Short Stubbly Brownbeard walked aimlessly
along the streets of Charleston. To passersby
he looked a bit mad. Not mad like angry. Mad
like nuts. Wacko. Not to mention he looked a
bit funny too what with missing an eyebrow
and all.
“Oh, my,” Brownbeard muttered to himself.
“What is happening to me?”
Brownbeard turned towards the wharf.
Reaching the docks and the boats he continued
to walk while staring out at the ocean. Seagulls
skimmed silently, effortlessly over the tips of
the waves. He longed to be as free as they. Ah!
But he was trapped. He had responsibilities.
He had a job and a place in society. He had
people to please. Besides, he had no idea how
to go about becoming a seagull.
The fact of the matter was—and admitting
it to himself was more painful and difficult
than performing his own root canal—the fact
of the matter was he wished he had not been
such a scaredy cat and gone with his cousin to
be a pirate. Brownbeard sighed a heavy sigh
and tried not to cry.
As he continued down the docks of
Charleston, Brownbeard thought more about
recent events. It surely was all a bad dream!
Vivid maybe, but a dream. Large, blade
wielding numbers simply do not burst into
offices and accost accounting apprentices. Not
in this civilized day and age. But if he was
going crazy, as he concluded must be the case,
then there must be a reason—a legitimate
medical explanation.
The missing eyebrow was actually quite easy
to explain. He had been sleep shaving. Much
like sleep walking, only that he had decided to
remove an eyebrow while at it. And since he
was not actually awake, it was reasonable to
expect that he might shave something other
than his short, stubbly brown beard. Then,
when he awoke, his mind made up the
elaborate memory of the horrible numbers and
his duel to explain his now naked brow. It was
logical.
Brownbeard smiled to himself. He was
feeling better now that all the strange
happenings were explained. But then he asked
himself how Pappy thought it was Saturday?
And how was it that no one was in the office?
Brownbeard was positive it should be
Wednesday. Would Pappy lie to him? Was
everyone playing a joke on him? Ah-ha! That
was it. He was the victim of an elaborate jest.
Hee! Hee! This was a pretty funny prank
actually. One had to admire the ingenuity of it
all—getting everyone to stay away from the
office to make Brownbeard think that it was
Saturday when it was really Wednesday—and
including Pappy in on the gag. Very clever!
As he walked past a sailor with a parrot
sitting upon his shoulder, puffing upon a corn
cob pipe, Brownbeard had the ingenious idea
of asking another person what day was today.
This person had never been in the office and
therefore could not be in on the joke. This
person would confirm that today was indeed
Wednesday.
“Excuse me sir,” said Brownbeard. “Could
you indulge me in a silly question and tell me
what day is today?”
“Why certainly matey,” said the parrot,
removing the corn cob pipe from his large
beak. “Today’s Saturday! Squawk!”
“Really,” said a stunned Brownbeard.
“Squawk! Really,” said the parrot.
Brownbeard thanked the parrot and his
sailor and continued down the wharf.
“Oh, no,” cried Brownbeard softly. “If
today is Saturday, then I missed work on
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday! Certainly I
have been fired!”
Brownbeard walked and walked. As he
neared the end of the docks, he came upon a
ship rocking gently in the waves. He looked
and saw it was a little schooner needing some
repairs. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign hanging
from the boat. Brownbeard stared and stared
at the boat and the sign. A particularly
dangerous thought began to crystallize in his
head.
“The trauma of the past day or days is
certainly being caused by stress,” thought
Brownbeard.” The thought hesitated. Then it
continued. “The stress must be coming from
my job at Snookie, Pitts and Fropenheimer.
This stress is obviously not good for my health,
either mental or physical. If I could buy this
schooner, I could leave my tedious and
unfulfilling way of life behind me. I could
become a pirate like my cuz. I could roam the
seas taking booty and feeding myself from the
bounty below the waves.”
That was it. The thought was finished. It
was enough. Enough to go from being a mere
notion, an itch in the head, into full blown
action. Brownbeard’s heart raced at what he
was about to do. He walked up the ramp of the
schooner to find its owner.
along the streets of Charleston. To passersby
he looked a bit mad. Not mad like angry. Mad
like nuts. Wacko. Not to mention he looked a
bit funny too what with missing an eyebrow
and all.
“Oh, my,” Brownbeard muttered to himself.
“What is happening to me?”
Brownbeard turned towards the wharf.
Reaching the docks and the boats he continued
to walk while staring out at the ocean. Seagulls
skimmed silently, effortlessly over the tips of
the waves. He longed to be as free as they. Ah!
But he was trapped. He had responsibilities.
He had a job and a place in society. He had
people to please. Besides, he had no idea how
to go about becoming a seagull.
The fact of the matter was—and admitting
it to himself was more painful and difficult
than performing his own root canal—the fact
of the matter was he wished he had not been
such a scaredy cat and gone with his cousin to
be a pirate. Brownbeard sighed a heavy sigh
and tried not to cry.
As he continued down the docks of
Charleston, Brownbeard thought more about
recent events. It surely was all a bad dream!
Vivid maybe, but a dream. Large, blade
wielding numbers simply do not burst into
offices and accost accounting apprentices. Not
in this civilized day and age. But if he was
going crazy, as he concluded must be the case,
then there must be a reason—a legitimate
medical explanation.
The missing eyebrow was actually quite easy
to explain. He had been sleep shaving. Much
like sleep walking, only that he had decided to
remove an eyebrow while at it. And since he
was not actually awake, it was reasonable to
expect that he might shave something other
than his short, stubbly brown beard. Then,
when he awoke, his mind made up the
elaborate memory of the horrible numbers and
his duel to explain his now naked brow. It was
logical.
Brownbeard smiled to himself. He was
feeling better now that all the strange
happenings were explained. But then he asked
himself how Pappy thought it was Saturday?
And how was it that no one was in the office?
Brownbeard was positive it should be
Wednesday. Would Pappy lie to him? Was
everyone playing a joke on him? Ah-ha! That
was it. He was the victim of an elaborate jest.
Hee! Hee! This was a pretty funny prank
actually. One had to admire the ingenuity of it
all—getting everyone to stay away from the
office to make Brownbeard think that it was
Saturday when it was really Wednesday—and
including Pappy in on the gag. Very clever!
As he walked past a sailor with a parrot
sitting upon his shoulder, puffing upon a corn
cob pipe, Brownbeard had the ingenious idea
of asking another person what day was today.
This person had never been in the office and
therefore could not be in on the joke. This
person would confirm that today was indeed
Wednesday.
“Excuse me sir,” said Brownbeard. “Could
you indulge me in a silly question and tell me
what day is today?”
“Why certainly matey,” said the parrot,
removing the corn cob pipe from his large
beak. “Today’s Saturday! Squawk!”
“Really,” said a stunned Brownbeard.
“Squawk! Really,” said the parrot.
Brownbeard thanked the parrot and his
sailor and continued down the wharf.
“Oh, no,” cried Brownbeard softly. “If
today is Saturday, then I missed work on
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday! Certainly I
have been fired!”
Brownbeard walked and walked. As he
neared the end of the docks, he came upon a
ship rocking gently in the waves. He looked
and saw it was a little schooner needing some
repairs. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign hanging
from the boat. Brownbeard stared and stared
at the boat and the sign. A particularly
dangerous thought began to crystallize in his
head.
“The trauma of the past day or days is
certainly being caused by stress,” thought
Brownbeard.” The thought hesitated. Then it
continued. “The stress must be coming from
my job at Snookie, Pitts and Fropenheimer.
This stress is obviously not good for my health,
either mental or physical. If I could buy this
schooner, I could leave my tedious and
unfulfilling way of life behind me. I could
become a pirate like my cuz. I could roam the
seas taking booty and feeding myself from the
bounty below the waves.”
That was it. The thought was finished. It
was enough. Enough to go from being a mere
notion, an itch in the head, into full blown
action. Brownbeard’s heart raced at what he
was about to do. He walked up the ramp of the
schooner to find its owner.
The Adventures of Short Stubbly Brownbeard
Alan J. Levine
* * *
Chapter Eight - What the Parrot Said
Buy yer hard copy
at . . .
at . . .
Want to support
children's literature?
That's great! But
instead, why don't you
go to the followin'
links to buy yer own
miserable copy of
Brownbeard and
support Pirates
Anonymous? We've
been assisting pirates
with mental health and
hygiene issues since
1633. Brownbeard is
also available to
schools and libraries
through wholesalers
like Follett, Ingram,
and Baker & Taylor.
children's literature?
That's great! But
instead, why don't you
go to the followin'
links to buy yer own
miserable copy of
Brownbeard and
support Pirates
Anonymous? We've
been assisting pirates
with mental health and
hygiene issues since
1633. Brownbeard is
also available to
schools and libraries
through wholesalers
like Follett, Ingram,
and Baker & Taylor.
