farmer.”
“There are other things in this world apart from farming,” said Kliever. “Besides, it’s backbreaking work. Terrible hours. And you’re a slave to the damned weather. If you have a drought—
poof
.” Kliever’s large hands collided over the table with a heavy, cataclysmic thud. Polk tottered up, his tray laden with fresh drinks, and silently unloaded the glasses onto the table. “I’ve just had an idea,” Kliever said. He stood up. “Back in a moment.” He turned without another word and strode out of the bar.
When Kliever returned a few minutes later, Frederick was surprised to see Dr. Becker following him. As the two men sat down, Polk materialized and put a glass of beer down in front of the doctor.
“Good evening,” said Becker, after a lengthy contemplation of the tabletop. “Kliever tells me you’re thinking of staying with us.”
“We’ve had such a warm welcome.”
“You would need to find suitable employment.”
“That, and to convince my wife.”
Becker nodded and looked over his shoulder toward the bar. “You’ve met Polk,” he said.
“A phenomenon.”
“Yes, well. His crashing into unconsciousness at the end of the evening is getting tiresome.”
“Tiresome?”
The doctor drained his glass of beer in one long swallow. “The thing is,” he said, “the Nick-Nack belongs to me.”
“To you?” said Frederick.
“Perhaps you think it inappropriate that a member of the medical profession should own a tavern.”
“Not at all,” replied Frederick.
“Well, there are enough people who
do
,” said the doctor bitterly. “Anyway. No matter. We were speaking of Polk. Frankly, I prefer drunks on the
other
side of the bar.” The doctor turned and watched Polk wobble precariously between the tables. “After he collapses I never know who’s in charge. Volunteers are all very well, and they’re all good men, but I’d like to know there’s someone here I can trust to protect my investment. A manager, in other words.” Becker laced his fingers together. “You seem like a reliable man. And from what I hear, you have a natural talent for bar work. If you want it, the job’s yours.”
“I want it,” said Frederick at once.
“You’ll have to learn English, of course,” continued Dr. Becker. “Not everyone here speaks German.”
“I understand,” said Frederick.
“And since you’ll be staying, you’re going to need somewhere to live. As it happens, I have a house you can rent. You could move in straightaway. It’s a little run-down, but nothing that a lick of paint wouldn’t fix. And I wouldn’t ask much.”
Frederick beamed at him. “I’m sure it will be perfect.”
Just then there was a crash from the back of the room. The men turned and saw customers leaning over the bar. The doctor sighed. “Well,” he said, “now I can watch you in action myself.”
T he following morning, Frederick went back to the Nick-Nack with Becker. The doctor introduced him to Polk and explained to the barman that Frederick would be working with him from now on. Polk listened silently to the news. Frederick could smell stale alcohol seeping through the old man’s skin. He remembered that first night on board the
Great Republic
, the only time he had ever drunk alone. The same sodden misery that had haunted him then lingered in every line of Polk’s gray face.
That evening, Frederick stood proudly behind the bar of the Nick-Nack, a pristine white apron around his considerable girth, and informed customers of recent developments. The drinkers of Beatrice approved of the new addition to the Nick-Nack’s staff. For all his robotic efficiency and entertaining collapses, Polk provided little of the warmth that people expected when they went to a tavern. Frederick, in contrast, was always ready with a cheerful welcome and a sympathetic ear. Together they made a fine team, at least until the old man crashed to the floor, at which point Frederick worked alone until
“There are other things in this world apart from farming,” said Kliever. “Besides, it’s backbreaking work. Terrible hours. And you’re a slave to the damned weather. If you have a drought—
poof
.” Kliever’s large hands collided over the table with a heavy, cataclysmic thud. Polk tottered up, his tray laden with fresh drinks, and silently unloaded the glasses onto the table. “I’ve just had an idea,” Kliever said. He stood up. “Back in a moment.” He turned without another word and strode out of the bar.
When Kliever returned a few minutes later, Frederick was surprised to see Dr. Becker following him. As the two men sat down, Polk materialized and put a glass of beer down in front of the doctor.
“Good evening,” said Becker, after a lengthy contemplation of the tabletop. “Kliever tells me you’re thinking of staying with us.”
“We’ve had such a warm welcome.”
“You would need to find suitable employment.”
“That, and to convince my wife.”
Becker nodded and looked over his shoulder toward the bar. “You’ve met Polk,” he said.
“A phenomenon.”
“Yes, well. His crashing into unconsciousness at the end of the evening is getting tiresome.”
“Tiresome?”
The doctor drained his glass of beer in one long swallow. “The thing is,” he said, “the Nick-Nack belongs to me.”
“To you?” said Frederick.
“Perhaps you think it inappropriate that a member of the medical profession should own a tavern.”
“Not at all,” replied Frederick.
“Well, there are enough people who
do
,” said the doctor bitterly. “Anyway. No matter. We were speaking of Polk. Frankly, I prefer drunks on the
other
side of the bar.” The doctor turned and watched Polk wobble precariously between the tables. “After he collapses I never know who’s in charge. Volunteers are all very well, and they’re all good men, but I’d like to know there’s someone here I can trust to protect my investment. A manager, in other words.” Becker laced his fingers together. “You seem like a reliable man. And from what I hear, you have a natural talent for bar work. If you want it, the job’s yours.”
“I want it,” said Frederick at once.
“You’ll have to learn English, of course,” continued Dr. Becker. “Not everyone here speaks German.”
“I understand,” said Frederick.
“And since you’ll be staying, you’re going to need somewhere to live. As it happens, I have a house you can rent. You could move in straightaway. It’s a little run-down, but nothing that a lick of paint wouldn’t fix. And I wouldn’t ask much.”
Frederick beamed at him. “I’m sure it will be perfect.”
Just then there was a crash from the back of the room. The men turned and saw customers leaning over the bar. The doctor sighed. “Well,” he said, “now I can watch you in action myself.”
T he following morning, Frederick went back to the Nick-Nack with Becker. The doctor introduced him to Polk and explained to the barman that Frederick would be working with him from now on. Polk listened silently to the news. Frederick could smell stale alcohol seeping through the old man’s skin. He remembered that first night on board the
Great Republic
, the only time he had ever drunk alone. The same sodden misery that had haunted him then lingered in every line of Polk’s gray face.
That evening, Frederick stood proudly behind the bar of the Nick-Nack, a pristine white apron around his considerable girth, and informed customers of recent developments. The drinkers of Beatrice approved of the new addition to the Nick-Nack’s staff. For all his robotic efficiency and entertaining collapses, Polk provided little of the warmth that people expected when they went to a tavern. Frederick, in contrast, was always ready with a cheerful welcome and a sympathetic ear. Together they made a fine team, at least until the old man crashed to the floor, at which point Frederick worked alone until
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