The Butler Didn't Do It
by Leslie Woolf Hedley

We were attending a party positively dripping with alleged gaiety, when death happened.

As sensible readers know, nothing in life works out absolutely perfect. So it was that night at Mr. and Mrs. Gluck's spacious condominium. Their butler was suddenly claimed to have been murdered. This wasn't an ordinary butler, therefore I'm bound to explain the details.

Over the years, my wife and I have been to numerous parties in many cities, but while it may have been seriously contemplated, never had a murder been committed. Frankly, murder doesn't shock or surprise any longer. Killing is now related to American culture, so Hollywood claims, and I find it unrewarding to argue with billionaires.

Anyway, I've learned to live with incidental and accidental murders. Reputations are killed daily. Apparently television exists for that purpose. Yet there's no denying that death can ruin a good dinner. During erratic San Francisco dinner gatherings, an unspecified moodiness begins to dominate, and can easily throw people off their feed. You have to sense the temperature. Parties in this city are like small fires that blaze instantly and then go out leaving dirty plates, soiled napkins and a taste of ashes. Few parties in San Francisco are honestly merry, but are forced anticipatory smiles. Competition, meaning certain photos along with newsy items, become politically, commercially and socially fierce endeavors.

Every leader of a city cult dreams of being governor, mayor, cultural guru or similar commissar position. They believe that would be fun for a while. Most members of the city's inner society have what they think is innovative radical genius. That shining light may be in the discovery of a newer thrill, a fresher mysticism-spirituality-utopianism, and it would be wildly exotic, daring, revolutionary. Radicalism is considered fun. To be radical is a religious propriety.

The moodiness I'm alluding to could be of any coloration, depending on what impression host and/or hostess wishes to design, what kind of shopping exploration they relate, or if the local newspaper had ignored them or granted them some ink. This could also be determined what mood might prevail if one of their faineant offspring had been arrested for the umpteenth time for some youthful prank such as speeding or smashing their Bentley or Mercedes around some stupid lamp post. All their children, whether sixteen or thirty-six, were declared wonderful, talented, misunderstood, temperamental. No matter my own feelings regarding their collective flesh and blood, I felt their children incapable of killing an English butler. A Mexican maid, perhaps. Their parents, certainly. But an English butler--never.

Intimate knowledge about their children was well publicized. Even their twisted sexual tastes revealed with pride. Several richer boys and girls had been interviewed extensively by nut house janitors called psychiatrists, and spent a bit of time recuperating from recreational drugs or venereal ailments. Knowing their marshmallow kids lack of courage, and their snotty mentalities, I was aware that a genuine, 100% authentic, imported English butler was far more valuable than daddy's or mommy's car.

Everyone granted kudos of ungracious credit to Mr. and Mrs. Gluck for having pulled off this giant butler coup. No other household in the city had a fully accredited English butler who spoke clear dictionary English, a language few people ever heard in San Francisco. It was imperative, both socially and politically, to speak and write a patois of street lingo, mock slang, collegian, with a dash of black English to prove one's ne plus ultra radicalism. That was their diversity.

At least five of the Gluck's guests had, as they phrased it, "been involved with politics" during their youth, but had discovered it was impossible to play tennis, golf, ski, indulge in sexual exploits, drug experimentation, travel abroad, and get involved with politics simultaneously. Consequently they soon drifted into family business. Although these experts got several names crisscrossed and misquoted newspaper editorials, that didn't matter, because disjointed editorials were contradictory and fashionably biased.

It should be understood how vital parties are in this city. Each person feels that their presence is essential for reasons mixed and self-delusive. Without parties there would be no driving purpose for showing off their newest accouterments, insider gossip, chitchat of extreme self-aggrandizement, for planting seeds of rumor, the search for fresh love affairs, sampling new vogue wines. Parties are also exercises among hostesses and hosts with knife-sharp spirits.

At this period Mr. and Mrs. Gluck appeared to have an indisputable lead in popularity because of their English butler. A sanctimonious approach was important in order to manipulate those parties. These weren't ad hoc affairs, but planned with purpose. This murdered butler event was an aberration. However, the butterfly of lies floated through every dinner gathering. Ordinary lies, cute lies, semi-lies, dagger lies were accepted as part of the intriguing social contract. It was agreeable among liars that neither liar believe the other liar, as long as one listened. One had to be fairly thick-skinned, wearing permanent satisfaction like a badge. Everyone was aware they were selected spectators at a rich zoo run by lions and lionesses. Few in that city would ever admit that the politics of San Francisco is ruled by slippery tongues at private dinners, or quirky sexual encounters testing the tic-tack-toe of consensus, an exchange of laundered funds between unions and lawyers, insider tips, a few remaining closet communists newly scrubbed into something called "progressives." Yet only the Gluck's possessed an authentic English butler under an ironclad contract.

Those in and out of power attended every invitation not because of any distinct philosophical message they wished to introduce or hear. They had no cherished idea that couldn't instantly change. They came to be counted, to be seen. They came to be admired by fawning eyes, even if it was a pretense of admiration. Affectation didn't disturb them if it resembled friendship and the possibility of deals. What mattered most was to be there. They hunted for a chiliastic vision that might sky-rocket them beyond the present. A good feast might purchase ephemeral friendship, but alliances had to be nurtured with more feasts. Second-rate people gained power through first-rate feasts. Such people considered themselves the squirearchy, guardians, movers and shakers of San Francisco culture, reveling at Gay Day parades, contributed toward the legalization of drugs (if it didn't conflict with their interests), hugging trees, saving dolphins and purple-eyed jabberwocky's. They fought the death penalty, earnestly believed that criminals were victims and most victims were criminals. Convinced they were good, wise people, they desired to lead other toward goodness and wisdom. It was a burden, they signed over caviar while squeezing out a drop of lemon. Despite all that, one genuine English butler lay dead.

Parties are neither good nor bad. All depends on the mental quality of those attending. A party of distinguished fools make for a foolish party, no matter how worthy the food. In San Francisco, where food is excellent and foolishness thrives in high and low degree, foolish folk enjoy themselves with foolish zeal, whatever their ages. Naturally most will deny it because every fool is too foolish to recognize his or her foolishness. Fools will remain fools, despite their wealth or lack of it, as long as fools teach people foolishness. Some are born fools, but most are taught how to be fools. While it's true clever people can behave foolishly, foolish people can also attempt to behave cleverly. During these festivities, it was more of the latter than the former. For a new onlooker it would be difficult to determine between the two.

The English butler was dead. Let's not forget that. There's no question about it. I recall the moment because I was just about to place a fork of lamb between my teeth and sliced off a chunk of eggplant to follow, as reflex told my left hand to clutch an icy glass of Retsina, when that rare moment of civil tranquillity was shattered. Some person flitted into the dining room, and with a rather campy girlish shriek announced that he had just found the English butler stone dead on the kitchen floor, adding the spicy thought that "He may have been murdered!"

Trencherman and women completed their chewing, and swallowed with a drenching of wine. Mrs. Gluck uttered a noise and flew from the table. Two guest dropped their utensils, a baccarat goblet crashed, other diners muttered in comprehensible words. Certain nervous ladies began to shed tears over a ruined dinner. One servant's demise should hardly merit a public display. It was vulgar.

Some guests had entered babyhood due to efforts of great-grandfather or grandfathers who sold dry goods or hardware house to house, speculated in illegal booze, flirted with early Mafia, and perhaps were silent (hidden) partners in whore houses on the Old Barbary Coast, Bush or Fillmore streets. Family wealth derived from serving various needs, appetites, desires. They preferred keeping such backgrounds far away as possible. Hearing about dead servants disturbed them. People should be allowed to eat in peace. This dinning room interruption was in bad taste, even though it had to do with an authentic English butler. They all felt intruded upon.

Dinner parties are much like babies: cute little cuddly things at the beginning, but possibly turning into monsters. Death is unpredictable, these guests preferred life to be predictable. Although the loss of the only genuine English butler in San Francisco bruised their table talk, it wasn't allowed to break their sparkling conversation.

"Do you all honestly believe he was a real English butler from England?" said Mrs. Ritz.

"Och, the English," said Mr. Hannigan. "And wouldn't you say now this was a dereliction of his duty?"

Said Mrs. Frankfurter, "Ven I vas ein kinde, our servants vorked for us all der lives. That was real loyalty! Dying they never did!"

Said Mr. Mellinov, "That's why we make certain all our household help are Hispanics."

"This proves once again," said congresswoman Mrs. Belsi, "that we must solve the homeless problem."

"But," a small voice said, "what does all that have to do with the murder of the--"

Said Mr. Hennigan, face beet red, "Indeed, this is the most violent nation on Earth."

Ms. Sheeply, ex-politician, said, "That's why single parenting is so difficult. I should know. I've got three of them."

"I think," said Professor Feelgood, "we should try to retain our sense of humor."

"Yes," said Mr. Carrot. "Accidents like this happened even at Harvard."

"Really!" said Mr. Marsilian. "And what about all those talented men dying of AIDS? Men are dying by the millions! All my dearest radical friends have AIDS! Many of them are black!"

Mrs. Belsi said, "Yes, you're absolutely right. I fully intend to introduce a bill outlawing AIDS."

Dr. Nicely said, "My son from my third wife has AIDS. He has tremendous pride."

Said Mr. Marsilian, "He's probably a very talented boy."

"But," a small voice said. "What does all that have to do with--"

Said Mr. Macumba, "De butler was a Zionist spy of de colonialist!"

"Isn't death, er, like a really really strange thing?" said Ms. Zeller-Shoemaker-Brown.

"That observation," said columnist Mr. Kope, "is a very very deep thought. I'll drink to that."

"Oh fuck it!" said Ms. Rock.

"There's one thing I learned form my dad," said Mr. Randy Hurt IV. "It takes a heap of living to make a house a home. See what I mean?"

Said Mrs. Ritz, "I sincerely hope that Mrs. Gluck, one of my favorite people, doesn't make an emotional fuss over this. It could positively wreck the entire evening."

"I'll never forget," said Mrs. Coffee, "when our new maid dropped a shelf just loaded with our best Royal Doulton china. I cried for days."

Said Mrs. Ritz, "This event reminds me of a sad moment in what's-his-name's opera."

Said Dr. Nicely, "That's my favorite opera!"

"How true!" said Mrs. Ritz. "I read the book."

"I always told my husbands," said Ms. Zeller-Shoemaker-Brown, "that dear Mrs. Ritz was a true intellectual."

Said Mrs. Ritz, "Well, I think death is in bad taste. That should be a private matter between the person and his or her attorney."

"Brilliant!" said Mr. Kope. "Absolutely Oscar Wilde! That's Pulitzer Prize stuff!"

"But," a small voice said, "what does all that--"

"I just adore opera!" said Mr. Marsilian. "Especially tenors."

Said Mr. Carrot, "The trouble is that people don't know what's really good for them. For example, at Harvard we often--"

"I think..." said Mr. Swing. "I think...that I've just forgotten what it was I wanted to say--blame it on this excellent wine."

Mrs. Swing said, "I had to do with raising more funds for the opera."

"Oh yeah," said Mr. Swing. "We need to raise more money for the opera."

Said Mrs. Belsi, "I agree. We should raise taxes in San Francisco."

"Oh, fuck opera," said Ms. Rock.

"But," a small voice said, "what does all that--"

"Speaking of art," said Mrs. Firestone. "Did I tell you that on our last trip to France, my husband and I picked up some cute hand-painted paintings by real French artists?"

"Yes," said Mr. Kope. "Everyone knows the French can really really paint. It's like jazz. Only black musicians can play jazz.

Said Mrs. Belsi, "I fully intend to write a congressional letter about the same thing."

"But what--" a small voice said.

Said Mrs. Carrot, "But I do hate to see such superb dinner remain uneaten. It seems so...so...wrong."

"That proves," said Mrs. Coffee, "What a sweet and thoughtful person you are."

"Waste not, want not," said Professor Feelgood.

"Give the remains to charity," said Mrs. Firestone. "Take a tax deduction. That's my advice to the Glucks. I do the same with my underwear."

Mrs. Swing said, "You know, in all my life I never had an English butler."

"Life is just crowded with such anxieties," said Professor Feelgood. Said Mr. Hannigan, "Sure and what's wrong with a good old-fashioned Irish butler?"

Said Patsy Bolt, "Anyway, what's one dead man, more or less? Maybe that loss will save one woman from being raped?"

"Oh fuck it," said Ms. Rock. "All sex is rape. Anyone want a joint?"

"I really mean it," said Mrs. Swing. "Should I try to import an English butler? It would be kinda fun."

Said Mr. Hannigan, "Never trust the English!"

Ms. Yohum said, "Despite that minor unpleasantness, I think this had been one of the most intellectual evenings I've experienced in my newspaper career."

My wife remained silent, and for the third time in my adult life, I was mute.

Mr. Gluck returned from the kitchen to inform us that his wife was recovering and would rejoin us in a few minutes. Their English butler had certainly not been murdered, as their overly-exercised cook had stated, but had died from a massive heart attack. Mr. Gluck hoped everyone would now partake of a very special dessert. He very much desired we all remain to watch Dr. Nicely's unusual imitations of certain famous men. After that Mr. Macumbo would treat us to an ancient African war chant against the evil white race. Several applauded.

My wife and I were relieved that the English butler had been found innocent of being murdered, although we skipped dessert and managed to escape entertainment.

The incident was never reported. The world of San Francisco media is small, limited because its political vision and focus is universal. Anyway, few believe freedom of the press is a sound policy. People should agree with those in charge. They had the best interests of the common people in mind. The press in San Francisco is assuredly no worse a whore or pimp than found elsewhere--with or without an English butler.

Leslie Woolf Hedley has had 14 books (poetry, fiction, satires, essays, novella, one act plays) published by various presses. Winner of Prix de Satire (Holland) and various other really, really impressive things. He lives in California.

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