Chapter 8
The Second Storyteller
Seven days later I arrived in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. The next morning I made three phone calls before confirming that a gentleman by the name of Burr actually did reside at the Middlebury Home of the Aged and that afternoon, just a few minutes before five, I found myself at the reception desk stating my case; a few short minutes later, I was being escorted down a corridor toward what had to be Harbridge's room, by a stout, over-curious, and evidently, spiteful middle-aged nurse.
Opening the door to a room that appeared to be almost filled with potted geraniums, she exclaimed with what seemed like disgust and distrust, "Visitor, Bert," and to me, "This would be the esteemed Mr. Bertrand Burr, Mr. Shannon. He ain't a day over ninety. Don't believe anything he tells you. I'll leave the two of you together..." and, in an aside to me, "for as long as you can stand him."
There in a wheelchair, bent almost in two by arthritis and other maladies, sat a wizened old man who looked every bit of the one hundred and ten years he claimed to be. His face appeared to be filled with fury, his eyes hot and blue as an Arizona sky. He had a wrinkled little head that trembled ever so slightly as he looked me up and down. His skin give the impression of being very much like worn out oilcloth; and his arthritic hands resembled bird-claws.
Did I mention that he was filthy, and smelled something awful? He had soiled his pajamas from both ends. I glanced at the nurse with a question on my lips, but she answered me before I got it out.
"Does it all the time... likes to annoy us. We take him into the bathroom like clock-work, but he'll wait until he gets back to the room here, and then let go of either his bladder or his... well, you know. Just to spite..." she paused, obviously wanting to say "me," but finished the sentence with -- "us."
"How 'bout you do your god dammed job, and clean me the fuck up?" he spat out.
The nurse stiffened, and I detected a fear come over her as she took a step backward.
"Got me a witness, nursie," he said; a mean glee dripped from every word. Without another word, the furious nurse spun his wheelchair around and wheeled him into the oversized bathroom. Ten minutes later, she wheeled him back out. He fairly gleamed with freshness, and the foul odor that had clouded the room earlier was now gone.
The nurse had more to say about his poor behavior, and I listened until she ran out of words, turned on her heel, and shut the door firmly behind her.
"Aw, she just gave me a lick and a promise, that's all," he said wiping some drool from his mouth with the sleeve of his right hand. "See them elastic stockings she wuz wearing?"
I shook my head. I hadn't noticed them.
"She wears 'em 'cause of her very close veins."
He means varicose veins, I told myself. Then I met Burr's rheumy eyes, and said, "I'm looking for a former big-league ballplayer by the name of Harbidge. Would you be him?"
"My name's Burr, Bert Burr. I might know something about baseball, but I ain't anybody named... Harbridge."
"I'm looking for a man goes by Harbidge. That's spelled H-a-r-b-i-d-g-e. He played with a couple different teams before the turn of the century."
"Did he now?"
"He did."
"You look it up, did you?" He licked his lower lip, and I felt my stomach cringe. Was he always going to be this difficult? I wondered.
"Let me start over, Mr. Burr."
"Please do," he said, and cackled, "I'm waiting to hear your preposition."
"Find me funny?" I was wondering if his malapropisms were deliberate or accidental.
"Nope," he said answering my question.
"You sent me a letter, Mr. Burr."
"What are you incinerating?"
"I'm not insinuating anything; I'm here because you answered my advertisement in the Sporting News about a ball player named Bill Harbidge who played for the Hartford team among others."
"Got the money?" He replied, finally getting to the point.
That told me he was, or at least knew who I was looking for. In response to his question, I asked, "I need proof before I give you any money, Mr. Burr."
What kind of proof?"
"For starters, I believe you met a man... a very unusual man who changed your life."
"I'm a hundred ten years old; I've met plenty of unusual people in that time."
I felt a kind of bump just then, and looking around saw nothing that might have caused it. I took a deep breath, realizing that he had just attempted to take possession of me. Arthur had been proven correct. I was grateful to him for preventing just that from occurring.
All this took place in mere seconds. Trying not to show him that I thought anything was awry, I said, "I'm referring to the person who gave you a certain power."
Burr's blue eyes flickered, was it from remembrance of their actual meeting? Or was it that perhaps for the first time his attempt to take over someone's mind and body had failed? In any event, I kept my face from sending any helpful signals to him.
He smiled, and I was surprised to see he was in possession of most of his teeth.
There was another bump. I looked at him and smiled back.
He nodded, as if satisfied about something. I assumed I had passed his test, for he said, "Oh, you mean the shifting?"
"I don't know what you mean by 'shifting.'"
"How 'bout, I met a man from Venus."
"A man from Venus?"
"Well, all right, I don't know where the fuck he wuz from, but it wasn't this planet!" he spat out at me.
"Are you speaking about an... alien?"
"I ain't talking about no menstrual show!"
"You mean minstrel show, don't you?"
"Don't go getting a brain conclusion over the way I talk, Mr. What's-your-name."
"It's Roy Shannon, Bert."
His blue eyes seemed to glow and I realized my mistake in not calling him Bill.
"Yeah, yeah. It's the pills. I gotta take these big pill everyday and drink a lot of water 'cause I got trouble with my probate.
"Did you mean to say, prostrate?"
