Reclaiming the Soul of Halbert Halburt

Halbert Halburt raped a fag.

            In an odd way, some people seem to be offended by this. However, in the small, tucked away town of Staggport you should all know it is a thing that friends do for fun. When another friend’s fag is sitting in an ashtray, bluish gray smoke lazily drifting away from its burning mouth, you take it up real quick and get a drag off it without your friend’s knowledge. This being socially acceptable and “all the rage” as the kids of today say, Halbert was quite proud of his dexterous pull. He then coughed, giving himself away… Halbert was not a smoker.

Sitting next to the warm and toasty hearth at the Pretentious Elk Pub, Halbert’s best friend and favorite pub companion Stanly Ober Benington the third, or more commonly called Steve, turned quickly and pointed to his mouth full of Staggport’s finest lager. “You got me… Red-handed sneak thievery.” Halbert said.

            Steve swallowed his ale and smiled. “Never one to get away with things, Hal. Never a good bluffer.”

            Halbert reluctantly smiled, as whatever Steve said next was drowned out by the Pub’s live, four piece band. He was now a tad disappointed at himself for giving away his marvelous “rape”, but thought it best to not let it get him down, and plotted his next move. He grabbed his mug of Stagg Ale and took a long quaff off of it. All the regulars had turned out tonight. Winston Weatherbury sat across from them, belly up to the bar, and already well lit, like a holiday tree. He was the owner of the town’s most prosperous, and only general store, with his line of Weatherbury cosmetics and creams selling well all year round. And yet this rich, old windbag came into the drab, dark Pretentious Elk like any other common piker and got loaded with everyone else.

Mary Rapaport was entertaining the boys in the corner, who just got off fishing the dry dock. A nice girl, a whore really, but a nice girl all the same. Then there was Dartmouth Hangerton, the town pickpocket, cheering on the local Elksy’s band and pretty much being the only person paying them any attention. And finally, eating a steaming bowl of stew and for some reason reading yesterday’s paper was Marlboro “Dirty” Sanchez. Tormented with this nickname from a young age, he had grown accustomed to all the people hollering “ Dirty!” when he’d lead the town’s parade into the square. All this festiveness on a cold winter’s night, and Halbert Halburt was unhappy. Not any more so than he’d been every night of his life, but exactly the same, always the same. He reached into his gut with his will, and pried and scraped and dug with all his emotional strength to feel some shimmer or touch of joy, but finally, could not. And he succumbed to his usual neutralness, and sank back into his wooden chair, dazing around the grey area he so often dwelled in. No blacks or whites or other beauties of the spectrum. All grey.

Steve didn’t need Halbert to carry on a conversation anyway, he just needed him there. Talking about big ideas, the local girls and the bounty of the day, Steve was a one man carnival. And Halbert took comfort in this. Using his best friend and living vicariously through Steve’s feelings and emotions was pretty much Hal’s life for the better part of twenty years. He furrowed his eyebrows. What was it Steve was saying? Something about the wind catching Sally Maude’s dress and giving a few townsmen a playful peek at her very defined and quite detailed undergarments which Steve described as “not really there at all.” A cold blast roared in, bringing everyone’s attention to the door, as Biena Cuttington Cuttersworth pushed her way in out of the cold.  Again everything resumed.

Halbert was now very aware that he would, in fact, be walking home in this weather, with no money left on him for a wagon ride, no auto carriage, and not even a really decent pair of shoes for the journey. This reminded him that he better take more money in his bill fold from now on, and put some serious thought into a means of transportation that would suit him better than walking. Being independently wealthy from an inheritance, Halbert had very little besides the clothes on his back and a one room cottage. The cozy little dwelling had a window, a bed, and a wood burning stove. What more could he need, he thought? He turned his attention back to Steve, who, if Halbert asked, would tell him exactly what to do with his money, and listened to his new rant. This time it was a conversation Hal actually had to defend himself about - Norene, the Horse Faced Girl - or so the town had dubbed her. That and her being Halbert’s lone admirer, much to his chagrin. She was a quiet flower girl, always wandering a few dozen paces or so behind Halbert on the cobblestone streets of Staggport. Steve would often make comments to her and send her quickly away with her head down, kerchief drawn tight around her face. He didn’t care if she cried alone later or not, the thought probably even skipped across his mind. Halbert wondered whether or not Norene loved him, or was just obsessed with him. Did he love anyone ever, he wondered? He loved a nice pair of shoes, he thought.  Did that count?  In any case, now was not the time to think about that. Steve pointed out Norene was hanging around outside the window, and occasionally peering in nonchalantly, or so she imagined. “It’s dreadfully cold outside. She should come in.” Halbert said.

            “It’ll never happen.” Steve said in between sips off his mug. “She should get herself a feed bag at the stable.”

            “Not very nice Steve, is it?”

            “Well, not very pretty Hal, is she?” He answered.

            Halbert didn’t answer, for this was a loaded question. If he said yes, he was a rude bastard and just as bad as Steve, and if he said no, it meant he thought she was attractive which he still wasn’t sure about. And that would leave him open to schoolyard style pokes and jokes. He decided to change the subje