MR. NICKLEBY'S WHISTLES
JM Becker

I knew it was going to be an eventful evening when Mr. Nickleby stuck his head out the closet and screamed,

"I'll ruin you!"

Mr. Nickleby threatens me with ruin daily. It was the fact that he was hiding in a dark closet counting fake money that alarmed me.

"Good Sir! Do you know that money you are counting is not genuine?"

"I'll ruin you!"

While Mr. Nickleby continued to count his riches in the dark closet, I went to the corner store for a half-gallon of skim milk. The smell of rotting leaves filled the air. I was depressed; summer was waning, in fact it had waned into something like fall. I am not very good with the seasons. I can only tell you with absolute certainty that it was not raining.

"Mr. Nickleby, would you like a spot of tea?"

"Good Boy! Do my threats seem banal to you? Do you know who I am? I will ruin you!"

I turned on the television and flipped through the channels. It's hard to be entertained when there is a grown man in the closet counting counterfeit money and threatening you with ruin.

I came across an old movie set in the Caribbean. It was a black and white picture about robbery, petty theft, and gun smuggling. I yelled in to Mr. Nickleby, "Good Sir. You may want to come and view this picture. It seems to be right up your alley!"

"I'll ruin you!"

"Mr. Nickleby, Sir. I would like to question you in regards to your whistling abilities. You know how to whistle, do you not Mr. Nickleby? This beautiful creature just explained it: you just put your lips together and blow." Mr. Nickleby was silent. I could hear some mild rustling from within the closet, some sort of shuffling.

"Do you know I will put your personal ruin ahead of all my other business?"

"Yes, Mr. Nickleby, Sir. You tell me that every morning before I leave for the office. I just thought that maybe you would like a new hobby. Whistling seems rather engaging."

Mr. Nickleby was once again silent. I continued to watch the film. The protagonist of the film seemed to be so strong and brave, even while facing extreme adversity.

And then I heard Mr. Nickleby's vain attempt to whistle. It sounded more like a hissing teakettle or a leaking gas oven. I encouraged him,

"That's it, good man! Put your lips together and BLOW!"

After a few more minutes of loud hissing, Mr. Nickleby let out a loud powerful whistle. Then silence.

"Good show! Mr. Nickleby!"

I sprang to my loafers, when I saw Mr. Nickleby open the closet door. He was dressed in his best overcoat and top hat. His eyes squinted in the living room light.

"Come boy! There isn't a moment to spare!"

We rushed outside into the chilly night. Mr. Nickleby stopped at the front stoop. He quickly grew impatient, he stomped his boots and clapped his hands, "Where the hell is my horse drawn coach?"

"We do not have a horse drawn coach!"

"Then, how the hell do you suppose we get to where we are going?"

I pointed to the blue 1983 Volkswagen Rabbit parked in the driveway. Mr. Nickleby had to remove his top hat to sit in the passenger seat.

"To the family mausoleum!"

I did not think he could handle the truth, that there is no family mausoleum, so I drove with acquiescence to the graveyard where his father is buried. Once we arrived, he hobbled to the gravestone.

"Where the devil is the grand mausoleum I commissioned?"

"Maybe the Mason has fallen on bad times."

"Maybe he has! But! I shall ruin him!"

Mr. Nickleby looked down to his father's grave. I did not want to intrude so stepped away. I sat on a cold stone bench. I could hear Mr. Nickleby whistling to his father's grave. It was a beautiful scene, Mr. Nickleby in his tall top hat blowing random musical notes from his old, puckered lips.

Snowflakes began to fall. Mr. Nickleby stopped whistling and looked up to the gray sky. I thought, for the first time, that Mr. Nickleby would shed a tear, a tear for the beauty of the situation, the snow, the whistles, the grave of his estranged father. But no tears were shed. Mr. Nickleby balled his right hand in to a fist and began to shake it at the sky.

"I'll ruin you!"

Mr. Nickleby turned away from the grave,

"We must return home at once. Revenge is on the chopping block!"

© JM Becker 2005

JM Becker was the bastard child of an evil, money-grubbing mother. He was raised in New York and educated in Miami, FL. JM is twenty-four years old and loves to travel and read. Currently, he lives and works in the Washington D.C. Area.

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