Chandler v. Chaplain

The Chandler presents Pepple with proposition:

See this check? It’s for $2,500. If you can find a way to get me to town by noon, I’ll give you $500 of it, cash.

Pepple, never one to turn down a good opportunity, haggles her up to $1,000, then throws down his spade and lopes across the field. An hour later the Chandler hears honking from the road. Behind the line of poplars Pepple waves from within an old farm pickup. The Chandler strides over to the truck, gets in, and the two drive to town.

They find the bank. Unfortunately, its closed. The sign on the door reads:

TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO BANK RUNS —MANAGEMENT

The Chandler tells Pepple to stay in the truck. She walks into town.

First the Chandler enters a pathetically under-stocked grocery store. Cans of sausages, condiments, powered soup stock, and processed, vitamin-enriched bread make up most of what lies scattered on the plywood shelves. She approaches the Grocer, who sits reading a paperback novelization of popular movie made from a Broadway musical adapted from a famous poem.

I’d like to congratulate you on keeping what might be the last independently owned in the state. Rustic—that’s what this is. Rustic and true, like the best of America.

The Grocer nods. The Chandler pulls the crumbled check from between her sagging dugs. Let me introduce myself, she says, I’m an independent chandler specializing in organic—

Sorry, interrupts the Grocer, we don’t cash no checks.

The Chandler leaves. She walks across the street to a fast food restaurant.

I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to see a fast food restaurant with nice full, clean grease traps, the Chandler opens. She pulls out the wrinkled check.

We don’t cash checks, hon, croaks the Fry Cook.

The Chandler leaves. She walks back across the street to a dry cleaner.

The Dry Cleaner sits on a small white stool with a shotgun slung across his knee. What you want? he demands. She unfolds the creased check.

Do you cash checks? she asks.

No, he shouts.

Then can you at least iron it?

The Dry Cleaner irons the check. While ironing, he offers her $40 for it. They eventually settle on $250. With the money she buys a carton of cigarettes, a bottle of gin, and six chocolate bars.

Back in the truck, the Chandler explains what happened, then hands Pepple $50. Pepple takes the money and drive back to the grounds. He drops her off and drives back down the road.

She meets the Chaplain by the oak. He’s collected a miniature bouquet of daisies.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Chancellor v. Chandler

The Chancellor and Chandler find they have something in common: they both appreciate quality craftsmanship.

Buildings! cries the Chandler, arms jetting up. They make 'em tall now, sure - but they've got no spirit! All twisting mirrored glass and metal. What's so good about the world that we need it reflected back at us from a two billion dollar looking glass that rises eighty seven stories high? Nothing, that's what!

The Chandler's a wiry, thin frizzy-haired woman in a flowing hemp dress and denim headband, makes quick gestures to press important points during conversation.

What I attribute this to, confides the Chancellor while idly fingering his monogramed cufflinks, is simple lack of love. Love of that station to which one was born. Let bankers be bankers, peasants peasants, and craftsman craftsman. I find lack of love, or lack of pride to be the one great vice of the New World. Of my kind - and here I make no lie of baring to you that I am one born to serve, as they say in the better clubs of Beacon Hill - I believe I am a shining example. My work, of course, is to leave these hands of mine unsullied by work. Absolutely, I could have squandered my life on crass moneymaking. Yet instead I turned my efforts solely to matters of social importance: I dine and drink with the best sort of people, and in dining and through witty conversation, I provide a crucial model for them: of a man whose life is lived in hope of benefiting all others! Specifically, as chancellor now of my alma mater, that tower you see off in the distance... of grand ivory.

The Chancellor, impassioned, gestures with outstretched hand to the northeast. The Chandler turns and looks. She doesn't see an ivory tower, but she does see Pepple. He's burying the body of Chamberlain. She wrinkles her nose.

The Chancellor apologizes and explains.

Your university doesn't need organic soap, does it? she asks. Because if your students aren't showering with organic, hand-made soap, she points out, they might as well be slaughtering thousands of fish and birds in Micronesia. A sinful industry: bug-eyed chemists and profiteers the whole bunch of them.

The Chancellor's shocked.

Let me put you down for an order of 2,000 bars of my personal brand, Ginny's Ol' Fashioned Spit-Shine. You know, just a test order. Here's a complimentary sample.

The Chancellor takes the same, puts it to his nose. It smells a bit like musty basement, he says.

Well of course it does! How else would you know it's organic?

He nods, convinced, and writes out the check. The Chandler stuffs it down her blouse.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.