When the Big Fish Are Swimming

On an unseasonably chilly September afternoon, an unusually short man named Rupert walked into the unremarkable Suds Centre bar. He wore an outdated grey suit, fuchsia colored tie and a dapper fedora. In his left hand he carried a well-worn brown leather satchel full of twenty-dollar bills and the title to a 1989 Toyota Corolla.

Rupert, accompanied by a goat tied to the end of a ten-foot piece of rope, ordered a diet ginger ale on the rocks with a splash of grenadine and a wedge of lime. He sat on the stool at the end of the bar. His drink arrived and he drank it in a single gulp. Rupert took a deep breath, placed a twenty on the bar and motioned to the bartender for another. While he waited for his second drink, he took a handful of nuts from the large, ornate blue dish on the bar and ate them one at a time—carefully examining each one.

Rupert sipped his drink and continued inspecting the nuts. Although he cared nothing for soccer—or any other sport—he watched the match play on the television sets that covered the bar's walls. As players sprinted from one end of the field to the other, he wondered what it must feel like to run with such speed and endurance, abilities he had never possessed.

Suddenly, the man bent down and engaged in an animated, one-sided conversation with the goat. The animal made no attempt to either interrupt or respond to the short man in the fedora. The patrons who witnessed the exchange came to the obvious conclusion that the goat was either incapable of understanding the words spoken to him or, at the very least, was not able to converse in a manner that the man could understand.

After his chat with the goat, Rupert excused himself to visit the men's room located at the rear in the southwest corner of the bar near a swinging door that led to the kitchen.

The goat remained silent and alert as he stood next to the stool that the man in the outdated suit had just vacated. His eyes never left the satchel full of cash. As the man crossed the bar returning from a productive trip to the restroom, the goat addressed the bartender in a refined British accent, "Excuse me, my good man, could you kindly provide me with directions to the First National Bank of South Mastersville?"

The bartender stared at the goat. The goat stared back. Nobody moved. Stunned silence filled the bar.

Rupert returned and saw every jaw open. "I'm sorry if my goat startled you.” The man’s accent suggested that he had grown up in an eastern suburb of Glasgow, Scotland. “My good friend can be a bit off-putting at first. I specifically instructed him to wait until I completed my business. He tends to be impatient and impulsive. I trust his outburst will be forgiven."

Silence continued until the bartender blinked. He cleared his throat. "Uh, uh, excuse me?"

The man and the goat shared what could only be described as a knowing glance. They both shrugged (which is no small feat for a goat). Rupert then repeated the goat’s request for directions.

The bartender responded to the man while staring at the goat, "Uh, well, you, um, go out the door.” He pointed out the bar’s window. “Cross the street and, well, um, you turn, uh, left. When you get to the second corner, turn right—yeah, right." He scraped his hands over his closely shaven bald head. “You'll find the bank on the right-hand side of the street."

The man thanked the bartender and placed another twenty on the bar. “Keep the change.” All eyes were on the man and his goat as they walked with purpose out the door and followed the prescribed path—the bank was the goal but today would not be the day.

The pair proceeded up the street when the goat, who had been leading the way as his navigation skills were far superior to Rupert's, halted abruptly. This sudden stop caused Rupert to trip. Rupert scolded the misguided creature. The reason for the goat’s behavior became clear. The goat was staring at a retail shop just ahead—a shop with a clever name—Beets and Sweets. It offered a wide array of farm-fresh produce (carrots, beans, rutabaga—and some of the largest beets Rupert had ever seen). Along with the most delicious-looking pastries, homemade candies and Rupert's obsession—donuts. At this juncture it may be helpful to note that the goat shared a donut obsession with Rupert. Two years earlier while on a vacation to Orlando, Florida a visit to Dunkin Donuts started the goat on a journey of enlightenment in search of the perfect circular pastry.

Without delay, Rupert and the goat entered the store and shared a quiet conversation before approaching the service counter. Rupert, not wanting to startle the assembled crowd, placed their order. He paid with cash from the satchel as they chose a table by the window. A young server with a sour disposition delivered their order—two bright orange carrots and one of the aforementioned beets for the goat (he was watching his weight) and two frosted donuts covered with sprinkles for the man. The pair ate their treats with a enthusiasm seldom seen in this era of passionless meals with lackluster interest.

The goat swallowed the last bite of his beet. “Is the donut meeting your usual high standards?”

“Yes, and I’m thinking of ordering another.” Rupert scooted his chair back.

The goat, spoke in a whispered tone, “Another beet would be delightful.”

They discarded their napkins in the provided waste bin and resumed their journey to the bank. When they arrived at the financial institution, they found the door locked. They peered in the window. Several employees worked busily—one filed documents in a large wooden cabinet, another spoke on the phone and two counted stacks of money. Rupert was puzzled.

The goat, always the more observant of the two, noticed the sign on the door. “Bank Hours 10am to 5pm.” The goat consulted his pocket watch. “Ten past. Our detour for snacks quashed the opportunity to get their banking duties done today.”

Rupert, ever the eternal optimist, knew there would be a tomorrow.

The man and his goat headed farther up the street towards the center of town hoping to find a park where they could watch the sunset (a long-standing daily practice). As they neared the park, Rupert and the goat encountered a member of local law enforcement having a discussion with the mother of an infant that gleefully sat in a stroller. Their friendly banter ended. As the pair approached.

"Good evening, officer! Such a beautiful day is it not?" The goat, more of the ‘speak when spoken to’ type addressed the policeman.

The officer tipped his hat and responded with a smile that was short-lived. He realized that it was indeed the goat and not Rupert that had greeted him. The policeman removed his hat and scratched his head.

Rupert was prepared for such an eventuality. He approached the officer and offered a polite apology for the goat's forwardness. Fears, quickly set aside - for both the policeman and the young woman (the child was far too young and innocent to give the talking goat a second look). The group shared a pleasant chuckle. When the laughter subsided, Rupert lifted a single finger and said, "You know, I have always found this to be true. It's something that is sort of a mantra for me—one that I have tried hard to live by my entire life."

The officer had a curious look on his face, "Really? What’s that?"

Rupert cleared his throat. "When the days are hard and the nights seem cold, when anger and hate roam the countryside unrestrained by faith or common decency, it is comforting to know, and to believe in your heart that 'When the big fish are swimming, it's best to speak Italian.'"

After a pause of three or four seconds the woman responded, "My Mawmaw Louise told me something like that just before she died. Thank you, that was touching."

A moment later, without anyone uttering a word (not even the goat), they parted company and went their separate ways.

As the sun was reaching the Western horizon, Rupert and the goat entered the lobby of a building with a neon sign proudly proclaiming ‘vacancy’.

The pair was greeted by an overweight possum perched on the desk. “Howdy! Welcome. How may I assist?”

The goat replied, “Greetings my fine fellow. We are—”

“I’ll handle this.” Rupert interrupted and the goat took a step back in rebuke. “We would like to secure a room for tonight.”

“Excellent, I can help you.” The innkeeper, a portly man with unkempt hair responded, produced the necessary paperwork, and provided them with a key to room seventeen.

The rising sun found Rupert and his goat embracing the dawn with characteristic excitement. A morning constitutional in the park helped to stretch out muscles unaccustomed to the firmness of the beds at the Mountain View Inn, ironically only offering views of the riverfront, where they tolerated a fitful night’s sleep.

“My haunches are feeling limber. Thanks for that exhilarating walk.” The goat tilted his head to loosen his neck muscles.

“My pleasure, friend.” Rupert retrieved the satchel from the safe in the room’s closet and after a quick check of the time he said, “Ready to head to the bank?”

The goat nodded.

The bank manager anticipated their arrival and led them to his office. Forty minutes later, Rupert and the goat emerged, their business now complete. Needed accounts were opened (emptying the satchel of all but nine twenty-dollar bills), vehicles transferred (the Corolla no longer belonged to Rupert), and all necessary partnership agreements notarized. Rupert left the bank with the goat in-tow.

Beets and Sweets (clearly the food had left a positive impression) was a needed stop for snacks before they headed to the train station.

“Are we going to be on time?” said the goat. Rupert was notoriously poor at time management, so the animal’s query was indeed valid. After assurances from Rupert, they followed the train tracks. They commented on how helpful it was when communities made it easy to navigate their city by placing train stations near the train tracks.

While waiting for their 3:30 departure, Rupert chewed on a crunchy stalk of rhubarb while the goat (his diet now an afterthought) enjoyed a raspberry-filled donut.

“Yesterday, you know you had the quote quite wrong.” the goat kicked a pebble onto the tracks.

“Yeah, I know.” Rupert chuckled. “I’m certain that the police officer and young woman are none the wiser.”

The goat enjoyed the last bits of his donut. Wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Why do people look at me oddly? Have I’ve done something wrong?”

“They act like that because they don’t know you. You are my most dependable friend. Some people are unwilling to even try to understand your true character. This is a problem that we will unlikely solve in our lifetimes.”

“I suspect you are correct my friend.” The goat smiled. “Thank you for your kind words.”

With three sharp blasts of the whistle, and a resounding “All aboard” from the conductor, the train left the station. And with it, Rupert and the goat headed home.