The lawyer kick was delivered to the man’s shin with the full force of six-year-old indignation. “Hai dozo!” Gracie yelled as she kicked, imitating a cry she thought she remembered from martial arts movies. “Go go Tokyo!” she yelled, and kicked again. Already unsteady from excessive drink, the attacker lost his balance and dropped to one knee, maintaining, nonetheless, his grip on the woman. It was then that Gracie shouted, “Sapporo! Chop suey!” and kicked again. This time the kick accidentally landed higher. Much higher.
For a couple of seconds, the drunken brute seemed to be sucking in all the oxygen from the surrounding countryside. He gasped. Then he groaned. Then he rolled over onto his side. Because he was at the very edge of the hilltop, he, against his will, continued to roll. His body went tumbling more than a third of the way down the hill before its progress was stopped by a juniper bush. He lay there, in no apparent rush to get up.
While this was occurring, the fairy was rubbing her aching spine, flexing her rumpled wings, struggling to get back on her own two feet. She was done with her horror-movie bee imitation. Henceforth, she’d leave buzz-bombing to the hornets. From a sitting position, she pointed her wand at the lummox who’d swatted her. As if undecided in which direction to move, he was shifting his bleary gaze from the sobbing maiden a few yards above him to his friend who lay unmoving farther down the slope. The fairy took aim. She fired a single amber beer ray at the area behind his eyes where his brain ought to be.
It was a ray she’d used countless times before to subdue quarrelsome sailors, rampaging soccer goons, and obnoxious fraternity boys, and she should have used it sooner on this occasion, but she’d been so angry and upset she’d lost her cool. When it struck its target, the beer ray would instantly raise the alcohol level in an imbiber’s blood to such a degree that his lights would begin to flicker, his curtains commence to close, and his internal clock to chime midnight. Now this farmhand, when hit, staggered back a few steps before stumbling blindly back down the hill, collapsing, and passing out cold beside his pal.
The fairy flew, if one could call such a wobbly display flying (she resembled some variety of popcorn moth trapped in an automatic popper), to Gracie’s side, landing with uncharacteristic clumsiness on the child’s shoulder. Together, silently, the two watched the young woman make her way down the opposite side of the hill, moving as fast as she dared without losing her footing. She appeared to be heading toward a distant farmhouse nestled between two barley fields.
“That must be her family’s farm,” said the fairy at last. “She looks a mess. Her folks will think she’s had too much beer at the festival and order her to bed without any strudel.”
Gracie was fixing to comment on how unfair that would be when the Beer Fairy suddenly kissed her. (You’ll probably never in your life be kissed by a fairy, but should you be, you’ll know it, and you’ll treasure that kiss forever.) “You were very brave, kiddo,” the fairy said. “Very brave, indeed.”
“Thanks,” said Gracie. “Hi de ho.”
“I want to show you something, braveheart. Down there in the town.”
“You mean in Creamed-Beef-on-Toast.” Since she was so brave, Gracie thought she might as well say it. She’d show her tiny guide she was not only courageous but also knew her geography.
The fairy looked puzzled. “What the heck are you talking about, child?”
“The name of the town: Creamed-Beef-on-Toast.”
“Are you joking? Whoever heard of such a place? The name of that town happens to be Pimple-on-Chin.”
“Yuck!” said Gracie.
Considering that in seven years or so, Gracie would doubtlessly sprout pimples of her own — as will you, provided you aren’t pimpled already — it was scarcely an appropriate response.
17
“Suppose, for example,” said the fairy, who was increasingly showing signs of recovery from the blow she’d suffered, “that an airliner is flying over Pimple-on-Chin, bound for, say, Seattle.”
Automatically, Gracie looked to the sky. She saw acres of blue, a gradually lowering sun, and a skinny white elbow of moon, but no plane. It was only an example.
“And suppose,” the sprite continued, “that aboard that aircraft there’s a passenger who’s on her way to Seattle to murder her brother so as to claim his share of an inheritance. Also aboard that same flight, there’s a second woman, a physician, a noted specialist, who’s traveling to Seattle to perform a surgery that will save an infant’s life.
“The airplane itself is neither good nor evil, is it? It’s a vehicle, a neutral, unattached object, kind of like a knife that can be used for peeling turnips in an orphanage or for slicing off a man’s ears. Many things in life are like that, including, and perhaps most especially, people’s political and religious beliefs — but that’s a subject for a much later day. What you need to remember now is that matters are very seldom all black or all white. They can even be both at the same time.”
The fairy looked to see if Gracie was taking any of this in. She pointed again at the village of Pimple-on-Chin.
“You’ve just witnessed how beer can contribute to vile behavior. If one is rude, beer can make one ruder; if one is a slob, it can make one sloppier; if one is mean, it can make one meaner; if one’s dumber than one looks…well, you get the picture. Beer can lead weak men to think they’re mighty, and foul-mouthed women to believe themselves amusing and hip. Worse, if one is cursed with an addictive personality, it can bring on the serious disease of alcoholism.
“On the other hand, you’ve learned that every day, beer helps millions to be glad and dizzy, and that once in a great while it can lead to a brush with the Mystery.” She paused, as if to reflect. “As long as there are those who seek contact with the Mystery, no matter how misguidedly and crudely they go about it, I suppose there’s still hope for the human race.”
Pausing again, as if to permit her words to sink in, the pixie gestured toward one end of the village. “There’s something else. You see that beer garden that’s closest to the water? Yes? Can you make out that soldier in uniform who’s sitting alone at the bar, staring at the river? At sunset, he’s expected to rejoin his regiment, and they’ll march off in the night to fight a bloody battle in some stupid war that in the end will benefit nobody but the rich and powerful, and maybe not even them. The soldier has been contemplating making a run for it, but fear has held him back.
“Okay, now do you see that other fellow who’s just rather awkwardly, hesitantly approached a table of young women and asked one of them to dance?”
Gracie did see him, though she was still stealing glances at the sky, looking for that airplane.
“That guy is desperately in love. He wishes to ask the girl to marry him, but so far he’s been too timid to pop the question.”
While they stood spying on the scene at the beer garden, the soldier nonchalantly slipped off of the bar stool and very slowly made his way, in a zigzag route, to the river’s edge. When, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder, he was confident none in the noisy crowd was looking his way, he stepped out of his boots and slid into the water, slid so smoothly he made scarcely a ripple. He swam, unobserved, to the other shore, which was heavily wooded.