With apologies to Spider Robinson…
It was the standard night at Callahan’s place. Drinks were flowing, the cigar box on the counter was full, and the fireplace was spilling over with glass. It was Tall Tales night - the night when people had to tell the tallest tales that they could, and the winner of the night’s competition would get all of their drinks for free. Needless to say, every hand had a glass in it, even though the competition was down to the final two competitors. Now, mind you, I was one of the last two competitors of the evening - and I sure wasn’t going to pay my tab. But my opposition was steep - I was up against the Doc, and he’s not an easy one to beat. The topic of the evening was books, and it seemed that we’d turned to Tolkien for the final competition.
“You know,” began Doc, settling heavily back in his chair and waving a meaty hand airily, "I don’t believe I’ve told a story about my friends from Rivendell recently. Pretty place, Rivendell - full of trees and pretty arches and a flowing river.
“Anyhow, I was breezing through there one day when this horse came pounding up behind me. There was this woman on it, and she was hanging on to this little short kid who looked like death warmed over. Needless to say, I was called immediately into action. We got the kid into a bed in the best house in town, and I got to work.”
Someone, sotto-voce, muttered, “Can’t be the best House in town - that’s Sally’s Place.”
The Doc, nonplussed, turned his eyes in the direction of the unknown heckler, and blithely continued uninterrupted. “So anyhow, I look over the kid, and there’s not a sign of injury or assault on his person - except that his skin was cold as death, and his face white as a sheet. But he had this ring on him - pretty thing it was, too. It was hanging on a chain around his neck. For some strange reason I almost thought it’d fit me, but then it hit me - and I knew what’d happened. I talked to the other medical folks in Rivendell, and they agreed with my diagnosis. Shame, too - it was incurable.”
“What was your diagnosis?” said Callahan from behind the bar, leaning his chin into his hand as if to hold his head up.
“Oh, that’s simple,” said the Doc. “He ring’d his neck.”
A few glasses hit the fireplace as a communal groan went up - but I saw my advantage. The Doc’s final efforts were not his best tonight, and I had an opening for my own attempt.
“Well,” I drawled, stretching out my legs a bit from my own chair, “the Doc might hang out in Rivendell, but I always preferred the Shire. Those boys know how to party, let me tell you - always had pipes smoking, food was plentiful at any hour of the day, and they had elevenses.”
“Elevenses?” queried Long-Drink from across the room.
"Yep, elevenses - and they dressed to the nines while they had 'em, let me tell you. Anyhow, I recall this one particular party that I went to. It was for some guy named Baggins who’d just had his hundred and eleventh birthday. The whole town turned out for that one, and it looked like it was going to be great - eighteen-course dinner, fireworks provided by Gandalf and Co., the works. Dancing and singing, everything you could imagine in a great party.
"Anyhow, the night was getting along, and Old Man Baggins got up on this stage to say a few words. Now, me and Hattie Hornsfoot were off in a corner chatting, but she went running over to her family when the old guy got up to talk, so I was left to my own devices. And boy, could he talk. ‘Baggins and Boffinses,’ he began, then listed off this humongous listing of names - so many, in fact, that he could’ve likely written a whole book about them.
"So anyhow, there I was, off to one side of the party with a mug of stout and a smile, and this grey-robed guy with a pointy hat nudged me, then jerked his chin off to one side, like he wanted me to follow him. I got the picture right away, and sidled off after him. But then, I heard the shouts, and I started back towards the party - sounded like someone’d just killed someone, and I figured I had a bit of practice with breaking up a fight.
"That party’d gone to the dogs quickly, that’s for sure. People were screaming and hollering, and the Proudfoots - or is that Proudfeet? - were busily bashing the Boffinses with their steins. A cluster of Hornblowers were screaming at the Old Took… a bad move that is, since the Old Took can holler with the best of them. And my good friend Hattie was in the middle of a cluster of Brandybucks who looked like they were about to explode. I started towards her, then tripped over something and turned around to see what it was.
"There wasn’t anything there - or, at least, it didn’t look like there was, and then that old geezer Baggins appeared in front of me. “Quick!” he hissed. “Get behind me and shut up - you won’t get beat.” And he was being truthful - there was a pack of Proudfeet coming my way, and it looked like I was up for a bruising.
“So I got behind Baggins, and he suddenly vanished - and there I was, all in my lonesome, with a batch of hobbits bearing down on me. I did what any self-respecting guy would do and froze and didn’t move a muscle, hoping they’d think I was a bush. But did you ever hear that an invisible hobbit is still opaque enough to hide whatever’s behind him? Surprised the heck outta me; I still felt old Baggins in front of me, and even tugged on his coattails once when one of the drunk hobbits swaggered closer, but not a single one saw, and eventually Baggins whispered that it was safe, and we made a break into the woods.”
“Is dere a point to dis whole rigamaroles?” Fast Eddie asked, lounging against his piano.
“Yup. It all comes down to one thing, which is great to remember for any parties in the Shire - I’d rather have a hobbit in front of me than have a bottle lobotomy.”
A hailstorm of glasses hit the fireplace, Fast Eddie played a ‘wah-wah’ on the piano, and I knew I didn’t have a tab to pay up as I left that night.
