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Mr. Fiddle

Steven Bays

    Mr. Fiddle woke early, and as he did every day, brewed his coffee, then sat by the window, looking out at the world. A few clouds floated in the sky, but the sun shone brightly and he smiled, glad that the weather would cooperate with the events of the day. Today would be special, one he would remember for the rest of his life.
    He sipped his coffee as the dream from the night before came to mind, and it troubled him. Not every night, but frequently enough, his mind’s eye saw what he now considered a vision. It always started pleasant enough, but in the end, he would be swinging a sword, hacking away at a huge knot, cursing as he cut through the rope.
    The dream first came to him when the wedding invitations were sent out. I need to put the thing out of my head, he said to himself. He hurried and dressed. There were several errands he needed to run.
    Mr. Fiddle walked to the cleaners down the street from where he lived and picked up his best suit, handmade in Hong Kong. It wasn’t soiled, but it had hung in his closet for so long, he thought it best to have it freshened up, and to let it out a bit. As a bachelor, Mr. Fiddle didn’t prepare his meals at home. No, he ate out often, at some of the best restaurants in town, and looked forward to not dining alone.
    A few days earlier, Mr. Fiddle had visited the barber shop for a haircut. As was his custom, he wanted the trim in advance to allow his hair to grow out a bit, to prevent that edgy look one has when first cut. Today he went back, for a shave, had his shoes polished, and he even pampered himself with a manicure. He wanted to look perfect.
    On his way to church, he made one more stop, a spur-of-the-moment decision, brought on by the fluttering in his belly. At a local tavern, the bartender greeted him by name, his first name, and poured him a malt whiskey. Just one, Mr. Fiddle reasoned, but one didn’t settle his nerves enough, and he said yes when the bartender motioned to him, holding the bottle in the air. The second drink made him want a third, but he decided against any more.
    At church, he ran into Mr. Master, his old friend.
    “Fiddle, you made it. I thought you’d get cold feet,” he said.
    “I couldn’t do that to Janet,” Mr. Fiddle said, shaking his hand.
    Mr. Master pinned a boutonniere on his friend’s lapel.
    Together they went into the church. Mr. Fiddle politely exchanged greetings with the families and took his place in front. A tear ran down his cheek, but no one noticed. All eyes were on Janet, as she came down the aisle, looking radiant in her gown. Her veil was lifted; the bride and groom turned to face the minister. Mr. Fiddle felt a rumbling in his belly. He wanted to run, but couldn’t leave. What would everyone say? Scandalous, an embarrassment he’d never forget.
    No, Mr. Fiddle stayed and listened as the woman he loved stood with Mr. Masters, and softly said ‘I do.’

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