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callipraxia · 1 year

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The Unexpected Memoirs of Fiddleford H. McGucket: Prologue and Chapter One

I was going through my writing desk and found a notepad I had scrawled about seventy pages, I think, of an attempt at first-person narration on a while back. It was about Fiddleford, attempting to type his way into his own memory in the gap between "Society of the Blind Eye" and his flight from town at the beginning of "Not What He Seems." Figured I might as well type it up in a few installments here if only so I have an excuse to remove the notepad and make some storage space, and to help with wanting to write so bad when I know I have too much work going on to commit to a brand-new project.

For whatever it's worth, Chapter One *probably* isn't as dark as the tags might suggest. It just includes Fiddleford typing up a basic overview of his life before he met Ford, and since that period involved being poor and living in the Deep South in the fifties and sixties...Certain topics are inevitable, at least in passing. Religion gets most of his focus, but there's also brief mentions of racism, classism, homophobia...good ol' days, am I right?!

Prologue

My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and I wish to remember what I have seen.

Or at least, I want to be able to wish to remember what I have seen.

Or at least, I think I do.

Maybe I just know that I have to, now. I don’t know what I helped create, or why, but I know one thing: from what I saw of myself in those tapes in the museum basement, and from what I read in the Journal, I either went crazy a lot earlier than I thought, helped create something that could end the world, or both. If it’s just that first one, well, that's all right - but what if it's one of the other two?

I want to run, but there’s nowhere left to run. I want to hide, but too many folks know where I am, now. I’ve got no choices left, besides sitting here at this typewriter and letting my fingers lead me back thirty years, into a world I gave up everything to forget about. All I’ve got is a story.

My name is Fiddleford McGucket, and I need to remember what I have seen. Whether I want to or not.

Chapter One

I think I might have tried to forget everything, but if I did, I messed up at least twice. There's two things I've never forgot about. I've always known my name, and I've always known that I’ve got a son. It's from the time after my life starts up again that I also know that if I said I was a bad father to him, I’d owe all the bad fathers of the world an apology for comparing them to the likes of me. Even a bad father is one who’s around to be bad, I think, and I wasn’t. I'd forget that, if I could, but somehow, I ended up without the gun....

My son hates me, and I can’t rightly blame him for that. He’s ashamed to be related to me, too, and as much as I’d like to, I can’t blame him for that, either, not with the fool I’ve acted. He was little when I left. I know that in part from such memories as I already had, and for sure because there was a picture in that Journal-book Dipper showed me. For some reason, the Author drew a picture of a picture that used to sit on my desk – copied it just like it must have been in life. He even bothered drawing the way the light reflected off the frame and hid my wife’s face, so I still don’t know what she looked like. I reckon I ought to be annoyed about that – but all I can think is, oh, you. You would do that, wouldn’t you?

Who are you, you faceless son of a cornshuck? Why did you do this to me? Why did I do that to you? What did we do? What’s this? What’s that?

The boy doesn’t know much about it. He was so young, then, and his mama didn’t like to talk about me later. Or so he says, and I guess I got no choice other than to believe him, because who else can I ask? My wife’s dead – I remember when he told me about that, a few years ago – and there’s nobody else in town that knew me before I lost my mind and remembers it, at least as far as I know. Not that that means much, of course.

More to the point, the boy does remember a few things. I was born in Tennessee, where I lived up to the age of seventeen, and where I’d probably be today if not for two things. One of them things is that I can’t think of many things more boring than plants – I liked machinery before I even knew what it was. The other one, probably more important, is that I caught every virus known to Man, probably, or at least Tennessee Man, as a baby, up until I took the rheumatic fever when I was six. If that hadn’t happened, then I probably would have been expected to quit school – assuming I went at all – and help Papa on the farm until I was old enough to get married and start my own, but instead, I got sick.

Mama and Papa, though – they didn’t know what they were supposed to do with me, but they knew I was theirs and they had an obligation, and that it wasn’t my fault I was feeble for a long time and peculiar even after I got my strength back. They lost their tempers with me all the time, sure, because I was so peculiar, but once they were done yelling, they knew I couldn’t help it, being like that. Mama, who was born a Baptist, used to say it was God’s will and proof of His marvelous constancy from generation to generation – Hannah had prayed for her son, and when she got him, it was with conditions, specifically, that she’d have to return him to God. Mama had also prayed for a son, and she’d got...me, who was clearly not going to be of any use to anyone unless I got me some schooling. Well, that was all right; the best preachers didn’t go to school, of course, everybody knew that, but she’d hauled off and married a Catholic, and they expected their folks to have some book learning even though that didn’t make much sense for men of God. Sense or no sense, though - that was how my mama decided I was going to be a priest.

I can’t remember much about how I felt about this, no matter how hard I try. The one thing I remember is that I did have one sister, name of Gladiolus, and that she used to think it was funny. Fatherford, she’d call me, when she thought Mama couldn’t hear her, especially when she thought I was being stupid on the subject of our mutual religion.

I was scared of God – not possessed of a holy and proper fear of God, just plain scared, like you’d be of a monster under the bed. I’d heard since I was a baby that it was only through His mercy that I was living, and I remembered just enough about being sick to know how bad it had usually hurt. I don’t know how, but I took it into my head that this meant I was bad, somehow – worse than everyone else, that was, a sinner among sinners, mainly because sometimes I asked questions that made Mama tell me that I was questioning God Almighty and that she’d have Papa take a belt to me if I done it again. Every time the priest raised the Host and talked about the transubstantiation, I’d imagine God looking out at me from inside the monstrance and whispering: just you watch yourself, Fiddleford McGucket. You better get your crazy ass right with me, or I’ll send it right on to Hell. And I would have - if I'd had any idea how. How many times did I sit there and pray, crying on my knees to stop thinking wrong and wanting wrong and doing wrong? Pulling out my own hair, because that was the only thing that could calm me down on a real bad day? I’d learned by the time I was ten not to ask my family such questions – that me asking Mama how I was supposed to just not think things that went through my head when I knew it upset her so – but I thought surely, surely, if God cared about me at all, despite knowing all my wrong thoughts….

Well – maybe He will have mercy on me for my doubts and questions and pride. Maybe He will take me in even if I keep an inability to see why it’s supposed to be so wrong to marry someone who doesn't look enough like you, or happens to be another man, or whatever else folks down home would say today. Or maybe He won’t. I don’t know. That was one thing I could never take about Mama’s people – this “I know that I know” attitude. Arrogant, ain’t it, assuming you Know anything about what God’s going to do? The predestination people are mighty peculiar, too, but that doesn’t even seem as arrogant as this idea that you can know you’re right with something as alien as God -

Or that’s the theory, anyway. In practice, the predestinationists aren’t any better, as far as I can recall, but even though thoughts like that kept me from ever considering going Evangelical or Holiness or any of that stuff, I still didn’t become a priest. I never even applied to try to be a priest – heavens to Betsy, I didn’t even apply to no Catholic universities! Admittedly, that was in part because of money – Mama went to work after she decided I was gonna live after all, so we could afford enough shoes for me and Gladiolus both to go to school all year in, and the sewing plant was real generous in giving out scholarships to the best-performing employee kids in the high school. I’d have been the biggest ingrate in the state of Tennessee if I’d started quibbling over which college I was going to go to, even considering that I broke every record my high school and that sewing plant had ever seen. And that’s how I ended up at Backupsmore University.

*********

Had to take me a break from typing – got to going too fast and my hands locked up. But the boy says he always heard I went to Backupsmore University, so I reckon I did. Makes as much sense as anywhere else, though from what I came to understand, the degree to which my crazy ass went really wrong, at least by home standards, while I was there could have happened in any reputable college or university in this country just as well.

I try to think back to it, and I have just a – blur. Strings of colored lights, which I’d never seen before. The taste of beer, and later of stronger stuff – took me two months to work up the nerve to try the beer, of course, and then I reckoned it was nasty, but I was so tired of being the oddball hick by then that I figured it was the lesser of two evils, even knowing what my mama would have said about it. Not like she wouldn’t have said worse about other stuff, such as when I went to required classes and didn’t say a word in protest when they taught that the world was millions of years old, or when I was all right with the idea of the rules changing to allow for blue jeans in classes, or when I discovered my roommate didn’t go to Mass and stayed roommates with him anyway, or when I would occasionally kiss girls and a few times boys, or….

Well. Maybe I went a little wild my first year or two, but I know that I know I didn’t ever risk my scholarship. Partially, of course, this was because of how easy everything was to me, but I did my work, no matter how tedious it was. I knew within a week that I didn’t want to go back to where I come from, and I knew that doing real well in college was my best way out. So I did real well in college, though it probably helped that my roommate was so dang uptight that I was partially obliged to drop the wayward habits of my freshman year, because there was no questioning which of us would have won in a fight.

I was taller than him, though. I remember that. Didn’t seem to bother him much. Not much did, I reckon. He was there to work, not to deal with people no more than he could help. I had to drag him out of the room most every time he left it for anything except for class, after we became friends...because we didn’t do for a while after we moved in together, not right away. I remember that first day - how I introduced myself, trying to be friendly and polite, and how he acted like the idea of shaking hands offended him, even if he did finally do it. I remember, too, that I thought he seemed like he got mad about my name for some reason? Though how that makes any sense, I don’t know. I think he might have just been mad at everything, the whole world, even himself, but definitely most everybody else.

I’m starting to type too fast again. Got to put down everything I can remember – it feels like I might forget it again if I don’t get it down fast enough, and like I need to remember this man. Like he’s got something to do with what happened, though it might be just that I can’t remember his face, either -

That does seem strange, and not only because I lived with him for a right long time. There’s also the other things that come back to me, strange little things. He’d done some kind of athletics in high school, for instance – why do I know that, but not what the feller looked like? That makes about as much sense as this band-aid being on my beard!

I remember that, though. And I remember that time when it snowed a foot, real early in the year that year even for that far north, and even though I'm sure that he was funny about his hands for some reason – fancy-pants musician, maybe? But that don’t explain this – how he let me borrow a pair of gloves upon realizing I’d never had any cause to own such an item before – and by ‘borrow’, I mean ‘threw ‘em at me without comment before leaving the room.’ And the first time he unbent enough for us to have a real conversation, and what it felt like, realizing I was really talking to someone who was a little like me – someone else who worked just fine, but his circuits were just arranged different than most folks’. Never thought it could happen, but....

It all blurs, even now. I can’t see his face, however I try to think on it. But I remember another thing, too. I remember one day when I fell down because I was laughing so hard. I was in Gravity Falls already, then, and I started laughing till I ended up on my knees as I thought to myself – there was a time I’d have said that I would follow that man into Hell - but this ain't what this was supposed to be!

*********

In between them memories, I’ve got what the boy told me I did. He doesn’t know why I did it or when, but at some point, I did go back to Tennessee. That’s where I met his mama. She was a schoolteacher, one of the only other folks my age who’d been anywhere near a college, at least that I could find to talk to. So, for lack of anything better to do, I suppose, she became a Catholic and then we got married.

Emma-May Dixon. Couldn’t get a name more like where we come from than that if you tried, but Emmy wasn’t too much like Gladiolus or my girl cousins or most home folks. Well, if she’d been like most folks, she wouldn’t have got lonely enough to marry the likes of me, would she have? Emma-May. Emmy.‘Emmy’ is what I called her sometimes, I think. Just Em when she was annoying me, though, which she did sometimes, as everyone you ever live with or know especially well must. I’ve remembered that for a while, somehow – that, and how she didn’t like being called Em or Emmy very much. After we left Tennessee, she tried going by Emma, out in California. Like Jane Austen. She had a whole set of books by Jane Austen, and every house we ever lived in, she made sure they were as prominent as they could get in the living room.

They weren’t just for looks, though. She had read them. She read them every year over again, in fact. She had the darkest, curliest hair I’ve ever seen – when it came into fashion, she started putting permanents in it the same as everyone else, of course, but she could have saved herself some time and just left it as it was, because she got close to looking like she had one just in her natural state. She wore perfume – Evening in Paris, I think it was – which was the kind of thing that would have gotten a gal talked about back home even if she hadn’t had the audacity to go buy it for herself, long time before she ever met me. I didn’t mind it, though; I liked that she didn’t need me, because I might not have pulled my hair out over my fear of God as much anymore by then, but someone needing me – that I couldn’t stand. Which did make it mighty inconvenient that she got pregnant not too long after we got married, because you ain’t never known how Necessary you can be until you get stuck being responsible for a baby human.

These days, of course, I doubt that would have happened. For one thing, I’d have been on ten different pills time I left Backupsmore, so I probably never would have gone home in the first place. For another – well, back then, it just didn’t occur to us to do much of anything to not have babies, because that was what you did, wasn’t it? You got married, you had a bunch of kids. That was what the Church said was proper, but it wasn’t even just the Church – my mama was a Baptist and had ten brothers and sisters. You had ‘em to keep up the work on the farm with you; that was why everybody felt so sorry for Mama and Papa, only having two young’uns, and one of them being me.

I don’t know what would have happened had we stayed in Tennessee – but thing was, Tater was still a baby when I realized we was not staying in Tennessee. For one thing, Mama and Emma-May couldn’t get along at all after the baby was born, Mama being intense on the subject of her first and only grandbaby – and for another, we just couldn’t stay there. I would have gone crazy a lot sooner than I did if we had. After Tater was born, all I could think was – my God, I can’t have a young’un of mine grow up here. If this place isn’t dead, it’s definitely dying. What if he’s like me, but he doesn’t get sick enough? Of course, this wasn’t rational of me – by that time, going to school was not only mandatory in the law, but it was something that was actually enforced even for backwoods families – but I couldn’t even think about the likes of ration, not then. I scratched up my head so bad trying not to rip out my hair that I ended up getting some kind of skin infection for a while – and then, once I was over that, we got as far from everybody we knew as we possibly could.

*********

California. On a map, it was easy to say what California was; where I come from, it was a whole different question. To some, it meant everything you could ever want, everything that home wasn’t; to others, it was a neat bit of shorthand just for Hell on Earth, for all the sins of the world (I reckon home folks didn’t all know about Las Vegas?). To my mama and papa, and Em’s mama and daddy, it was the second one; to me and her, it was the first one.

I think we were happy there? It’s another blur – but the edges don’t hurt, wherever an object or an image floats to the surface and gets clear enough to see. I remember shoes in the hallway a lot. Some balls and bats, a lot of books. Tater was reading before he was three, and we made sure he had plenty to read, because as I told my wife – it was pretty clear, from early on, that the boy was indeed like me, so he might as well lean into it and get as smart as he could, so he’d have the best chance to find some way, some place in the world where he could be happy.

You say that like you aren’t happy where you're at, Fids, said she – she was the only one who called me that, I’m assuming as retaliation for the Em thing. What am I supposed to do with that?

But I think I was. That we both were, for a while anyway. In a way, I think we both felt about like young’uns ourselves, because of how odd we could be in California without anybody knowing or caring at all. It was 1975, baby! Every woman in America had a right to her own bank account, whether she was married or whether she was not, and Emma-May got one I reckon just for the hell of it. Or because she was the one with more to put into it, though she never once mentioned it, and she was a saint for that. Who ever heard of a woman with a baby going back to teaching school, and letting some fool of a man look after a baby? Nobody, but we weren’t in Tennessee, we were in California, and it was 1976, 1978 – the world was all on its head and it was going to keep spinning like that forever, up and up, freer and freer, no stops!

I know how wrong we was now – but even today, it makes me smile, when I think of this one picture in my head. It was Emmy, just outside the church – since she took it sort of serious, after having gone to all the trouble of converting, we still did go to church. She was standing on the stair, wearing this dark blue dress with little white polky-dots on it, and one of them big, wide lace collars – this thing was up to her throat, and the ends of it were on her two shoulders – and by standards of the time, she was looking sharp! But she had on these sensible shoes, you know, and little white gloves, because she had a habit of that from her mama, who had not been one bit amused by Jack Kennedy taking his presidential oaths with no hat on and thereby giving everyone permission to run around in their bathing suits in broad daylight. Jack Kennedy was dead, though, and Jackie had betrayed all of America, to my folks’ way of thinking, by marrying some foreigner instead of gracefully playing the queen dowager until John, Jr. could take his daddy’s place, and I had two suits, one for every other Sunday, and a pretty wife with more dresses than there were days in the week standing there with her rosary in one hand and Tate by the other one, and I imagine we looked at each other like – you believe all this? You believe we’re here acting like decent people, without a soul in this church knowing you’ve got your own bank and them new pills, or that I get what money I got by some combination of picking a banjo while I run around in floweredy shirts like a hoodlum and spend my days trying to build the machines of the future? This is the craziest thing I've ever heard of!

Of course, I don’t know that this memory is real. Even if I do remember it right, there ain’t no guarantee that Emma-May was thinking anything of the sort, about how we looked like everybody else and were yet living in ways that would have shocked out parents out of this life. I felt like a young’un lifting candy from the store, though, and I recollect I laughed – from her point of view, for no good reason – and gave her a kiss right there on the stair.

What was that for?

You just looked pretty.

You crazy fool.

She’d call me that again another time, and it wouldn’t sound anything like it did then. Another time, she was screaming at me, shaking me, telling me to snap out of it, to quit what I was doing, to look what I was doing to my own son, to quit it right now and be a man, be a father, for the love of God, Fiddleford! But that day, it wasn’t like that, and I never could have guessed how soon it would be.

*********

I don’t remember much about how it started, that day. Right now, I remember everything about that afternoon and evening – the afternoon that marked the beginning of the end of my life – but not so much about the beginning, not even what I was doing right before the phone started to ring. I assume it was all normal, though: that I’d got up like I most always did, got the kid off to school, got the wife some kind of lunch put together before she went off to school, and then it was out to the garage and another day of trying to scrape together a dream. Just like so many days before. There was no way, no way at all, I could have ever known what was going to happen.

It was getting late, I think, when the phone started to ring, but in July it’s hard to be sure. Only the sounds of Emma-May and the boy in the house gave away that we’d passed the hour where most folks called the day finished. Despite that, I wasn’t working on one of my own projects yet – was still working on something for a client, scraping together the money I needed to keep working on my prototypes. Well, to my way of thinking, I was working on a client project, anyway – to most folks’ eyes, it would have looked like I was just picking on my banjo, but that was what I did when I needed to think about a tricky problem with some wiring. I was chewing on some chewbacca, too, as I was accustomed to do, and I recall I gnawed on it some just about the time the ringing started.

Why do I remember that? Nothing that unusual about that moment. Nothing should have made that specific plug of tobacco brand itself into my neurons, but I remember it right now, as clear as I do anything else – I can taste it as if I was chewing on it this moment, practically feel it between my molars again, though unfortunately, just remembering the feel of getting a hit of nicotine doesn’t do much to sharpen me up and calm me down all at once the way an actual portion of the drug would. It was real that day, though, and hit my system as I picked up the phone, and, without a care in the world, said, “Hello! Fiddleford Computermajigs!”

Another man’s voice came through the other line, and for a few seconds, I didn’t even recognize it. It was the kind of landline connection you got back then, I reckon, along with me having not heard this particular man’s voice in...Lord, how long had it been? Going on five years, maybe. Even during those few seconds, though, before my life changed, I felt a sort of – ripple – go through the world, as though I had gotten a shock, as the voice spoke, getting straight to the point without any salutation or introduction of its owner. Guess he was already too close to the edge to care about such things by then – that is, unless he knew that, just from the sheer audacity of the proposition alone, I’d know exactly who it was by the time he got to the end of his sentence.

“What would you say,” he said in a low, almost conspiratorial tone, “if I told you that I’m building a trans-universal polydimensional meta-vortex?”

By the end of the sentence, I knew who I was talking to – but that was bizarre enough even for him that I had to repeat it back to myself to be sure I’d heard it right. “You...say you’re trying to build a trans-universal polydimensional meta-vortex?”

“Yes.”

And then I did it. Without even knowing I was doing it, I said the words that would near enough to damn us both, and my wife and son along with us, and who knows how many others, before it’s done.

“Well,” said I, and the numbers were running through my head – I hadn’t felt them like that since college, that was how quick I started on the problem, even before I had any confirmation that it was any of my business. “that’s...mathematically feasible, I reckon!” I spat to clear my mouth, just in case the next remark he came up with was somehow even more surprising than the one he’d used to barge back into my life without so much as a howdy-do, and then I added, “Stanford? That really you?”

Click here to proceed to chapter two!

#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #fanfiction #new fic #fiddleford mcgucket #first-person narrator #character journal #first draft #set in the early eighties #involves: religion #religious trauma #mental illness #regret #memory loss #did i once read this was a micro blogging site...?

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neneru-nowhere · 1 year

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Limsa and Goobbue Hunting

It’s hard to speak of Limsa Lominsa without broaching the subject of piracy. The city state started its life as a safe-port for the various pirate crews and fleets that troubled the seas around Eorzea and even beyond to places like Thavnair and (in rare cases) Kugane.

In the modern age they are the alliance’s de facto naval presence. No force in Eorzea can come close to matching the sheer number of vessels under the admiral’s command, save perhaps East Aldenard Trading. Their primary military force is the Maelstrom Grand Company, which combines the Knights of the Barracuda and conscripted pirates and adventurers. This lends a certain wildness to their tactics that makes the Maelstrom formidable in their unpredictability.

As a Thalassocracy, Limsa Lominsa is the governmental seat for coastal communities all over the Rhotano sea and La Noscea. The cultural hallmarks of construction and aesthetic are striking in their fusion of piratical practicality and stark beauty. Most communities are shining white, built from the white limestone and sandstone that makes up the cliffs of the local islands. Many locations, including Limsa herself, are built out over the open water on hoodoos and columns rising out of the water. The sight of the city stretched over dozens of trunk-like pillars and laced over with bridges has earned Limsa Lominsa the nickname The Navigator’s Veil.

I arrived by ferry early in the morning and had a full day to explore the city, quickly becoming lost in the thick knot of bridges and sky-ways. Ships hoisted from the water created make-shift buildings, while in other cases the hoodoos were carved hollow to form luxurious cave dwellings. Even as used to the desert sun as I am, though, I found that the glare of light off the white stone eventually started to make my head hurt and I took my wanderings inside. Fortunately, several of the pillars are large enough to constitute entire neighborhoods or boroughs once hollowed out. I found myself exploring vast indoor marketplaces, guild halls, training areas, and plazas. All of these smelled wonderfully of the myriad spices on sale, fish, linseed oil, and salt. Even with the press of sweaty bodies, it was hard to find a corner of the city that was not a bouquet of pleasant aromas.

My favorite phenomenon was the wave-talk. Some trick of the hollow stone pillars and the waves that beat on them continually created hallways that rumbled and roared with the sounds of the ocean. I could stand still and close my eyes and listen—and a less credulous mage might start to swear they could hear speech. Indeed, I almost felt the ocean talking to me in a language I could nearly understand. It was like I heard words that were just beyond the tip of my tongue, some ancient syntax studied as a child and since long forgotten. It reminded me of the wind sweeping through the trees of the Shroud in that sense.

I registered my name as a visitor with the Arcanist’s guild and purchased a few books for study, but did not have time to do much more than watch a handful of students practicing arcanima. Loathe as I am to pass on seeing forms of magic I’ve not played with, I have a job to do. I’ve been asked to track and slay a Goobbue causing trouble for some vineyards east of Limsa, so in the afternoon I loaded Telemachus’ saddle bags with fresh supplies bought in the port and set off on the road. Personal entry: Sea travel must be one of Hells used to punish the sinful. I had to walk as much to steady my own stomach as to sate my curiosity. An apothecary recognized my green gills when I stepped off the boat and sold me some herbal gum to chew for what I suspect was entirely too much money. Flipping hells, if I hadn’t been about to lose my breakfast, I might not have paid.

I’ve received a call on my link pearl asking me to travel back to Ishgard with all haste. I am to join a handful of other Drakes in investigating something in the Brume. Apparently there are deaths among the refugee population. I said yes, of course. I wouldn’t be able to look mama and papa in the eyes if I refused to help a fellow refugee. I’m going to try to purchase a ticket on an airship. Admiral Bloefhiswyn has supposedly relaxed travel restrictions on air travel.

I’m stuck in my head. The whole trip across Vylbrand I’ve had hardly a thought for anything but those refugees in Ishgard. It had been nearly a year before my family was allowed to live inside Ul’Dah’s walls and that was only once I’d won sponsorship to learn at the Ossuary. There are children I grew up with whose families still live in the tent city outside the Gate of Nald. I remember crime families taking advantage of those of us desperate for work and without the skills of an artisan. Papa stayed away by stroke of luck, but Didiru wasn’t so lucky. Her death still hurts even after four years. I only wish we’d found the body. Then at least I could have given her an honorable funeral.

I met my contact in Aleport after I took care of the Goobbue. There wasn’t much in the way of gil, but the man had a few good bottles of wine to sweeten the pot. I know naught of wine but the Roe waitress serving us seemed surprised by the vintage. I think I can bribe my way on to an airship with one.

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