A Tale of Goode and Eival by Will Ritter
Jason Tinsdale was, for the moment, a pirate. High up in the crow’s nest he surveyed the still, gray waters, watching for sea monsters, enemy ships, or defenseless merchant vessels, all filled with swag. So far all he had seen was Mister Halberts walking his dog. When the little Pomeranian had left a steaming pile of swag on the Johnstone’s lawn, Jason had seriously considered being a private detective, instead. The tree, however, had not been an easy one to climb, and looked even more difficult to get down, and so, for the moment, he was a pirate.
After a moments pause, Jason began to hear the telltale rap of footsteps from behind his perch. He swiveled awkwardly, trying to spot the approaching feet, a scurvy dog, no doubt. The branch beneath his worn sneaker was slick with moss and his foot shot out from under him. Jason Tinsdale swung wildly out, waving about desperately for a branch to save him from the pavement below. The trunk began to shoot past his eyes as he gained momentum... and then... his hand miraculously clasped onto a thick limb and his body swung sharply into the tree trunk. Heart beating, and a bit sore from the impact, he looked down. He could now, easily drop to his feet - a mere couple of feet to the sidewalk. Sighing a breath of relief, he grinned, broadly and swung off of the thick ropes and toward the deck below, the poop deck, he giggled inwardly, that’s what it was called. A moment later a 1984 Buick slammed grill-first into the main mast and the air was filled with chips of wood and smoke.
“5:27” said Mister Goode’s wristwatch in light green glowing digits. “5:27 and 12 seconds.”
Mister Goode sped up slightly, letting the rhythmic tap of his shoes carry him up the sidewalk in a brisk, but pleasant walk. He pulled a little plastic sandwich bag out of the right-hand pocket of his vest, glancing at his watch again. “...and 39 seconds...” he maintained a steady pace, nearing an elm tree on the side of the road, its roots giving crumbling veins to the slate gray sidewalk. An old blue Buick rounded the corner up ahead, and Mister Goode noted the driver’s head jerk suddenly down, doubtless alarmed by the coffee seeping scaldingly into his jeans. Another quick glance at the watch, “...and 53 seconds...” without slowing or swerving, Mister Goode reached out his left arm, as if to brush the trunk of the elm when he reached it. Jason Tinsdale was suddenly hanging a few feet away from him, and in a moment was on his way to the pavement. Mister Goode scooped the boy up in his arm before his feet had a chance to reach the cracked sidewalk and then swerved into the grass of the Johnstone’s lawn. There he deposited the boy and leaned down.
“What was that all ab--!” Jason’s words were cut off abruptly as the elm tree behind him exploded into splinters and leaves. After an immediate alarmed leap backwards, Jason left his mouth hanging open, jaw waggling noiselessly.
With the sandwich bag, Mister Goode scooped up Greggor The Pomeranian’s little mess and tied a little loop off on top.
“Jason,” Said Mister Goode, calmly, as if there was no 1984 Buick halfway though an elm tree behind him, billowing smoke and steam, “would you be so kind as to ask Mrs. Johnstone to phone an ambulance? The gentleman in the blue car is in need of some medical assistance.” And he smiled at the boy, who nodded slowly, jaw still slack.
Jason would have difficulty exactly describing Mister Goode, as his head had been just in front of the sun when he had spoken, leaving his face in silhouette, surrounded by a halo of brilliant sunlight. The police officer investigating would try to explain that this was impossible, given the description Jason had provided, because at that hour the sun would have been in the west, toward the house.
Jason didn’t seem to care much what the officer said, but he did want to look at his badge and his gun, and maybe, if he promised to be careful, could he hold it? And though the answer had been ‘no,’ for the next few days, Jason was a policeman.
Mister Goode rounded the corner, and whistled an off-key rendition of “Lady Luck” from Guy’s & Dolls. A quick consultation of his watch informed him that he had a solid hour and 17 minutes before Eric Hallbrook would be desperately considering jumping from the Park Street Bridge - Just enough time to get a scone and a nice cup of tea from that quaint little cafe in town, he calculated.
A few minutes later, he settled into a little, round, outdoor table and began sipping at his tea. He was halfway through the scone when an arm slapped around his back and a slick, Jersey accent broke the serenity of his cafe experience.
“Heyyy, if it ain’t Mister Angle, breakin’ bread with ‘imself! Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I partook?” And a pinstripe arm reached across Mister Goode’s face and purloined the scone. “Blueberry, how sinfully delicious!”
“You know perfectly well, Mister Eival,” Mister Goode said without looking up, “that I am no longer Mister Angle any more than you are Mister Daevalle.”
Mister Eival slid into the seat across from him, shaded by the café awning, “That’s no way to treat an old friend,” he scolded, feigning a pout. Mister Goode raised a meaningful eyebrow at him. “Well, all right, not friends… business associates, then. No? Mutual enforcers of ethics, perhaps?”
Mister Goode put down his tea. “Mister Eival, unless I am mistaken, you entire purpose revolves around encouraging people to break codes of ethics. Your task and my own are hardly mutual.”
“Nonsense,” Mister Eival polished off the last of the scone and continued, “We’re like prosecutors and defense attorneys, two sides of the same case!”
“Very well, then,” conceded Mister Goode, “Though, I must remind you that both of those are your side’s, not mine. Our departments don’t handle lawyers.”
“Whatever, I thought I was supposed to be in the details,” Mister Eival dabbed the corners of his lips with Goode’s napkin, “I liked you more when you were all flaming sword and fiery chariot.”
Mister Goode took a last sip of tea and set down the cup, “I didn’t ask you to join me, you know.” He glanced at his watch: 6:02, “If you’ll pardon me, now,” he stood and took out his wallet, “I have an appointment to get to.”
“What, don’t want me tagging along?” Eival followed his counterpart up, “Hmm, awfully generous tip, isn’t it?”
“The rest is for the silverware you’re going to take as I leave,” Mister Goode walked casually to the sidewalk.
Mister Eival shrugged and followed suit, his pocket jingling down the street.
Erick Hallbrook’s girlfriend had left him. He found a note this morning; “I didn’t mean to run over your cat on the way out” she had said. Eric wasn’t so sure. Six or seven days ago she said she had forgiven him for cheating on her. Yesterday he parked his car in the ditch at the bottom of his street thanks to a “faulty break line.” Clearly, there was lingering resentment. On top of that, his landlord seemed to believe he was late on his rent. “Yes, I mailed the check,” his girlfriend had told him. He needed to get away from it all. A walk, he had decided, would be a nice start.
His walk had brought him to the Park Street Bridge. The water below was white with the frothing current. He paused to watch it rushing beneath him. His eyes fell out of focus after a minute. One foot and then another found their way to the other side of the rail. One more step and he could walk away forever; walk into the empty white lather of the river. He stopped and sat on the handhold, mustering the courage for one last downward spiral.
“Not worth it, son, trust me.” Said the man, sitting next to him.
The boy nearly fell from his perch, regardless of the statement. Mister Goode caught his arm as he flailed above the water.
Behind them came a dry laugh. “Best salvation mission ever,” chuckled a man in a pinstripe suit, leaning in the shadows against a telephone pole. Mister Eival clicked open a can of soda.
“Please, Mister Eival, this is not the place,” said Goode calmly, “Erick, you’re a good kid. I know its tempting to just give up, but God will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able. That’s from Corinthians.”
The boy looked at Goode, trying to make out his features against the glaring streetlamp above him.
“But,” Eival cut in, stepping forward, “with temptation He will also make the way of escape. Corinthians 10:13, right Goode?” He turned to Erick, eyes glinting through the darkness, “sometimes escape is what you need, kid. Don’t listen to this quack – you aren’t under his jurisdiction. You’re a sinner and you know it.”
Goode sighed, “’All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ Romans 3:23.”
Eival just sipped his cola and grinned, “and John 8:34, ‘Whoever commits sin is a slave of sin,’”
“’Judge not lest ye be judged’, Mathew 7:1,” Goode wasn’t even looking up at Mister Eival.
“But, ‘he who’…”
“Enough!” Erick Hallbrook swung a leg back over the rail, “Enough, both of you! Book of Mathew, Book of Romans, whatever! There comes a point when you have to realize that its just books! I mean, God may be infallible or whatever, but books are just stories! Just words! Everything has already been translated and interpreted and skewed by someone before you get around to doing it for your own means!
“You think you’re so almighty because you’re, what, angel and devil, saint and demon? You’re just something from a book, too, aren’t you? You’re only wearing dark or light clothes because some guy wrote about that once. You show me the first story, the original book, then you can get high an’ mighty.
Mister Eival exchanged a bemused glance with Mister Goode, “Sounds to me,” he took another sip from the can, “like you’ve lost the faith.”
Goode took a step back over the rail with Erick, “Son, you may lose confidence in the paper and the bindings, but in your heart you know their content rings true in the hearts of all men.”
“No,” Erick took a deep breath, “no, dude, really I don’t. What’s one prophet’s take on things? Every myth out there was once somebody’s religion. The only thing keeping “the” God and Satan away from Zeus and Thor, or Bastette and Osiris, is time. I’ll believe what I need to believe, and if that’s not enough, then I’ll know who to blame.”
He thought for a moment. Goode and Eival seemed, for once, at a loss for words. “I’m not out here for all the reasons I thought I was, not really,” he began, “I can take my own lumps and I’ll pay for my own mistakes.” He swung the other foot back onto the sidewalk and sat against the railing. “I’ll deal with death when it comes to me, but I’ll be damned if I’ll spend every day I’m alive worrying about what comes next. There’s just too much shit to think about in the here and now.
“I don’t want to jump,” he flashed a look at Mister Goode, “and no, you don’t get to take credit for it. I don’t want to die because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction,” another look, this time at Mister Eival, took the smile off of his face and raised his eyebrows. “You want to have your little Heaven versus Hell thing, fine, leave me out of it.” And he hopped down from the rail and onto the sidewalk, then down Park Street.
At the corner he looked back. The bridge was empty, aside from a light mist. There was, he also noticed, no streetlamp on the bridge itself. He definitely needed to get some sleep, he thought. In the morning he would call up his father and sort out the rent. His girlfriend, he decided, would be much better for him far, far away. He wondered, inwardly laughing at himself, if it would be too hypocritical, now, to give his cat a nice burial.
Mister Eival leaned on the handrail next to Mister Goode, “Well, that was a bit anticlimactic, don’t you think? Soda?”
Goode accepted the proffered can and took a sip, “Well, saved him, anyway,” and he waggled his fingers about the soda tab.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Eival jabbed a manicured finger at Goode, “like he said, you don’t get credit. We both missed on this one. Time are changing, Mister Goode.” He cocked his head, “by the way, isn’t caffeine a faux-pas, old man?”
“Only when I’m Mormon,” Mister Goode glanced at his watch, 6:26. “Well, I’ve got to run.” And he handed the can back, “next time, Mister Eival.” And once again he found himself striding down the road.
“Cheers, then,” Mister Eival tossed the last of the can back, and immediately spluttered and sprayed, clutching the guardrail for a moment to stable himself. “Blessing the soda’s a damn childish prank, you prick!” He yelled down the road.
Mister Goode’s lips played at a smile as he glanced again at his watch. Forty-three minutes to his next appointment. He had time to swing through the park on his way, he decided.
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