Sam Smith
Merle Littel
There were two Merle Littels living in Atlanta. One was rich and
famous and owned a string of car dealerships in an arc across the
higher-class northern suburbs. His name, if not his face, was familiar
to millions. The other Merle Littel was a balding, knock-kneed,
average looking man, who invariably responded to new introductions
with the same two phrases, delivered smugly: "No, I'm not that Merle
Littel," and "I'm a bank auditor." He seemed to imply that he wasn't
famous, or particularly rich, but was still a powerful man, an
important man.
In reality Merle was little more than a secretary, politely called an
administrative assistant, in the auditing department of a large bank.
Years of lateral transfers, career mishaps, and passive behavior had
left him resolved to professional stagnation. He considered the fact
that he was the only male among the dozen co-workers in his department
another fact to be hidden from inquiring strangers.
One of the worst times of the year at work for Merle was the "Secret
Santa" season. Every year they drew names, and Merle had to procure an
appropriate gift for one of his female co-workers, someone that he
hardly knew, and really didn't want to know. This year he had drawn a
particularly difficult woman to buy a present for. She seemed to have
no hobbies or interests. He decided to take a chance and present her
with one of his precious pieces of framed needlework.
Merle had a secret, one that he had never shared with his co-workers
out of fear of ridicule. His closest relative, a brother living
several states away, didn't know, and neither did his few friends, who
never visited Merle's small house. He spent his evenings sitting with
a strong lamp, colored threads spread across the arm of his sofa, a
large magnifying glass propped on his chest, deftly embroidering.
Intricate shapes, the textures defined by delicate needle strokes, the
colors sometimes subtle, sometimes bold and jarring, were created with
astonishing speed by Merle's needle. His secret passion was
needlework.
His house was full of his handiwork. He had an account at the framers,
where he received a discount for volume. Needlepoint covered every
wall, in all shapes and sizes. His spare bedroom was stacked with
plastic storage boxes containing unframed works. It should be a simple
matter to pick something small to fulfill his "Secret Santa"
obligation.
Except Merle had a difficult time parting with any of his creations.
There were plenty of Christmas-themed pieces, in fact, one wall in his
den was devoted to them. A tiny tree, decorated with balls of red and
gold in iridescent colors. Shepherds watching their flocks, with a
prominent star in the distant sky. Rudolph the red nosed reindeer. But
when Merle chose one from the wall, it left an obvious blank spot, and
each time he walked by, it ached like a missing tooth.
Instead he rummaged through the spare bedroom until he found a set of
quotations, designed by him to look like old fashioned samplers. He
chose one that seemed appropriate, a rhymed couplet that had appealed
to him at the time: "Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well
your part, there all the honour lies."
He stuck it in a cheap frame, wrapped it, and the first week of
December presented it at their "Secret Santa" lunch party. The
response was underwhelming.
"What does it mean?" she asked, holding it by the edges as if it was
somehow contaminated.
Merle hadn't expected that question. Wasn't she impressed by the
needlework? Didn't she want to know who the artisan was? He read the
couplet again.
"I guess it means we should embrace our part in life, and do the best
we can, and gain honor that way."
"Isn't it misspelled?"
"What?"
"H-o-n-o-u-r?"
"Oh, that's the British spelling, anyway doesn't it look good in that
old style script? Look at the workmanship."
"Yes, it's very nice, thank you."
Merle's present, which he accepted with a polite thank you, was a
ceramic beer stein with the face of a drunken red neck with missing
and crooked teeth painted on it.
Merle spent a couple of weeks in a funk after that. His current
needlework project, an ambitious manger scene that he had designed
himself, languished on his coffee table. He wandered the rooms of his
house, turning a critical eye on his handiwork, wondering if it was
really as good as he thought.
He was invited to a neighborhood party the week before Christmas, and
this time the theme was a white elephant gift exchange. The invitation
read: "Bring something odd to give away, like that strange present
your Uncle Fred sent you that you can't identify. Wrap it, and we'll
take turns opening them and having a big laugh."
So Merle rewrapped the beer stein, put on a red sweater with a small,
tasteful "Humbug" that he had embroidered on the left breast, and
went. Imagine his surprise when he opened his chosen white elephant,
and found inside his own embroidered "Honour" sampler.
"Who brought this?" he spluttered.
A twenty-something perky woman in pointed high heels confessed. "Ain't
it a hoot?" she slurred, spilling her eggnog. "My sister the librarian
gave it to me."
"Really? Where did she get it?"
"Beats me. Don't tell me you like it?"
Merle almost choked, then lied, "Of course not. What library does she
work at?"
It was easy to pick her out. She was a dowdy version of her sister,
wearing sensible shoes, working behind the reference desk. It was not
so easy to find the courage to speak to her. She would think he was
crazy, call security, have him ushered out of the library. Everyone
would stare! Merle broke out in a sweat as he walked up to her desk
and produced the sampler.
"Where did you get this?" he asked.
She eyed him suspiciously. "I could ask you the same thing."
"Your sister gave it to me."
"That witch! She told me she loved it."
Merle guessed the two sisters were more alike that it seemed at first
glance. "Did someone give it to you?"
"Why?"
Merle debated what to say. Should he lie? He decided to try the truth.
"I made it, and gave it to a co-worker. It was a shock to get it back,
that's all. I was trying to track down how it got back to me."
"That's weird. Sort of a re-gifting chain letter, huh? I didn't
re-gift it -- I bought it at a Salvation Army Thrift Store. You won't
tell my sister, will you?"
"Like I said, donations are accepted in the back," the clerk said. He
had an annoying habit of pushing his glasses up on his nose after
every statement.
"I'm not trying to donate it," Merle explained again. "This was
purchased here. I would like to try to find out who donated it."
"We can't give out that info. If you want a refund, I'll need the
receipt."
Merle gave up, left by the front door, walked around to the back, and
climbed up on the loading dock. Stacks of clothing were piled against
one wall, with a motley crew of men and women picking through them,
sorting them into piles. The rest of the space was filled with old
couches, chairs, tables, lamps, bicycles, shelves of books, and a
strange assortment of sports equipment. Merle managed to find a young
black man who seemed to be in charge. He produced the needlework.
"Do you remember this?"
The man eyed him suspiciously. He wore pants with the crotch at about
knee level. A huge knit cap bulged with Rastafarian dreadlocks.
"Maybe. Why?"
Merle took out his wallet. "I'm trying to find out who donated it."
"Why?"
"I made it. I mean, I embroidered it. I just want to know how it ended
up here, that's all."
"You embroidered this?" He took it from Merle and examined it. "Nice
work, but you misspelled honor."
"That's the British spelling. Can't you tell me who brought it in?"
Merle opened his wallet and took out a twenty.
The man took the twenty and snapped it between his hands and sniffed
it. "It's coming back to me."
Merle produced another twenty, and both bills quickly disappeared
beneath the knit cap.
It was an address on the north side of town, one of those fancy
subdivisions on the bluffs above the Chattahoochee River that backed
up to parkland. The houses were McMansions, obscenely ostentatious.
Merle sheepishly parked his beat-up sedan on the street, and walked up
the driveway past a fleet of cars that looked brand new and impeccably
detailed. The doorbell rang like Big Ben chiming over London. Merle
had to ring it twice, and was taken aback by the dumpy looking man who
answered the door. His eyes had the telltale look of someone who had
been drinking for hours, if not days.
"What?" he said. "Who are you?"
"I'm Merle Littel." He produced the needlework. "Do you remember this?"
The man's eyes widened. "You're Merle Littel?"
"Not that Merle Littel. I'm a bank auditor."
The man laughed. "Do you know who I am?"
Merle started to sweat. The strain of tracking down the path his
sampler had taken was the most assertive he had been in years.
"No. They told me at the thrift store that this sampler came from this
house. I'm trying to track down where it came from."
"I'm Merle Littel," the drunk said.
"No, I'm Merle Littel. I embroidered this sampler."
"I'm Merle Littel. The other Merle Littel." He laughed. "You know,
Merle Littel's Honda. Merle Littel's Cadillac. Merle Littel's Land
Rover. The famous Merle Littel. You are the not-famous Merle Littel."
Merle was stunned. Before he could think of anything else to say, the
famous Merle took the needlepoint from him. "You did this?"
"Yes, it's my hobby."
"You misspelled honour. It's h-o-n-o-r."
"I just want to know where you got it."
The famous Merle turned, said "come on," and led Merle down a maze of
corridors, up an elevator, down another long hallway, and into a home
theatre with an astonishingly large television filling one wall.
Football players, almost life sized, raced across the screen. The
effect was dizzying. The two Merles sank into leather armchairs, and
the famous Merle gave the not-famous Merle a beer from a small
refrigerator built into the coffee table.
"This is really good needlework," he said. "My mother did needlework,
all her life. Said it calmed her down. I still got some of her stuff
in the master bathroom. 'If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be
neat and wipe the seat.' Ha! Cross stitch, I think she called it."
Merle drank his beer, mesmerized by the giant screen. Then he drank
another, while the famous Merle droned on about his mother, his car
dealerships, his worthless children, and his divorced wife.
"Maybe you need a hobby like mine," Merle said.
"Think so? No, I couldn't do needlepoint -- too sissy. I'm Merle
Littel."
"No, I'm Merle Littel," and they laughed like that was the greatest
joke either of them had ever heard.
"So you're a bank auditor?"
Merle faked his most confident smile. "One of the best."
"How would you like to come to work for me? I'll make you famous. Not
as famous as me, but you'll get respect."
Merle hung his "honour" sampler proudly in his new office at Merle
Littel's Lexus. He had given up on tracing the strange path that it
had traveled to get back to him; he was only glad that he still had
it. His new job was to oversee the auditing of the books at all the
Merle Littel dealerships, but he had taken the couplet on the sampler
to heart. No longer would he be ashamed of his own nature. The
assertive path he had followed in tracking down his sampler had given
him new confidence, and awakened his long-dead ambition. His new plan
was to embrace being Merle Littel, and to be the best Merle Littel he
could. Now when he was introduced to someone new he said, proudly,
"I'm the other Merle Littel," and "My hobby is needlework."
©2007 by Sam Smith
