Strange Meeting

Tuesday is the day we answer reader’s mail at the T.A.Z Mahal. I have a nice letter from Skipper Bowlegs of White Springs, Florida.

Skipper writes “Mr. P., you never mentioned the first time you met Mr. Nigel Cuttlefish. Would any aspect of this encounter contain any amusing anecdotes?”

Why yes, Skipper. Yes it would.

I had left behind good friends and poor academics at my previous school (I won’t mention the institution) to come here to the university. As fate would have it, I was assigned to room with a fellow English major with the most improbable name of Nigel Cuttlefish.

As I stumbled into our rooms, arms full of luggage, Nigel, dressed in his customary tweeds and deer-stalker cap, looked up from his easy chair.

“You’re interested in rooming together, are you?” he asked, making no move to help me with my bags.

“Well…, yes. The housing office assigned me to this room. You are Nigel, then?”

“You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”

“Well…, I’m allergic, actually. I was told this was a non-smo-”

“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”, he looked quizzically at me.

“What sort of experiments?” I was beginning to become irritated. “You know I was assigned to this room. It’s not your place to inter-”

“Let me see — what are my other shortcomings? I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.” He let out a chuckle with which I would soon become quite familiar.

“Do you realize–” I tried to say before being interrupted yet again.

“Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?”

“It depends on the player,” I answered wearily, playing along. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods — a badly played one — ”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may consider the thing as settled — that is if the rooms are agreeable to you.”

“If you’re quite finished?…” I said, waiting until I was certain I wouldn’t be interrupted again before continuing.

“Is there any particular reason that every word you’ve spoken to me thus far has been a quotation from the opening of A Study in Scarlet?”*

He stood silent for a moment before saying, “Yes! Yes, there is!”

He then turned on his heels, marched into his room and shut the door. After setting my bags down, I quietly walked over and put my ear to the door. I could hear him humming very loudly and tunelessly** while moving furniture about. I put my things in my room and went to investigate the kitchen we shared. I decided to make some dinner.*** Just as I was finishing the meal, Nigel re-appeared, sitting down at the table, tucking a napkin into his collar as a bib.**** We ate this first meal together discussing the work of Thomas Hardy.

And the rest, as they say, is history! Hope that answered your question, Skipper!

*by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
** A very famous tune that I cannot place at the moment. A romantic piano work. Chopin, most likely.
*** I love to cook, although I don’t claim to be very good at it. Living alone, it’s not often worth the trouble. That evening, I prepared beef kabobs in the Lebanese style, a recipe I no longer attempt after encountering Sol’s superior version.
**** Without a word of thanks for the meal, I might add. While Nigel can be quite courteous, he never once thanked me for the numerous meals I prepared during the time we roomed together.