The Mayor

Mayor Dandy Brutish slowly ran his right index finger through the soggy coffee grounds scattered across the Irish linen tablecloth. His Haitian manservant, Jambon, was still flustered with the correct procedure to produce a steaming mug of quality Joe.

When Jambon was first unpacked from his crate and instructed to prepare a cup of coffee for his new task-master, his response was to upend the canister of coffee beans onto the kitchen floor, remove his pants, and then stamp over the beans, mumbling some kind of voodoo mumbo-jumbo under his breath. The results were not satisfactory. Six months later, Jambon now understood that water was somehow involved. Mayor Brutish had, over a series of breakfasts, endured such permutations as: one coffee bean on a plate with a glass of cold water on the side; pre-chewed beans floating in a saucer of left-over wiener water; a jug of carbonated water poured over finely-pummelled beans. All these offerings were met with either a polite decline or a violent hurl. This morning, Jambon's attempt resulted in piping hot, soggy, ground beans thrown from the pantry door onto the breakfast table. Mayor Brutish contemplated resting his chin on the damask and sucking up some of the grounds, but then thought better of it. He had enough to chew over this particular morning.

The Mayor leaned back in his cane chair and listened to the sounds of the house waking up. The mayoral residence was not only the grandest building in town but also the state's only licensed orphanage and within its damp walls Brutish was able to separate the general a.m. cacophony into its separate parts. The steady boopada bupuda of Mayoress Brutish’s compulsory 15 rounds with the speed bag -- its staccato beat like some sort of twisted Morse code, signalling the tiny charges of the Brisk Tick Orphanage to wake up; the incessant wailing coming from the Teen Time Room; the methodical cranking of the water heater; the wet slop of Jambon dropping another load onto the breakfast table.

Brutish checked his wristwatch. "Good God!" he thought, "It's past seven. I've got to get over to the Club to check on the arrangements." He knew that if the Annual Dinner Dance was going to go over right then he would have to personally lay all the flatware and straighten the bunting. This year the Saperstein triplets were going to be "coming out" and Brutish fully grasped the implications if Daddy Doggone was to feel even the slightest snub. Tonight was the night for feeling all right and, if Mayor Dandy Brutish had any say in the matter, it was going to be a whip-snorter.

Jambon had begun to clear the table of the breakfast things, his rubber pants squeaking as he leaned over to reach the sugar tongs.

The Mayor changed into his checkered seersucker suit, kissed the Mayoress good morning, threw a handful of bubblegum to the orphans, and headed to the garage. Sitting behind the wheel of his Horaseti muscle-car, he mentally mapped out the rest of his day at the Club.