Fiction: Orville Baumgardner and Words to Live By

By James Hanna

 

“Good gentlemen of the beloved Knights of Columbus, thank you all for inviting me to speak here today. As a lifelong resident of Putnam County, the jewel of Indiana, I had long hoped the time would come when I might address so distinguished a group. I did not think I would do so as an accused sex offender, but I hope you will suspend your judgment until I have had my day in court. 

 

“Ah, I can tell by your friendly faces that you have already made this concession—that you already know that precocious girl fibbed when she told the police I groped her. So I apologize for making a plea for what you have already granted—I do not wish to appear redundant as I stand before you today. No, my mission is to enlighten you with the words by which I live—words that have helped me gain inner repose and perhaps a berth in heaven. Words that have even given me the strength to forgive that impetuous child.

 

“But first a bit more about myself. Like most of you, I have lived my life in the blessed Hoosier state. As a youth, I delivered newspapers and sang in my local choir. No adolescent rebellion for me, no pot smoking for me—I was content to fill what free time I had with stamp collecting and chess. After graduating from Butler University with a bachelor’s degree in marketing, I challenged the Democratic incumbent in House District 54. To my amazement, I won the seat in a landslide, not because I expressed any new ideas but because, as a stalwart Republican, I expressed no ideas at all. Is it not better to let things evolve at their natural, God-given pace than to waste precious time on short-sighted schemes that can only make a mess of things? And so, I did not champion a single bill during my thirty years in state congress; instead, I immersed myself in great books and allowed my mind to expand. ‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I.’ The Bard never wrote wiser words. And so, like the bee, I’ve buzzed gently about and sucked the honey from life.

 

“To those who might scorn my sweet tooth and think me a puppet to sloth, I must ask if there is one among you who would willingly flee his hive. And if there be one among you who would cast his lot to the wind, I would also like to refer you to The Sermon on the Mount. ‘Consider the lilies of the field—they toil not nor do they spin. Yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ At the risk of upstaging our Savior, I would like to add something more. ‘Cherish your blessings and rise not too high lest the fall should prove too great.’ My father, an assistant manager at McDonald’s, instilled this saying in me, and in honor of his memory, I have made this motto my own. Now if there still be one among you who would rather court the abyss, may I also refer you to a passage from the glorious Book of Sirach? ‘What is beyond your capacity, seek not.’ Just what does this mean, my friends? I would venture to say it means cherish the Lord and revel in His gifts, for ours is not to fathom His complexities and grace. No, whoever might challenge God’s wisdom, which goes before all things, will surely suffer a mighty fall and bring havoc upon himself. So live your lives like ponies, my friends. Go gambol about in meadows and leave the riddles of life to He who authored them.

 

“Ah, I suspect my weakness for metaphors has left some of you confused. So, practically speaking, how might one apply a spry pony to himself? Since the yoke I offer is easy, my instructions are patently simple. First, one must get himself born—a good woman will help with that. Secondly, one must find himself a compatible career—not a headstrong crusade, mind you, but an agreeable occupation, one that will allow time to sniff the roses and kiss a baby or two. In my case, I found my nest in the hallowed Republican party—a clique that demanded nothing of me but my pledge to stay out of God’s way. And so I have lived my life as a damper to blind ambition—a moat to those who would foolishly rip the lilies from the field. And lest you should think me diminished by the shakers of history, may I say that, despite my reticence, I have performed a good deed every day. A kind word to a neighbor, a guiding hand to a child, will surely bring one closer to God than arrogant reforms. And so, throughout my life, I have dispensed small charities—deeds whose aggregate weight may afford me a cottage in paradise.

 

“Ah, I suppose that for some of you my recipe is too spare—that you need something more to protect you from blasphemous despair. In deference to Voltaire, I suggest that you tend to your personal gardens, that you till the earth and cast out the weeds so your roses will fully bloom. There I go with another metaphor, so what does this actually mean? It means you should seek a hobby that will keep you from soiling God’s plans—that will sweep the conceit from your soul and make you a vessel to all of His gifts. In my case, I found my avocation in my passion for great books, but I also pursued a diversion that good people might frown upon. The hobby I chose was poker, but I played it with great restraint. I limited it to friendly games, which I enjoyed with my prudent friends. The dollar limit we placed on our bets ensured good fellowship, for no one was placed in a position where he might win or lose a house. If the cards fell my way, I would have a few dollars to buy a fifth of scotch. If the cards fell poorly, I would shrug off my losses and pour myself a beer. Yes, life is ever a gamble—we must resign ourselves to that—but the odds are more in our favor if we wisely limit our bets.

 

“Now then, have I said it all or is there more to be said? If you will indulge me for another minute, my friends, I have one last comment to make. At times, those that feed on our failings will pilfer God’s bounty as well, so if your cards should ever fall poorly, you had best cut your losses at once. What is an example of this, you might ask? Who has best thwarted defeat? Well, the mightiest of shuffles, the cleverest of retreats, was performed by our forty-second president: William Jefferson Clinton. When facing an endless impeachment for cavorting with a nymph, he immediately seized the initiative with a pithy mea culpa. A disembowelment that may have lasted for weeks, he reduced to a couple of minutes and thereby was able to starve the vultures that hovered over his head. Now I do not endorse this man’s politics nor embrace his weakness for tramps, but his skill at cutting his losses was too artful to deny. May I add that when charged with an indiscretion myself, I was no less proactive, my friends. Yes, I was once a mentoring light to that confused and exploited young girl, and, yes, I wiped the tears from her face when she apologized to me. But I had no hesitation in severing our ties—even though I miss her dear laughter, I have unbound her from my life. 

 

So there you have it, gentlemen: the words by which I live. Soar not too high, nurture your garden, and cut your losses at once. If you follow this modest plan and refrain from heretical flights, God will smile upon you and you will live a blessed life.

 



Author’s Note:

After being convicted of sex with a minor, for which he received ten years in state prison, Orville Baumgardner took his own life in the Putnam County Jail. The guards, while taking the morning count, found him lifeless in his cell—he had tightened a sheet around his neck and he looked like an old marionette. In anticipation of his burial, Orville had placed a note on his chest, a message that most efficiently defined his legacy. It read: Here lies Orville Baumgardner, philanthropist and sage, for whom the cards fell poorly one day. May he rest in eternal peace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

James Hanna is a retired probation officer and a former fiction editor. His work has appeared in over thirty journals, including Crack the Spine, The Literary Review, and Sixfold. He is also a frequent contributor to A Thin Slice of Anxiety. James is the author of seven books all of which have won awards. Global Book Awards recently gave him a gold medal for contemporary fiction. 

 


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