Sherlock
Sherlock
I didn't think it possible, but the reception was even worse than the lecture. Tycoons and magnates were packed in shoulder to shank, shouting and smoking, their empty-headed wives determined to out-babble each other. I bellowed toward Mother's ear, "Whomever is in charge of enforcing London's occupancy statutes is no doubt at this moment either bound and gagged at some undisclosed location or cackling behind a raft of citations!"
Mother was inching her way in the unmistakable direction of the magnificent Mr. Sloan, and I was tugging her sleeve in the opposite direction. Alas, the way was plugged. The only hope I could see of moving from point A to point B was to shuffle along with the flow, as if we all were involved in some avant garde theatrical dramatization of the solar system.
"The heat is unbearable, Mother," I tried, but she was into her fixation. "Mother, I really am roasting," I said. "I must get some air."
The perpetual round and round forced the guests to greet each other over and over with each orbit, everyone tugging at tuxedo collars and prickly petticoats, sweat trickling down backs and betweens bosoms, perfumes and pomades commingling with odors that would have driven Dante from his Inferno.
Accompaniment for our wheeling gavotte was provided by a brass quintet of dubious heritage which careened through one Sousa march after another as if it's members were in fear of having actually rehearsed a number they might not have opportunity to perform. An army of tightlipped waiters threaded through the whole business holding teetering silver trays high overhead. "All in all, a thoroughly depraved affair, wouldn't you say, Mother? Faust might fly through the room on his magical beer barrel at any moment."
The allusion passed her by. "Mother, my head is spinning like a top." I swooned toward the floor. "I am losing consciousness."
She yanked me to my feet and glared from under the brim of her ridiculous hat. "Not tonight, Sherlock."
I pouted, smoothed my jacket and refused the handshakes of the entire London board of commissioners, who at that moment were passing us by and flailing their well wishes like figures at the rail of a departing excursion ship. I sighed. "Maybe I ought to invent something. Heaven knows my Adonis figure isn't working."
Mother grimaced. "Spare me your filthy habits."
"Ah!" I exclaimed on tip-toe, pointing through a part in the sea. "The object of our search! Nathan Eliot Wilcox Sloan, himself. Holding court."
Mother hurried before the seas could close again. "Don't embarrass me."
We closed in on our quarry who was loudly annotating his previous hour of drivel for a dozen or so business speculators. Any time Sloan stopped for a breath, the investors began shoving checkbooks under his nose and stuffing his pockets with wads of banknotes like in-laws at a wedding reception.
"Excuse me," I bellowed and the toadies peeled away from their prince. "I am afraid my mother will urinate all over herself if you do not spare her a moment."
Mother slapped me wth her fan and curtsied. "Mr. Sloan," she said, extending her hand, "Your lecture was just brilliant."
"I couldn't make heads nor tails out of it, myself," I said. "Quadratic negative harmonics? Etheric disintegration? Unadulterated bullshit is what it was."
"You aren't an adherent of my methods?" Sloan said.
"I am many things. Gullible is not one of them."
He merely smiled and sipped his champagne.
"It is my mother who is ensnared in your web. She can't be blamed for her infatuation with you, I suppose. There is no denying it: I have been a disappointment. Still am. Every day an embarrassment, a thorn in Mother's corset. She doesn't understand my opinions, despises my affectations, absolutely detests the dictionary of vulgar expressions I am hoping to publish."
"Vulgar expressions?" Sloan grunted, and the toadies guffawed into their sleeves.
"Excuse me," I said, extracting my tablet and pencil. "Just being in your proximity brings several novel ones to mind." I scribbled the entries and replaced the tablet. "My study of cripples and streetwalkers and the like she pronounces a psychological defect. Never mind I have earned my master's degree in sociology and am a candidate for admission into a renowned doctoral program just as soon as there is an opening. In Mother's eyes, I have already failed."
"Well, look at yourself," Sloan said. "Thirty-five and still refusing to budge from your childhood bedroom. Your mother dreads friends dropping by, you know, forced as she is to endure the tales and exploits of their offspring --- captains of industry and Pulitzer winners, all, celebrated luminaries scattered like diamonds from sea to shining sea, building railroads, discovering cures, rescuing children from utter poverty armloads at a time. And then it's And what of Sherlock?, knowing good and well you are puttering around the house in your housecoat somewhere, scribbling dirty words in your tablet."
More guffaws.
"You are a great disappointment, Sherlock. And though she might not admit it, I happen to know that your dear mother wishes that I were were her son instead. I am handsome, sport a smartly clipped beard and perfectly round gold spectacles. And so well-spoken. Not at all like you. Why, you jabber from dawn to dusk about absolutely nothing and dress like a trader's cart at a Moroccan bazaar."
"Precisely," Mother chimed.
Sloan tapped his glass with his fountain pen and the brass band broke off their wheezing and blowing. The waiters froze mid-stride and the room fell under a hush. "Violet Holmes has decided to throw the full benefit of her pocketbook behind me and my work. I'm sure you all know, my friends, that Mrs. Hennipin has never been shy about sharing her wealth. The Custodial Asylum for Feebleminded Women, the House of Refuge, the Union Temperance Home for Children --- these and others all enjoy Clara's support. She is happy to do what she can for the unfortunate, of course, but she is excited about the notion of being a part of something bright and hopeful for a change. About me. Nathan Eliot Wilcox Sloan. Even my name sounds promising. Violet doesn't pretend to understand the science, but she knows instinctively that I could very well change the world. Something Sherlock here couldn't do if he were Ceasar with all the armies of Rome at his back."
The crowd roared.
******************
"Sherlock, dear?"
Violet Holmes bustled up the broad staircase of her expansive home, hatted and gloved. "Sherlock?" she repeated and rapped on her son's bedroom door. "Are you in there?"
"Working!" Sherlock bellowed from inside.
"Let me in, dear. I have something to tell you."
"Whatever it is, I am certain to be entirely disinterested."
"It's about you, dear."
Violet heard the bedsprings creak and a moment later the door cracked an inch. "I hope you haven't volunteered my services at that horrible relief kitchen again," Sherlock said, one eye visible. "The stench from that rabble made me retch. I was forced to burn my suit coat the moment I returned home."
Violet shook her head and nosed her way into the bedroom. "No, nothing like that."
She looked around the room. No matter how many times she entered the place, it was always a shock. Clothes lay everywhere, wadded and stomped. Glasses, teacups, soupbowls and saucers, their molded remains reeking, were stacked upon bureau, bookcase and windowsill. A worktable against the wall, a'bloom with a bubbling and smoky tangle of beakers flasks and glass tubing, could have served as convincing stage dressing for a theatrical company specializing in penny dreadfuls. Sherlock, in his bathrobe and nothing else, collapsed onto his unmade bed, sending detritus hurtling up and off the mattress like passengers abandoning ship en masse.
"I wish you would let Pansy tidy up in here," Violet said, searching for a place to sit, then thinking better of it.
"Out of the question!" Sherlock rumbled face down into his pillow. He rolled onto his back and snatched papers into each hand. "The value of any one of these may someday exceed that of the Magna Carta."
"Close your robe, Sherlock," his mother hissed, turning away.
"Mother, you bathed me as a child. I wouldn't think ---"
"That was thirty years ago, dear."
Sherlock tied the sash and sat up on the edge of the bed. "There. Decency is restored. Now, what world-shaking event has forced you to invade?"
Violet drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and touched it to her nose. "I want you to go with me to Mr. Sloan's lecture."
"Fraud!" Sherlock barked and rose like a shot.
Violet closed her eyes, breathed deeply and began again. "I want you to go with me to Mr. Sloan's lecture. I have made some inquiries and have every reason to believe he may be interested in employing you."
"In what capacity? Unless Mr. Sloan finds himself in need of
I didn't think it possible, but the reception was even worse than the lecture. Tycoons and magnates were packed in shoulder to shank, shouting and smoking, their empty-headed wives determined to out-babble each other. I bellowed toward Mother's ear, "Whomever is in charge of enforcing London's occupancy statutes is no doubt at this moment either bound and gagged at some undisclosed location or cackling behind a raft of citations!"
Mother was inching her way in the unmistakable direction of the magnificent Mr. Sloan, and I was tugging her sleeve in the opposite direction. Alas, the way was plugged. The only hope I could see of moving from point A to point B was to shuffle along with the flow, as if we all were involved in some avant garde theatrical dramatization of the solar system.
"The heat is unbearable, Mother," I tried, but she was into her fixation. "Mother, I really am roasting," I said. "I must get some air."
The perpetual round and round forced the guests to greet each other over and over with each orbit, everyone tugging at tuxedo collars and prickly petticoats, sweat trickling down backs and betweens bosoms, perfumes and pomades commingling with odors that would have driven Dante from his Inferno.
Accompaniment for our wheeling gavotte was provided by a brass quintet of dubious heritage which careened through one Sousa march after another as if it's members were in fear of having actually rehearsed a number they might not have opportunity to perform. An army of tightlipped waiters threaded through the whole business holding teetering silver trays high overhead. "All in all, a thoroughly depraved affair, wouldn't you say, Mother? Faust might fly through the room on his magical beer barrel at any moment."
The allusion passed her by. "Mother, my head is spinning like a top." I swooned toward the floor. "I am losing consciousness."
She yanked me to my feet and glared from under the brim of her ridiculous hat. "Not tonight, Sherlock."
I pouted, smoothed my jacket and refused the handshakes of the entire London board of commissioners, who at that moment were passing us by and flailing their well wishes like figures at the rail of a departing excursion ship. I sighed. "Maybe I ought to invent something. Heaven knows my Adonis figure isn't working."
Mother grimaced. "Spare me your filthy habits."
"Ah!" I exclaimed on tip-toe, pointing through a part in the sea. "The object of our search! Nathan Eliot Wilcox Sloan, himself. Holding court."
Mother hurried before the seas could close again. "Don't embarrass me."
We closed in on our quarry who was loudly annotating his previous hour of drivel for a dozen or so business speculators. Any time Sloan stopped for a breath, the investors began shoving checkbooks under his nose and stuffing his pockets with wads of banknotes like in-laws at a wedding reception.
"Excuse me," I bellowed and the toadies peeled away from their prince. "I am afraid my mother will urinate all over herself if you do not spare her a moment."
Mother slapped me wth her fan and curtsied. "Mr. Sloan," she said, extending her hand, "Your lecture was just brilliant."
"I couldn't make heads nor tails out of it, myself," I said. "Quadratic negative harmonics? Etheric disintegration? Unadulterated bullshit is what it was."
"You aren't an adherent of my methods?" Sloan said.
"I am many things. Gullible is not one of them."
He merely smiled and sipped his champagne.
"It is my mother who is ensnared in your web. She can't be blamed for her infatuation with you, I suppose. There is no denying it: I have been a disappointment. Still am. Every day an embarrassment, a thorn in Mother's corset. She doesn't understand my opinions, despises my affectations, absolutely detests the dictionary of vulgar expressions I am hoping to publish."
"Vulgar expressions?" Sloan grunted, and the toadies guffawed into their sleeves.
"Excuse me," I said, extracting my tablet and pencil. "Just being in your proximity brings several novel ones to mind." I scribbled the entries and replaced the tablet. "My study of cripples and streetwalkers and the like she pronounces a psychological defect. Never mind I have earned my master's degree in sociology and am a candidate for admission into a renowned doctoral program just as soon as there is an opening. In Mother's eyes, I have already failed."
"Well, look at yourself," Sloan said. "Thirty-five and still refusing to budge from your childhood bedroom. Your mother dreads friends dropping by, you know, forced as she is to endure the tales and exploits of their offspring --- captains of industry and Pulitzer winners, all, celebrated luminaries scattered like diamonds from sea to shining sea, building railroads, discovering cures, rescuing children from utter poverty armloads at a time. And then it's And what of Sherlock?, knowing good and well you are puttering around the house in your housecoat somewhere, scribbling dirty words in your tablet."
More guffaws.
"You are a great disappointment, Sherlock. And though she might not admit it, I happen to know that your dear mother wishes that I were were her son instead. I am handsome, sport a smartly clipped beard and perfectly round gold spectacles. And so well-spoken. Not at all like you. Why, you jabber from dawn to dusk about absolutely nothing and dress like a trader's cart at a Moroccan bazaar."
"Precisely," Mother chimed.
Sloan tapped his glass with his fountain pen and the brass band broke off their wheezing and blowing. The waiters froze mid-stride and the room fell under a hush. "Violet Holmes has decided to throw the full benefit of her pocketbook behind me and my work. I'm sure you all know, my friends, that Mrs. Hennipin has never been shy about sharing her wealth. The Custodial Asylum for Feebleminded Women, the House of Refuge, the Union Temperance Home for Children --- these and others all enjoy Clara's support. She is happy to do what she can for the unfortunate, of course, but she is excited about the notion of being a part of something bright and hopeful for a change. About me. Nathan Eliot Wilcox Sloan. Even my name sounds promising. Violet doesn't pretend to understand the science, but she knows instinctively that I could very well change the world. Something Sherlock here couldn't do if he were Ceasar with all the armies of Rome at his back."
The crowd roared.
******************
"Sherlock, dear?"
Violet Holmes bustled up the broad staircase of her expansive home, hatted and gloved. "Sherlock?" she repeated and rapped on her son's bedroom door. "Are you in there?"
"Working!" Sherlock bellowed from inside.
"Let me in, dear. I have something to tell you."
"Whatever it is, I am certain to be entirely disinterested."
"It's about you, dear."
Violet heard the bedsprings creak and a moment later the door cracked an inch. "I hope you haven't volunteered my services at that horrible relief kitchen again," Sherlock said, one eye visible. "The stench from that rabble made me retch. I was forced to burn my suit coat the moment I returned home."
Violet shook her head and nosed her way into the bedroom. "No, nothing like that."
She looked around the room. No matter how many times she entered the place, it was always a shock. Clothes lay everywhere, wadded and stomped. Glasses, teacups, soupbowls and saucers, their molded remains reeking, were stacked upon bureau, bookcase and windowsill. A worktable against the wall, a'bloom with a bubbling and smoky tangle of beakers flasks and glass tubing, could have served as convincing stage dressing for a theatrical company specializing in penny dreadfuls. Sherlock, in his bathrobe and nothing else, collapsed onto his unmade bed, sending detritus hurtling up and off the mattress like passengers abandoning ship en masse.
"I wish you would let Pansy tidy up in here," Violet said, searching for a place to sit, then thinking better of it.
"Out of the question!" Sherlock rumbled face down into his pillow. He rolled onto his back and snatched papers into each hand. "The value of any one of these may someday exceed that of the Magna Carta."
"Close your robe, Sherlock," his mother hissed, turning away.
"Mother, you bathed me as a child. I wouldn't think ---"
"That was thirty years ago, dear."
Sherlock tied the sash and sat up on the edge of the bed. "There. Decency is restored. Now, what world-shaking event has forced you to invade?"
Violet drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and touched it to her nose. "I want you to go with me to Mr. Sloan's lecture."
"Fraud!" Sherlock barked and rose like a shot.
Violet closed her eyes, breathed deeply and began again. "I want you to go with me to Mr. Sloan's lecture. I have made some inquiries and have every reason to believe he may be interested in employing you."
"In what capacity? Unless Mr. Sloan finds himself in need of
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