him, and they paraded like children around in a circle. Then Thomas stopped. He pulled at the collar of his shirt.
“Say, it’s quite hot in here now,” said Thomas.
“Yes, I feel the same,” said John. “It’s the wine and the fire.”
“I agree,” said Thomas. He tried calling one of his servants to put out the fire, but his voice was hoarse. He touched his throat. It was harder now to breathe.
“My throat. It’s closing up!” said Thomas.
John’s eyes bulged as his throat began closing too, and the men’s faces started veering towards an awful purple. They put out the fire and took off their shirts, but neither of those things helped.
They watched each other until stars obscured their vision and they could see no more, then collapsed to the floor in a heap. The last sounds emitted from their mouths was a high-pitched squeak, and like rats at the end of a long struggle with a trap, the men ceased breathing in a sudden and unceremonious way. Out of their mouths dribbled a little bit of wine.
The servant, who was one of the staff members present when Thomas humiliated Peter, walked over and nudged the men with his foot. Satisfied at their condition, he gathered the glasses and moved to the kitchen. He carefully poured the wine out, cleaned the bottle well and threw it away.
Before leaving, he had a thought. He went to the cabinets and grabbed a couple loaves of bread. He made sure that everything was set and walked out the front door towards the direction of the poor boy’s home.
