Assassination
of the Great Man
or The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword
George
Motz
The
Great Man comes, as he always does, to sit on a bar stool and
be watched by his flock of worshipers, as they always gather at
the end of the day at the local ‘watering hole.’ He
unfolds his newspaper, takes out a pen from his pocket, and proceeds
to ‘do’ the New York Times Crossword Puzzle.
"He
does it in ink!" comes a whispered response to a questioning
look from an innocent who has happened to chance a visit to the
saloon for the first time. In a steady and constant manner, the
pen rapidly places words within the grid of the puzzle, as the
Great Man, without much effort, but with an occasional sigh or
moan, displays his knowledge in an almost silent manner, as if
he were competing against the best of the best in a Crossword
Competition.
Slowly,
this day, two patrons of the pub advance and stand beside the
Great Man, afraid to interrupt him as his mind is deep into the
puzzle, yet awaiting his acknowledging them.
Slowly,
the pen is put down, and the Great Man looks up, takes off his
glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose where the glasses have resided,
and says, "Yes?" almost condescendingly.
The
two seekers of wisdom, knowledge, and truth state their minor
problem, dilemma, or argument.
The
Great Man waits for a few seconds, then rolls his eyes as if to
say, "Why disturb me for such a stupid and trivial problem?"
and quietly renders his verdict, decision, or opinion, as if to
say, "Why bother me with such a lowly thing? But here is
the verdict," as if it were delivered by Zeus from Olympus,
himself.
The
two inquiring persons almost bow, and then retreat as the Great
Man once more dons his glasses, picks up his pen, and goes back
to steadily placing words into the grid of the New York Times
Crossword Puzzle.
I
have watched this happen for a long time now. I have always considered
the Great Man as a mere mortal, and when I have been privy to
hear his verdicts rendered, I have almost laughed or scoffed many
times. Narrow-minded, short-sighted and almost bigoted, I have
dismissed his verdicts as being.
But
then it is not for me to dispute his decisions, as they do not
affect me. If people wish to have such foolishness rule or dictate
their own lives, then that is their choice.
Being
a student of human nature, I casually watch every day, from five
until six, as I enjoy the ‘Happy Hour’ of unhappy people,
trying to see something worthwhile in their mundane lives through
the bottom of a glass. I know this to be an almost absolute truism,
as I am one of them.
About
a half hour after starting the New York Times Crossword Puzzle,
the Great Man sighs, takes the final swig from his glass, signals
the bartender for another, puts the pen back in his pocket and
rolls up the completed puzzle, to signify that he is done, and
it is complete. Every day, it is the same way, so all can see,
without his making it obvious, that the difficult puzzle was completed,
in its entirety. The Great Man is now ready to make his most recent
discourse on the state of the nation, the world, and the universe.
He is about to dispense the wisdom of the ages. His disciples
draw near, almost worshiping at his feet, for they are to carry
and convey this knowledge to all parts of the earth, or at least
the immediate community.
Never
before have I witnessed such rapt attention in any classroom.
Never before have I seen such engrossed students. Never before
have I observed such eager and willing pupils.
I
have been wrong in my life. I have been wrong many times. I have
been wrong in the past, and I will be wrong in the future. But
also I have been right. Many more times have I been right than
I have been wrong. A wise man once told me that the only ones
who make mistakes in this world are those who take chances.
There
are very few things which I will state as an absolute fact, besides
two plus two equaling four. Variables, new knowledge, and other
factors always come into play, and so we all have to be able to
be flexible, to reconsider and re-analyze our position and situation.
But
now I see that the Great Man is inflexible. He is steady, even
in the face of strong evidence that he may be wrong. But when
chance puts one of his staunchest disciples in my grasp, when
questioned as to the infallibility of the Great Man, the pupil
says, "Don’t you see it? He is so smart. He even does
the New York Times Crossword Puzzle—in ink!"
Man
is a creature of habit. And as a man, I too follow certain patterns.
At a quarter of five, I will enter the tavern, sit in the normal
area which I find comfort in, and imbibe my favorite libation,
without deviation. I enjoy the solitude, the semi-isolation, the
solitary existence of the hour. A nod of the head, and a glass
appears before me. The sports page is presented, well read by
earlier patrons of the day, as now I can take a break from the
rigors of real life and go into the world of fantasy and fiction.
The television set drones on, giving the highlights of the day,
the news of the world, and the workings of Wall Street. It has
become my routine, and all else is shut away, for an hour of rest
and rehabilitation, before I emerge and continue on with my day.
Then
that fateful day, the day when I entered and the bartender placed
the glass before me and shook his head, and said almost sorrowfully,
"Sorry, no sports page. Someone must have walked off with
it."
There
is nothing I can do but knowingly nod in return, and go to my
place of hiding, as that is what all of us are doing, hiding out
from the real world, seeking refuge and shelter from the storms
of life, if only for an hour.
I
walk past the Great Man, now engrossed in his New York Times Crossword
Puzzle, as he almost methodically places words into the grid.
I glance, in hopes that maybe, by chance, the Sports Page is concealed
under his section. But it is not.
There
is a pattern in the black boxes between words on this day. A big
diamond, with many more little black boxes surrounding it in a
random order, is located there. It is no big deal, yet it is a
curiosity. But I linger only a fleeting second, so little time
that I doubt that the Great Man even knew I had hesitated.
An
hour later, I leave the tavern, and by chance, feeling a void
in my life, as my routine had been disrupted by not having the
news of the sports world recorded in my brain, I drive towards
home. A glance at the fuel gauge says that my vehicle will need
gasoline soon, and as there is a station on the way home, I swing
in and fill the vehicle’s tank. As I go to pay, there on
the counter is a small stack of the remaining newspapers of the
day. I add one to my purchases, and then go home to my solitary
life.
As
I microwave a dinner fresh from the freezer compartment of my
refrigerator, I sort to find the sports pages and read the news
and scores of yesterday, as I dine on a tasteless cardboard dinner.
I settle in to try to endure the evening, as I have endured so
many others previously.
As
I disdain televison as a necessary evil, and seldom watch it,
I settle into my easy chair and reach for a book I have been reading,
to fill in the void between the hours I work and the hours I sleep.
The rest of the newspaper is there, and a minor headline calls
to me. A seeker of truth and knowledge, of wisdom and information,
I cannot leave this chance to allow another useless fact go unexplored.
In anticipation, I read the first half of the report, and then
the article is split and the numbers at the end of this half-article
direct me to another page. I thumb through the pages to find it.
It is located next to the New York Crossword Puzzle for that day.
I
almost dismiss the puzzle, but then see that the pattern I had
observed only a few short hours previously is not present.
"Curiouser
and curiouser!" I reply to my unasked question, to quote
Alice in some book from my long past childhood.
I
read the last part of my article, and then read my book, until
sleep calls to me.
But
sleep doesn’t come easily. I awake shortly after going to
bed. The subconscious part of my brain is working overtime. Something
has set it off, disrupted its need for normalcy, for settlement,
for solution.
In
the dark I lie awake, trying to find what my brain was wanting
me to do. I retrace the events of the day, in an orderly fashion,
as is my want. And always I come back to the sports pages.
And
then it comes to me. The grid, the blackened diamond is missing.
But why?
Like
a fictional detective, I consider and then reconsider what I had
observed. And who I had observed doing it.
With
daylight, I once more go out into the world, but in breaking with
routine, I go early. I stop and purchase a newspaper. In the solitude
of my day, I do two crossword puzzles, both the New York Times.
Yesterday’s. And today’s.
Yesterday's
puzzle is easy. It is easy, in that I now have the answers, right
next to today’s puzzle. The second puzzle is the problem.
I struggle, and I strive to find the solutions, and one by one,
most of them eventually come to me. Only a dozen or so answers
elude me, and I am exhausted.
It
is Happy Hour. The Great Man sits at his place of celebrity and
puts the words into the grid of the New York Times Crossword Puzzle
in front of himself. I enter, and instead of stopping as I always
do, to receive my glass of refreshment, I quietly take an empty
seat immediately next to the Great Man. I take out a new copy
of the New York Times Crossword Puzzle. In a rapid display of
fluency, in ink, I place into the grid, the answers.
The
pen of the Great Man stops. There is no flourish of movement now,
no knowing sighs of recognition offered up, no display of having
infinite knowledge being exhibited.
Slowly,
I look up and turn my head slightly so that I can see his eyes.
His eyes are on my copy of today's New York Times Crossword Puzzle.
Ever so slowly, he takes up his drink, drains it, folds up his
newspaper, pockets his pen, and then he walks out of the bar.
***
George
Motz is a retired farmer living in Minnesota with a dozen
books in print. CONFESSIONS OF A COUNTRY BOY! is a group of shorter
works. DWCM-51 is another journey into humor. COON CRICK CROSSING
is the book which gets most often mentioned by the good folks
out in Fox Creek, as they threaten to sue him over it.
©
George Motz