The Fallacies of Netra Pinkama
Delling poured himself one more shot of Bourbon, savoring these last few moments at the lodge. In less than five minutes, he’d be forced into a week of a life he dreaded. It wasn’t something he could easily refuse--not without causing friction with high-minded officials. The best plan was to go along to keep peace. You might have an opportunity to punch it up a little with an opening dialog something like "One last shot of bourbon for the road," Delling mumbled darkly, as he savored his last few moments at the lodge. "A week among the dredges," he added with disgust, "and no good reason for it."
He stroked his beard and turned to Arthur who stood by the bookcase. Arthur was a senior lodge member and the two of them hunted more rabbits, deer, and occasional buffalo than anybody else Delling partnered with. This sentence troubled me in ways I guess I'm just not experienced enough to explain. Perhaps 'Arthur was a senior lodge member, and together the two of them had bagged more rabbits, deer, and the occasional buffalo than anybody else Delling had hunted with.' They'd even set [the county] lodge record for 1852, probably more than any other lodge in the state. I'm not 100% sure why this needs to be here, but I assume it has to do with setting up background on Delling himself. The three of them--him, Arthur and Arthur's damned ever-present cigar. You'd smell the man long before you [ever] saw him.
Arthur exhaled a puff of smoke. “Well, your time has finally come, Delling.” His voice echoed in the sparsely furnished room. When I try to picture this hunting lodge, 'richly furnished' probably wouldn't be any more fitting than 'sparsely furnished', but I would want some better sense of the ambiance of the place. This isn't just some hunting cabin in the woods. It's a 'hunting lodge' for the rich and decadent, who fancy themselves above the common rabble. “Any last words? You look fine in those rags, by the way."
Delling's supplied outfit wasn't rags so much as bad taste--a tombstone hat he refused to wear, breeches that barely stayed up without a tight belt, a horrid red bib shirt, and over-sized snakeskin boots. Common clothes for common folk--which he was emphatically not--but they were comfortable. Being forced into poverty had one advantage so far. Still, Delling sneered at Arthur’s comment and didn’t grace him with a response.
James, their treasurer, added more salt. “Law is law. All of us, except you and Lawrence, have done our ‘poor week.’ I can tell you first hand that it was an...entertaining break from my comfort--and you fellows. Not as dreadful as you might think. I feel a better man for it.”
“This law,” Delling said, “is something some man felt was a fine idea. I don't share that ideal, and nobody should impose his beliefs on me. I’m a professional businessman, I’ve no time for somebody else’s idea of self help.”
“It’s not ‘self help’ so much as better understanding.” James said.
James poured himself a drink as though stalling for a response. Delling folded his arms and glared.
“And it wasn’t one man’s idea,” Arthur said, taking a few steps toward Delling. “When you moved to this town, you knew, and therefore agreed, with the law. All men of wealth are told upfront.”
Delling knew, but he never expected to really be forced to spend time with common folk. He saw the law more as a formality, something to make the town seem more righteous to newcomers. He’d never seen anybody actually execute it, but the others, he supposed, had served their time before he arrived.
“Best be on your way.” James pointed to the clock over the fireplace. “Noon. I wish you well, and I wouldn’t recommend you telling anyone about the fine banker businessman you are. Might not go well for you.”
Delling gulped the last of his bourbon, grabbed his patched jacket from the back of the chair, and [strode stiffly] out to the waiting carriage so kindly provided by the city council. His worn [boots tromping across the hardwood floor were] his goodbye.
He [donned] his jacket to block the early October wind and nodded to the man at the reins. The driver, a puny man, waited for him to board, then yanked the straps and drove him near the poor section. Here I was wanting a little bit more background on the layout of the city travelling between the lodge and the poor district. It felt like they were just next door, and this made me wonder what the residents of the poor section thought of these pompous gentry 'slumming it' among the underprivileged masses. I suppose this opens up its own plot opportunities relating to how much the locals know or care whenever these dandies get dropped at their doorstep.
“You can walk the rest of the way,” the driver said. “Won’t do for them to see you delivered by carriage like some Mary.” He shoved a few dollars at Delling, just enough for a few days of food. “That’s your allotment. Better make the [most] of it. You’ll have to find a way to work for anything else. Enjoy your stay.”
Delling wanted to punch the weasel’s face. That just might ease his mood, but the driver pulled the reins and trotted off.
On his own now, Delling surrendered to the stench of horse manure and poverty. This would not be a good week.
