Unsigned Books

A modern-day fairy tale.  

In a distant past, when carts were drawn by horses and dogs were still kept outside, in the local saloon, where the pianist played tango, a young stranger wearing a long, black leather jacket and a black bowler hat, was sitting at the counter drinking a glass of stale ale minding his own business. He was new in town and locals thought he was just another ramblin’ man. Nothing could have been further from the truth. 

Filthy Joe walked in through the saloon doors. Everybody called him filthy Joe because he was filthy rich and not because he was actually dirty. He sat down next to the stranger and, as per usual, ordered the most expensive drink they had. This got the stranger’s attention who immediately turned his head round, looked filthy Joe up and down a bit and said in a rough voice, “If you can afford a drink like that, I am sure you can afford to buy me another beer.” 

It was not a habit of Joe to buy other people a drink, but he liked the audacity of the young man. Soon they were engaged in conversation. It turned out the stranger had a home, it was just that it was an inconvenient place, right now. Somebody overheard Joe saying something like that he often noticed many of that kind. Yet Joe, who was a little drunk, offered the stranger a bed at his place which he would normally never have done. 

The house was as big as a castle. A lot of rooms had not been used for a while and were just gathering dust. The spare bedroom was spacious and luxuriously decorated. The young man made himself at home and put the few things he had taken with him on his trip in one of the many expensive wooden closets. He kicked off his shoes, took off his clothes and put himself to bed. Staring into the dark he mumbled something like, “So, this is my home now.” 

On the morrow he woke up late and after a relaxing bath he went into the kitchen to fix himself some breakfast. Joe was there, too, taking care of his headache. Cabinets were opened in search of food. It was a breakfast fit for kings the stranger made, and Joe was sitting there looking at how his food was consumed by the unknown man in his house. How did this happen? He had some blurry memories of a drinking spree but for the life of him he could not remember inviting anybody over to spend the night. This was not a hotel!  

While chewing the bacon with glee the guest took the newspaper from the table and quietly started reading. Joe had no idea how to tackle this particular predicament he had gotten himself into. Wasn’t it time for his guest to leave? Having someone stay for the night is one thing, but also watching the person eat his food and reading his paper seemed like pushing it a little too far. Quietly and politely, Joe asked his guest when he would be leaving. “Are you throwing me out? Is that what you are saying?” Quickly Joe shook his head and went back to nursing his headache.  

Two weeks later, the strange fellow was still inhabiting the house. He had made himself quite at home. His belongings were scattered around the place. There were his toiletries in the bathroom, his clothes on the clotheslines, pictures on the dresser, and now he was putting up a sign at the door saying he lived there, too. Joe often tried talking about this, but it was always met with a certain kind of hostility making Joe feel bad about himself.  

“Why are you putting up a picture of your woman?” 

“Are you saying my wife is not worthy of a place on the wall? Don’t you have pictures of your loved ones hanging all over the place?” 

“Well, yes, but … .” 

“So, are you saying I am not allowed to love my wife?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t put it … .” 

“Isn’t every life equally valued?” 

“Gee, I did not mean … .” 

“Of course, you did not mean it like that, but it sure came out that way. Here, help me put this nail into the wall and we will forget about the whole thing.” 

And before Joe knew it, he was putting up pictures of the stranger’s entire family and distant relations.  

It was not very long before the new arrival was asking Joe for money so he could buy some new clothes and maybe some other necessities. He would not want his guest to go about naked, would he? And a host should take good care of his guests. Surely, being so rich, he could afford it. It wouldn’t have to be the most expensive clothes money could buy, but at least something presentable should one day a job offer arrive.  

Before the year was over it felt like the stranger was never going to leave. At least four rooms he had claimed, he had his own horse, wonderful clothes, luxurious jewellery and more, but still no job. He was going through town spending Joe’s money like water while Joe was trying to reel in more. In due course, more rooms were taken, and Joe had given up every bit of hope of getting rid of him.  

One night, when Joe came home from a long day of hard work and a bit of drinking at the saloon – as he always does after work -, he noticed that the sign outside with the stranger’s name had been removed. The spark of joy was soon extinguished when he entered the house. All his belongings were gone. Everything had been replaced by new and rather expensive furniture. His guest came walking down the stairs in a red velvet robe, smoking a pipe and holding a gun. A shot in the chest killed Joe in an instant. The body was buried in the woods nearby next to what appeared to be a dozen or so other graves. Their tombstones all had the same words chiselled into them: R.I.P. Joe. 

A week passed. The stranger, after a long day at work, walked into the saloon. The bartender greeted him in an everyday manner, “Hi Joe, what can I do you for tonight? The usual, I presume?” Joe got the most expensive drink there was which immediately caught the attention of the strange man sitting right next to him in a long black leather jacket, wearing a black bowler hat. The unknown individual looked him up and down a bit and somehow managed to get a beer from Joe, which was odd as he was not known for his generosity.