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Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Final Frontier the Down in the Dirt May-August 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

The Brownie

Bill Tope

He raised the old woman to her feet, from where
she lay upon the cold sidewalk on Christmas Eve,
1916, on a nearly deserted Chicago street. She
was ancient, he decided, holding fast lest she slip
and fall again.

She mumbled something indecipherable and he
asked her, “What is it, ma’am? Is there anything I
can get you, would you like some water?” She
peered up at him through rheumy eyes, opened
her mouth to speak.

He leaned closer to listen. “Whiskey!” she
shouted vociferously. He blinked in surprise.
“What the hell do I want with water?” she went
on acidly. “Water’s for soaking my teeth!”

“An’ I ain’t got my teeth,” she rasped, opening
her mouth to prove it. He looked. She was right,
he thought, no teeth. “There they are!” she said,
pointing them out upon the sidewalk.

Awkwardly, he left her standing and with a clean
handkerchief picked the dentures off the pavement,
handed them to her. “Don’t look!” she snapped,
turned her head and then turned back, bit down
viciously, showing her teeth in all their venal
splender.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Bertha,” she replied, then looked round behind
her. “Sum’bitch got my wallet.” She seemed
irate. “Some one took your purse?” he asked
stupidly.

“‘Course. Knocked me upside the head,
made away with it.” Now he would never learn
the identity of this crazy old woman. He blew
out a breath, wondered what he should do
next. Surely he could find a social worker
somewhere. This old woman was a problem,
a world of problems, but she wasn’t necessarily
his problem; though she fast becoming so.

“Where do you live?” he asked her next.
“One a’ them big hotels,” she replied, brushing
dirt off her black bonnet. His eyes travelled
over her plump figure and dusty garb. “What
do you do there, house maid?” he asked.
“I live in the penthouse,” she said,
contemptuously. He rolled his eyes; this was
getting him nowhere. “My husband owns the
joint,” she added. He shook his head in dismay.
Next, he thought, she’d be claiming she’s
Bertha von Suttner, referencing the Austrian
Nobel Prize winner.

“Twenty-first floor,” she added irritably. “Are you
going to take me there or not?” she demanded.
He looked around him. “That’s over on the other
side of Grant Park, isn’t it?” Now it was her turn
to roll her eyes. “Where you from, young feller?”

“Philly,” he replied. She snorted loudly.
“Nice little cow town,” she said smartly. He
hung his head, thought, what am I going to do
with her? He looked around again, searching
for a cop, spotted a Salvation Army bell ringer
instead.

Taking the old woman in hand, the man
approached the bell ringer and asked, “Can
you help me to get this lady home?” The
bell ringer looked up at the old woman and
recognitiion instantly blossomed on his face.
“Mrs. Palmer!” he exclaimed.

“Palmer?” repeated the man wonderingly.
Swiftly he put two and two together. “You
mean, as in the Palmer Hotel?”
“None other,” replied the bell ringer,
beaming. “I been there for goin’ on forty-six
years, now young man.” For the first time
the man removed his hat.

“I’ll hail a taxi, ma’am,” offered the bell ringer.
“Rather walk,” she replied. “Ain’t but a mile or
two. Come on, young man,” and she latched
onto the man’s arm and off they went, over the
snow-crusted pavement and ice, slipping and
sliding all the way.

Arriving finally at the prestigious Palmer
House Hotel, Mrs. Palmer was received by
the staff with great fanfare, a returning celebrity.
The concierge immediately provided her with
a glass of whiskey. The pair finally parted
company but not before the old lady offered
up a reward for services rendered. He hastily
refused. “Take it, take it, young feller.” He
shook his head decidedly. “I really can’t take
your money, Mrs. Palmer,” he insisted.

“Who said anything about money?” she
rasped. “Here, take this,” and she slipped
something discreetly into his palm, then
hurriedly retreated to the elevator. As the
doors closed, she waved good-bye. And
as the hall lantern indicated her ascension
to the twenty-first floor, the man looked into
his hand. There reposed a single chocolate
brownie.

 
Bertha Palmer was instrumental in introducing
to the world the modern brownie, developed in
the 19th century by the Palmer House kitchens.

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