The Later Journeys - 22. Gerry Comes Bearing Gifts

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Friday. We ate a light breakfast and lunch because Gerry had warned us that an Italian feast would be arriving with him shortly after sunset. I wondered: With New Jersey traffic being what it was, especially on Friday afternoons, he might be delayed. Nonetheless, we made sure that we and the house were ready to greet him.

Gerry had asked us so many questions about Ben, it was even more amusing when Ben started quizzing us about Gerry! Ben seemed to have established a mental picture of our friend, mostly based on his name and age. He considered 40 to be a “mature” age -- this was hilarious to us. Gerry was inordinately fond of fart jokes and paintball weekends. Out of respect, we declined to tell Ben anything about Gerry’s stretch in Federal prison, even though it hadn’t been a long one and the process that he hoped would lead to the conviction being overturned was underway. Gerry is fundamentally honest and decent, albeit naive and gullible. He comes from the kind of family that believes that decent people live decent lives and reap the rewards. His parents had been heartbroken at the arrest and trial; fortunately they had been able to secure excellent legal representation, which continued as the wheels of justice ground slowly. The man Ben was soon to meet was a more subdued version of the one we’d known for so many years. Perhaps his current state of mind did render him more “mature,” or at least sober-minded, than we remembered. This probably wasn’t a bad thing.

Once the sun hovered on the western horizon, I became impatient for the evening to start, so I employed my foolproof technique for conjuring visitors, and ducked into the bathroom. Sure enough, just a couple of minutes passed before I heard a horn honk out front. Trevor was at the front door already and when he opened it, we saw Gerry’s Land Rover shudder to stillness behind the Nissan. Ben was close behind Trevor, peeking over his shoulder for the earliest glimpse.

And what a glimpse it was. Gerry said he’d be bringing 21st century casual clothing with him for Ben, but apparently thought that all of us, as well as Ben, were still wearing the duds associated with the 18th. Gerry appeared in what we recognized as the Continental soldier’s semi-official uniform: a blue coat with red and white trim and brass buttons, as well as the stockings and leather buckled shoes common to the late 1770s, complete with a tricorn hat. He’d grown his hair out. Brown curls reached well down his neck, almost to his very broad shoulders. I breathed a sigh of relief that he had opted not to wear a powdered wig, at least. Oh, were we going to hear about this...

Trevor and Warren went out to join Gerry at the back of the SUV, where the tailgate lifted and insulated bags and cardboard boxes started to appear. I had the semi-formal dining room (which we nearly never used) set for five, and as Warren and Trevor returned, I helped set things onto the sideboard.

Ben wasn’t sure where he belonged in this process, so he lingered just off the entrance hall, closest to the kitchen.

I could see Gerry handing bundles to the guys, and realized he was hanging back. Whether he wanted to make some sort of entrance, or whether he was simply nervous about meeting Ben, I couldn’t determine, but it was probably a combination.

At last, all the food was unloaded and Gerry began making his way into the house. Trevor, Warren and I made space so that Gerry and Ben could greet each other.

As Gerry entered and the front door shut behind him, his eyes adjusted to the indoor light of the evening and soon focused on Ben. For a moment, he said nothing, as he took in the stout five-nine figure standing a couple of arm-lengths in front of him.

“Hey,” he said softly, extending the standard casual greeting, intended to put friends and strangers alike at ease. But an instant later, he seemed to come back to himself, realizing that this language might seem strange and inappropriate. He shook his head just the slightest bit, cleared his throat and approached Ben with his right hand extended.

“Sir,” he said. “Dr. Franklin. It is a pleasure and an honor to make your acquaintance. I am Gerard Greenfield and would be pleased if you would call me Gerry.” He finished this by dramatically sweeping the hat from his head and clicking his heels, which he apparently thought was called for on such an occasion.

Ben, as well, took a moment to assess Gerry, who after all, was the first new person he had met in over two eventful weeks. Ben had dressed more formally than usual tonight, with a ruffle-cuffed linen shirt and cravat, full coat, stockings and the short boots I had seen in his trunk. His hair was neatly tied back. But while Warren, Trevor and I had “dressed up” for this occasion, it was strictly present-day stuff.

“The pleasure is mine Mr. -- Gerry,” said Ben, with a slight bow and vigorous return handshake. “I would say ‘welcome,’ but in view of the fact that this is your home, that might sound presumptuous.”

Gerry, grinning, waved a hand. “I don’t get here often enough to feel like it’s home,” he said. “And a welcome always feels good -- is that not so?” I stifled a smile at Gerry’s attempt to “pretty up” his language for Ben. Normally, he would have said ended the sentence with “y’know,” and probably inserted at least one four-letter expletive by now. Gerry could be elegant and impeccably mannered when he wanted to, but those were rare occasions.

Regardless, the two men seemed to have hit it off instantly, so we at least could stop worrying about that. I wish I’d taken a picture of their meeting, but again, photography was something we had not yet introduced to Ben, though we expected that to change before Gerry departed.

“Did you travel safe?” Ben inquired.

“Y-yes,” replied Gerry, apparently trying to think of a way to describe the New Jersey Turnpike and other lesser roads that led to our township. “Since it is Friday, people are especially eager to get home, so the going is a bit slow at times,” he said.

But Ben was not about to let him off the hook. “Why is that?” he asked.

Gerry glanced around the room, hoping to get a hint as to how to proceed. He reasonably thought his reference to Friday rush hour was fairly obvious.

“Ben,” I said, “your work week continued through Saturday, am I right?”

“Yes, Jas,” he replied.

Gerry caught on. “Well, things have maybe improved since then,” he said. “In the past century, I guess, a five-day work week became more the standard -- though the variations are, well...” Once again, he struggled for the appropriate words. It suddenly occurred to me that in the situation we were in, all of us had started sounding like elementary school Social Studies teachers. And we probably all wished we’d paid better attention while we were in school.

“We can talk about this at dinner,” said Trevor. “Let’s get going on that, yes?”

With some relief, we filed into the dining room and spent at least five more minutes arranging food on the sideboard and table. The aromas were incredible and we were reminded of our semi-abstinence all that day. Ben was about to learn a new modern idiom: “Pig out.”

Gerry took care of the wine. He had brought the obligatory Chianti, but not being one to stand excessively on ceremony had also brought nearly every other type of wine he could think of. He knew I favored pink Moscato; he produced a bottle and waggled it teasingly in front of me. The only types of wine I didn’t see in the array were the cheap ones. Gerry knew how to pick his vintages. I spotted a paper bag that appeared to contain some other bottled product, but Gerry forestalled me opening it. “Saving that for later,” he said. I shrugged and moved on.

In the midst of arranging platters and utensils, Gerry stopped and surveyed the three of us. “Oh, and I really wanted to thank you all for apprising me of the dress code this evening. I did forget my musket, so if the redcoats invade, I fear we may all hang separately.”

“What, you mean you didn’t get the memo?” Warren inquired mildly.

“No, dear, apparently not,” replied Gerry. “So you’re all gonna have to forgive me if I kick off these high heels at some point. They’re not all that comfortable.”

“Did you serve in a military capacity?” asked Ben, which sent us all into laughter, including Gerry. “No, sir, never did.” Then he sobered. “I trust this costume does not offend thee,” he said, suddenly apprehensive that he’d committed a major breach of etiquette.

“Not at all, Gerry,” said Ben. “It is most flattering and well-appointed.”

Everyone found a place around the table. “Ben, would you do the honors?” I asked while we were still standing. Gerry realized a blessing was to be said; he immediately reached for Ben’s hand, as well as Trevor’s, who stood on either side of him. Ben looked down at the linked hands, not being familiar with the more recent style of prayer, and after a moment’s hesitation, reached for my hand. Warren took mine, and our little circle was complete. Eyes closed, heads bowed.

“Bless O Lord these gifts to our use and us to thy loving service; and keep us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.”

We all murmured “Amen,” dropped hands and assumed our seats. I wasn’t sure, but had a feeling Gerry might have expected something more elaborate in the prayer. I remembered that his long-time former girlfriend, as well as a couple of roommates, had been born-again Christians. I’d attended a couple of meals during that time and remembered the somewhat lengthy speeches performed before meals, which tried to include everyone at the table by name, and their families as well as miscellaneous confessions and petitions. I didn’t think Gerry had caught much permanent religious sentiment, but years of such habits do have a tendency to linger in the memory. At any rate, Gerry looked pretty grateful, if not downright ravenous, as he reached for the large bowl that contained an antipasto salad that could have been a meal in itself. “All right if we start with this?” he asked.

“Give it here,” said Warren “or I’ll undo all my etiquette training and eat the damn thing with my bare hands!” Everyone laughed out loud, including Ben. He helped himself to a fairly small portion, not wanting to “pick” through the two dozen or so ingredients, but also taking the time to study them as best he could, taking small portions of the salami, provolone, artichoke hearts and anchovies. Warren took charge of the wine, and after pouring, proposed a toast.

He stood, with his glass filled, and regarded the rest of us. “To be honest, I’ve thought about this all day -- I know we’re hungry and don’t want to prolong this, but I really would like to toast Ben -- our esteemed guest, who has taught us so much.” Ben bowed his head modestly as we clinked glasses.

Then I stood. “I’ve been thinking about it too. I believe we should toast this assembly of friends. After all, there is no other group on the planet doing the thing we’re doing right now. No one else knows we’re doing this, either. That may not sound very elegant, but gentlemen, we are special. Let’s drink to us.”

A few random “Hear-hear”s were voiced amid the clinking glass. We drank, and settled back into the meal.

Different vintages accompanied the courses, and everyone made use of the water in their glasses. Ben was discreetly observing us and following our leads.

Gerry made a point of displaying four different types of pizza, thankfully small sizes, each in its own box. Thin-crust Margherita, all meat (which he informed us was known as a Widowmaker), all veggie, and the inevitable ham and pineapple, which Warren and Trevor especially liked. In the midst of this feast, Ben complimented Gerry on the selections. “I am told that these marvelous concoctions did not come from your kitchen, but rather from a restaurant. Is this true?”

“It’s true,” said Gerry. “Specifically, Andrea Trattoria Italiana in Millville. Yeah, their takeout is amazing, obviously, but go there sometime and make an evening of it. You won’t be sorry.”

I peeked at Ben, having the distinct feeling that he thought this was the only Italian restaurant in New Jersey. He was in for a surprise, to put it mildly.

The array of other courses was impressive, if not overwhelming: gnocci, chicken Marsala, spaghetti bolognese, tirimasu for dessert, and a few other items that surely escaped my notice. We all took turns rotating the dishes on and off the sideboard and refilling one another’s glasses. All at once, about thirty minutes later, the forks and knives ceased their melodic echo against the “good” china I had laid out.

“Hey, Gerry,” said Trevor. “Is that a rented outfit?”

“No,” said Gerry. “I put it together myself.” He cleared his throat and mumbled something about “Goodwill,” so I knew he’d gotten the clothes from a thrift store.

“Glad to hear it,” said Trevor with a smirk, “because you’ll be wearing your dinner home.”

Gerry looked down at the prominent olive-oil, marinara sauce and other splatters on his jacket. “Aw crap,” he said. “‘Scuse me.” He rose, snatched a leather pouch from the end of the sideboard where he’d stashed it behind a box, and headed down the hall. We smiled, but nonetheless, the rest of us were performing similar self-inspections. We’d all managed to emerge from dinner unscathed, but that was luck and nothing more.

“Well,” I said to Warren, “you were right. It isn’t quite time to shut down the outhouse.” I made the trip out back, grateful that a rudimentary electric light had recently been added to it. I was also grateful for the relatively mild November weather. I didn’t tarry, since Ben, Warren and Trevor would undoubtedly be about ready to answer the same calls of nature. Gerry was still in the bathroom, judging from the light under the door. I remembered that he was diabetic and his medications were in the pouch he carried everywhere to keep his blood sugar numbers steady. He had told me how in prison, the fare was heavy on empty carbs and getting the insulin and other prescriptions he needed was hit-or-miss at best. It had made him much more conscientious than before about his health.

“Go ahead - don’t be pokey!” Trevor admonished Warren, who passed me in the hall. Warren stopped and went back to the dining area.

“It’s all yours, buddy. Like I told Jas, I don’t do outhouses.”

“Oh, watering the shrubbery, huh?” teased Trevor, rising from his chair, then turning to Ben. “You okay being the last one out?” Ben smiled, sleepy-eyed, and waved a hand.

“I am content to wait,” he said.

Instead of sitting back down, I made a start at clearing the last of the dessert dishes and trying to organize stacks of things on the sideboard. Ben promptly rose to assist, and then Gerry returned. His clothes looked cleaner and he had managed to banish all but the worst of the stains.

“I haven’t given up,” he said. “Got Oxi-Clean at home -- you don’t have any here, do you?”

“Sorry,” I said.

Gerry said “No biggie. That stuff can get anything out, even if it’s set in.” He turned to Ben. “Bathroom’s free if you need it. The guys went out, didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” I laughed, and told him about Warren’s aversion to the outdoor facility.

“So,” I asked, “What’s in that paper bag?”

“Almost forgot,” he answered. “Let everybody get back in first.”

Once Trevor and Warren returned, I announced that it was time for the big reveal and gestured toward the bag.

“Really,” said Gerry, looking slightly embarrassed. “It’s nothing.” He lifted out a six-pack of Samuel Adams Cherry Wheat lager. “Saw this in the store, thought you’d enjoy it, Ben. Didn’t you say that beer is a sign that God wants us to be happy?”

Ben smiled, a bit bemused, the way he always looked when we used a quotation attributed to him. “I do recall saying something to that effect about wine. Mr. Adams was a successful maltster, among his many accomplishments. I am sure he would be pleased to see his likeness on a bottle.”

“What was he, John Adams’s brother?”

“Second cousin,” all of answered in perfect unison. Gerry looked a bit shocked at this, then laughed. “Oh, yeah, you did your research, all right.” He produced a bottle opener from his key ring. We each took a bottle, and migrated to the living room, where Gerry looked at Ben and said “Did these folks tell you I was going to bring some clothes for you?”

“They mentioned something to that effect,” replied Ben.

“Come on out to my car and we can bring ‘em in,” said Gerry. The two of them went out the front door. I immediately pressed Trevor and Warren into service, transporting the remaining dirty dishes to the kitchen so we could fill the sink and start the process of washing.

Gerry and Ben were soon back, their arms laden with shopping bags. Gerry had a couple of garment bags on hooks. The two of them proceeded down the hallway to Ben’s room, chatting about the weather.

In the kitchen we were combing the cabinets looking for suitable containers for leftovers. We’d mostly refrained from bringing in anything plastic, so we had to improvise in some cases with the more chipped and beat-up dishes we had, as well as aluminum foil. Ben had noticed us using that a few days before and was fascinated. It hadn’t been perfected for mass use until the early 1900s. I had torn a strip off for him; he took it to his room and amused himself by folding and crumpling it, then flattening it out. Like the zipper, Ben was delighted with its ingenuity and versatility. Without much plasticware at our disposal, we had to make use of the aforementioned “second-rate” stoneware and paper or cloth to cover them when microwaving. Ben already understood that any metal in a microwave was a “no-no” -- but had first had to see for himself how the sparks flew the one time he tried it.

We heard loud laughter and other exclamations coming from elsewhere in the house as we worked. We hoped Ben would model some of the new clothing for us and wondered how he’d like it. We soon got our answer. Into the kitchen he came, just behind Gerry. We realized Gerry must have stashed his own street clothes in the car as well, because he had shed the Continental uniform, no doubt with great relief.

“Lady and gentlemen, I present to you, Ben Franklin 2.0.” And there he was, clad in a long-sleeved black microfiber jacket, complete with the Princeton logo and, of course, a sturdy zipper. This was above a matching pair of track pants, and Nikes on his feet.

Warren, Trevor and I whistled and applauded as Ben slowly turned with a smile to display all three dimensions of his new look.

"Spor-tay!" exclaimed Trevor.

"G.Q., baby!" said Warren.

“Looks great, Ben!” I said. “How do you like it?”

“I must say,” said Ben, “these garments offer a level of comfort I had never suspected. You had mentioned ease of movement and indeed, I feel as if --” He broke off and blushed just a bit “truly, as if I were wearing little or nothing. And yet, I scarcely notice the winter chill. I stepped outside for a moment to test them, and the jacket protected me, all except my ears, from whatever cold there was.”

“Ben is a gentleman,” said Gerry, “so I’m afraid he will not be modeling the Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs that he is also comfortably wearing underneath those pants.”

“No,” said Ben, raising his head as if to make a major speech. “I am afraid you will have to use your imagination!” He and Gerry cracked up in unison. Gerry extended his upraised palm toward Ben, who took the cue and carefully slapped it. This obviously was a bit of dialogue Gerry had taught him while they were getting outfitted.

“What else did Gerry bring you, Ben?” asked Trevor.

“He--” Ben paused. “Before I tell you about that, I want to say as well that my feet, could they speak, would be offering praises and tributes to you, Gerry, having discovered the delights of-- what are they called?”

“Bomba socks,” replied Gerry.

“Yes! Bomba socks and these utterly indescribable shoes. For the first time in years, my gout appears to have forgotten me.”

And that, of course, was what we had all hoped for. I felt myself getting just a bit emotional, so happy that this humble, uncomplaining man had finally attained some real relief in his latter years from a disorder that, while still very much in existence in 2030, was nonetheless treatable. Sometimes with nothing more elaborate than a pair of common athletic shoes and cushioned socks. We all applauded, thanking Gerry and congratulating Ben.

“Yes,” resumed Ben, looking off into the distance, recalling the list. “There are also...t-shirts, jeans, a few polos, many more pairs of underdrawers, pajamas, a North Face coat, thermal gloves, flannel-lined bedroom slippers, and a pair of cowboy boots,” he said. "And extra Bomba socks, all praise to the Lord above."

“The boots may not be as kind to your toes as those shoes are,” said Trevor.

“So Gerry has told me. I still do not understand why cowboys do not ride cows, only horses,” he said as we laughed again.

“You can save them for a special day.”

“Did you get him a Speedo, Gerry?” I asked teasingly. Gerry thought I was serious.

“No...do you think I should have?”

“NO!” we all responded in unison, as Ben looked around in smiling uncertainty.

Ben was so happy with the clothes. Gerry had brought enough to outfit Ben for a month with daily changes, but considering that Ben was in the habit of wearing the same thing for days at a time, it would probably take much longer than that to sample everything. He could not help testing the fluidity of the athletic wear by doing some deep knee bends and leaning forward to touch his toes. It occurred to me that he might be open to learning some yoga moves. I’d been away from my mat for awhile and it was time for me to get back into the habit; I decided to mention it to Ben the next day.

I loaded the coffee maker so that Gerry, especially, could make use of it after the beer was finished. Now that dinner and the fashion show were over, we had important topics to discuss and we all needed to remain alert.

Thanks as always for reading! Comments welcome. Here's the next chapter.