A Gentleman of Sterling Character

By Dave Bachmann

Dave is this month’s winner of $520.00 for his tightly written story on friendship and status.

Bio: Dave is a retired teacher who taught language arts to special needs students in Arizona for 39 years.  He now resides in California, writing poems and short stories for children and grown-ups. 

Without further ado, “A Gentleman of Sterling Character ” by Dave Bachmann.

“No friendship is an accident.” O’Henry

            Mr. Sidney Porter perched on the edge of a rickety wooden chair, arms resting lightly on the coffee-stained card table, speaking in a smooth, sing-song British accent. I sat opposite of him, unable to stop looking at his mustache, a thin-lipped metronome which bobbed up and down with every word he spoke.  

            “Mr. Williams. Are you paying attention?”

            “Yes. Sorry.”

            “I have reviewed your application, Mr. Williams. It is impressive, aside from the fact that it is filled out in pencil.”

            “Mr. Porter, I apologize for that. It’s all they had available here in the Upland Homeless Shelter.”

            “I see. Regardless of your present situation, it is clear, Mr. Williams, that you are a gentleman of sterling character.”

            “Pardon?”

            “Sterling character, Mr. Williams. I am referencing the bronze star you were awarded for heroic service in Afghanistan. And commendations from your superiors. And your post-service career, counseling veterans. Frankly, it makes one wonder what occurred to cause your, um…….”

            “Fall from grace?”

            “Yes.”

            “PTSD, Mr. Porter. It doesn’t affect everyone the same way or at the same time.”

            “Understood, Mr. Williams. The supervisor of the shelter here tells me you’ve been an exemplary tenant.”

            “Drug and alcohol free, Mr. Porter. And the ankle bracelet comes off next month, according to my probation officer.”

            “Very good. I came to the homeless shelter to give someone a second chance, someone with potential and promise. I believe that I have found him. Just one more question. Do you have any experience maintaining a lawn? My estate is…well, quite large.”

            “Grew up in Kansas,” I responded, as if that answered the question, then quickly added, “on my parents’ farm. I can run a thresher, a tractor, a baler, you name it. If you’ve got cows, I can milk those, too.”

            Mr. Porter laughed, the first time he had shown any emotion. “No, Mr. Williams, no cows. Although, I do have a pair of English mastiffs, Sid and Sal, who can be quite troublesome at times. They seem particularly drawn to my Juliets.”

            “Juliets, sir?”

            “Juliet roses. They are considered the most expensive roses in the world. And, apparently, my unruly mastiffs have developed a fondness for them.”

            “Fondness, sir?”

            “They eat them.”

            I quickly stifled a smile. “I’m rather good with animals, Mr. Porter. I’ll see what I can do.”

            “Splendid. You’ll be able to assume residence in the gardener’s quarters behind the main house. Will you need assistance in making the move?”

            “My belongings, such as they are, will fit in a backpack. With room left over.”

            “Very well, then. Finally, do you have any questions for me, Mr. Williams?”

            “One. Would you prefer that I address you as Sir Porter?

            Mr. Porter nodded and smiled, clearly impressed. “You’ve done your homework, haven’t you, Mr. Williams? Yes, I was knighted by the Queen for meritorious service in her Majesty’s Royal Navy. But since moving to California, I have found that people frown upon the kind of pretentiousness for which we English are known. Therefore,” and at this, Mr. Porter stood, and extended his hand, “Mister will suffice. I look forward to having you in my employ, Mr. Williams. Good day.”

            My new digs were a considerable upgrade from the homeless shelter in Upland. Referring to them as ‘the gardener’s quarters’ seemed a bit understated as they boasted a full kitchen, living room, king sized bed and a bathroom with tub, shower and bidet which, admittedly, I had to google in order to discover its proper use.

            I had been working on Mr. Porter’s estate for two days when he hailed me from his second-story balcony, surprising me by using my first name.

            “Anthony. May I have a word with you?”

            “Yes, of course, Mr. Porter.”

            “Excuse me for my, um…, informality, Anthony. But you neglected to inform me that you are a magician.”

            “Excuse me, sir?”

            “I’m referring to Sid and Sal. Somehow, you have weaned them off my Juliets.”

            “No magic, Mr. Porter. I simply moved the outer fencing to give them some new territory to explore.”