Bobby Jones knew what others thought about him. He was fat, they said. He was lazy. He was a bigot, racist, and general slob. He was bad luck. The Demon Murphy was his best friend.
For the most part, they were right. He was loud, crude, and lazy. But on the charges of bigotry and racism, he drew the line. He was neither of those. Nobody would believe him, but only Bobby could know his own heart.
Which seemed to be the story of his life. Bobby and his inability to change. In Bobby's defense, it wasn't a fair assessment of Bobby's ability. He wasn't stupid. He was simply slow in processing the world around him. When the world moved too fast around him, Bobby tended to turn to things that were familiar. Things that were solid and immovable. When things changed, Bobby got stubborn.
To make it even worse, Bobby had enough pride to make the Devil blush. It was his pride, more than anything else, that refused to let him get help from others. That pride could put up with charges of racism or bigotry. But charges of weakness or error were too much for Bobby to bear.
Before the Ring of Fire, Bobby had been happy. Grantville had been a sleepy little town, nothing changed and Bobby knew what to expect each day. He earned a living by fixing cars and the odd handyman job for people too broke or too uncaring of quality to hire somebody else more competent. Bobby understood machines; they behaved predictably. People didn't.
And then the Ring of Fire hit, and Bobby was thrown into his own personal version of Hell. His world, quite literally, had been turned around, and the small, sleepy town grew into a bustling, vibrant town virtually overnight. The change had been too sudden, and Bobby panicked.
He wasn't proud of how he reacted. But, his damned pride wouldn't let him back down. When Santee and Eddie Cantrell came seeking donations of guns and ammunition, Bobby's instinctive response had been to hold on tightly to any normalcy he could. He refused to donate any guns. Only after Eddie had said he and Santee talked to some of Bobby's hunting buddies did a stronger pride slam his panic away. He couldn't show his face knowing that others knew he held on to his guns when the town needed them. The others would surely donate and expect Bobby to have done the same. Word would spread if he didn't.
He hadn't been graceful about it. He picked out eight of his oldest rifles and their assorted ammunition. Opening the door, he fairly flung them at Santee and slammed the door. He didn't mention the ones he hadn't given away. After all, they had requested those Bobby could spare.
But, while Bobby was slow, he was still a basically decent person. The encounter with Eddie and Santee still bothered him to this day. He had kept four rifles for his own. Who would know that he had withheld them? Probably nobody. Having given up eight older ones would have convinced everybody else that Bobby had contributed his share.
But, he had asked himself, did he really need all four rifles? At this point, even slow Bobby had to admit that keeping guns he didn't need and couldn't use was petty. Eventually, he had to admit that having the guns in the hands of the growing army was the best way to protect any normalcy he still had.
He sure as hell wasn't going to call Santee to come and get the three rifles he had decided to part with. His pride simply wouldn't let him look both Santee and Eddie in the eyes as he handed them over. They wouldn't gloat, and they would be very pleasant about it. But, in their eyes he knew that he would see the confirmation of their already low opinion of one Bobby Jones.
So, it was well after midnight that Bobby snuck to Mrs. Tibbets' house and quietly laid the rifles on the front porch. Her house was the temporary armory where all the donated firearms were being stored. Beside them, he left the ammunition that went with them. And then he never said a word about it to anybody.
But, that hadn't been the biggest act of idiocy in a long line of idiotic choices that Bobby had made. He had gravitated to the assholes at the Club 250. They seemed to share the same desire to stop the maddening changes. He had made a devil's bargain, associating with racists because they were the only ones that seemed to think the way Bobby did, even with all of the racist bullshit they spewed.
He had even become a Simpson partisan, though he couldn't stomach the rich man's attitude towards Grantvillers. But, what choice did he have? The direction that Mike Stearns had proposed was too much change, far too quickly. Change that made Bobby very, very uncomfortable.
He still wasn't convinced that Simpson wouldn't have been a better pick at that first election. But, even Bobby had to admit, Grantville had prospered. Just not the way it used to be.
He withdrew as much from politics as he could. His experience with car repair and general handyman work had let him get hired with the Mechanical Support Division. It was good work. Reliable work. Bobby was finally able to return to a simple job.
He had tried to change. Tried to make himself a part of the team. The other guys had sent him to run the errands between the shops around Grantville. It wasn't ideal. He would have liked to have had a project where he could work alone, at his own pace. Or, at least show the guys he could do the job.
But, somehow, even this had gone terribly wrong. One evening in January, Bobby had returned to a dark shop. He could just make out the shapes of Billy Nelson, Foster Caldwell, and Merton Smith huddled around something in the darkening shop. It was a good chance to be helpful to the guys. He made an off-hand remark and flipped the light switch to give them light to work by. But, Bobby still had his thick winter gloves on. Those gloves made Bobby's finger too thick and that finger accidentally flipped one switch too many.
Bobby didn't remember too much after that. It was as if his brain couldn't keep up with the events that followed and simply shut down any attempt at recording them. He remembered small bits. He remembered the lights flickering on as sprays of blood were flung into the air. He remembered screaming. He didn't know if it was his own, one of the other three, or all at once. The next solid series of memories was of Bobby standing in the middle of the road trying to flag down help.
It had been an accident. Nobody thought any different. Nobody accused Bobby of anything. In many ways, that hurt worse than the mistake itself. Nobody expected any different from Bobby. When something went wrong and Bobby was around, it was assumed that Bobby's penchant for accidents was a natural causation. They had come to expect it, and to be honest, Bobby was starting to believe it himself.
Afterwards, Bobby noticed that others tended to be more cautious around him. Always aware of what he was doing and where he was. There was no acrimony, after all, why be angry with a tornado for being a tornado. It was only an abundance of prudence that everybody kept their distance and Bobby found himself shuttled, more and more, to inconsequential duties.
Life had become lonely for Bobby. The only crowd that accepted him, or seemed to, was the assholes at the Club 250, and even then, only on the outskirts. He was still the lowest on the chain, a member by sufferance.
Which is why Bobby found his current situation so very awkward. Had Bobby known what the word 'ironic' meant, he would have agreed that this was an ironic moment. He wanted to be accepted by a bunch of losers, yet he was also standing over the prone body of a man, wielding a broken pool cue. He waved it back and forth slowly, ready to swing at the first person to come in reach. And, most ironic of all, the man on the ground was a German.
The German had been something of a surprise, coming through the door as he did. The entire town, hell, the entire area around Grantville knew that Club 250 was off-limits to down-timers and dogs. They viewed them as the same.
The crowd had settled into an awkward silence as it a switch had been thrown. Two men at the pool table stood, fingers tightening around the cues in their hands.
The newcomer seemed to sense that something was amiss, though not the specifics.
"Guten Abend." He greeted the crowd with some attempt at a smile. Bobby had groaned, knowing the man had just signed his death certificate.
One of the men with a pool cue ambled up to the German.
"I think you made a wrong turn, Kraut." He grated and gestured to the Gardens across the street. "The fag bar is across the street."
The German's face turned pasty as he finally grasped the kind of trouble that he was in.
"My apologies," He said slowly, backing towards the door. "I wasn't aware."
The other man with a pool cue grinned, it was a truly disgusting grin. "What's the hurry, Kraut? We haven't given you a proper welcome." He nodded to the other man.
Almost too quick to notice, the man nodded and brought his cue across the shoulders of the German, snapping the cue in two pieces. The larger piece landed at Bobby's feet. Bobby remembered looking at it for a second or two as the other patrons either began beating on the downed German or shouting encouragement to those who were.
Like many bad decisions Bobby had made in his life, he picked up the stub of pool cue and pushed his way to protect the German.
"Well, ain't you just a Kraut lover," Ken Beasley said.
"I ain't," Bobby replied. "I just don't wanna see a man lynched."
"Aw hell, Bobby." Another man chuckled. "We ain't gonna lynch him. We just want to have a little fun with him."
"I don't think he would think it was fun."
"Then he should have known this isn't stupid Kraut country," Ken said. "We just teach him where his kind belongs."
"That's the same thing as lynching." Bobby said. "The only good Kraut is a dead Kraut, right?"
"Naw, too much fuss." Ken said. "'Specially with Dan Frost poking his nose where it doesn't belong."
An angry murmur of agreement sounded through the crowd. A couple of men started forward, and Bobby swung the cue at them. They backed off, laughing.
"You can't fight us all, Jones." One taunted.
"Just let me get him outta here."
"You leave with him," Beasley said, "you can stay out. We don't want no Kraut lovers here."
Shifting the cue to his other hand, Bobby reached behind him, fumbling for a hold on the prone figure. His hand caught a fistful of shirt and Bobby dragged the man out of the doors. Catcalls and insults were mercifully cut off as the doors slammed shut.
Bobby relaxed some. He breathed heavily as the adrenaline began filtering out of his system. It was replaced by the knowledge that he had just burned a last bridge. Angrily he threw the stub of pool cue at the dilapidated building. Club 250 had just become another place that Bobby Jones was not welcome.
He looked down and considered the reason that he was no longer welcome. The man was about Bobby's age, maybe a little younger. The down-timers were always looking older than they really were. The man was rail-thin, and his hair was white with a sharp widow's peak.
Now that Bobby had been able to think about it, the man was unusually tidy for your common Kraut. Other than the ripped clothing and bloody lip, the man seemed to portray a sense of sophistication above the normal raggedness so common.
In a rare flash of insight, Bobby realized that it was this sense of sophistication that had probably set off Ken's crew. They could stomach a German that knew his place. However, an uppity Kraut was an insult that none of them could ignore.
"So, what am I going to do with you?" Bobby mused. He should just leave the man where he was and try to salvage something of his Club 250 relationships. But, he couldn't. It was freezing and the man was in no condition to take care of himself. He would freeze to death long before he regained his senses. Besides, Bobby wasn't too sure that he wanted to salvage any relationship from Club 250.
Grunting, he picked up the semi-conscious man, threw one of the arms around his shoulders and headed home. Damn, it was cold.
****
At home, Bobby used the toe of his foot to kick a pile of trash off of the couch. There were some dirty clothes, but he left those. They would serve as some padding on the uncomfortable couch. He sat the man down and laid his head on the pile. Finally, he picked up the feet and swung them around.
He paused for a few moments, looking at the still form. Why had he stepped in when the wolves at Club 250 turned wild? Bobby had known that he was throwing away everything. But he couldn't watch another person, any person, being beaten while unable to defend themselves. Had the skinny German fought back, would Bobby have jumped in? Would Bobby have joined in on the beating? Just to fit in with the only crowd that still tolerated him? Bobby didn't like the answers to those questions.
He yawned and scratched his belly. His head hurt from trying to think too quickly and keep up with events moving even quicker. Perhaps tomorrow would have more answers that Bobby didn't have now.
****
The next morning, Bobby didn't know what woke him up. Perhaps it was something inside that shoved him out of dream land. Perhaps a dim memory of last night and the remembrance of another man in his house.
Had the man robbed him? The thought was laughable. The only thing worth any value was the rifle that Bobby kept by his bed. No doubt the Kraut would have found something that he thought was valuable. But, in reality, it was all junk.
He dragged himself out of bed. It had gotten cold overnight. Bobby rubbed his hands together. It usually didn't get this cold in here, even in this drafty box.
He opened the bedroom door and found the front door wide open. Dammit, he thought. At least the Kraut could have closed the door behind him when he left. He pulled the door closed and turned around to the kitchen. There might still be some beer, or something, left to drink.
Then, he noticed the clutter of his living room. Or, more specifically, the lack of clutter in his living room. The house wasn't pristine, no amount of cleaning was going to get this sty sparkling, but what had been done was impressive. The trash was in a neat pile to be picked up. The dirty clothes were in a heap by the back door. The dishes were clean and drying beside the sink.
"What the hell?" Bobby muttered to himself.
Behind him, the front door opened and then the German walked in, rubbing his arms from the cold.
"Mein apologies, Herr Jones," the man said. "I thought that I had closed the door solidly behind me." His voice had the thick German accent that had become common in Grantville.
"No problem," Bobby muttered, having nothing else to say. "Who are you? And how do you know my name?"
"My Name is Bartholomaus Ziegler." Ziegler gave a small bow. "For name, I guessed it from the letters lying around. Most seemed to be addressed to Herr Bobby Jones. Am I correct?"
"Just Bobby."
"Very well, Bobby." Ziegler moved around Bobby to get another pile of trash to put in the empty trash can in his hands.
"I would have made something for breaking of the fast, but I didn't see a fireplace to cook in."
"I don't think there is anything here to cook anyways." Bobby said.
Ziegler nodded and returned to his chores. Bobby watched for a few moments and then moved to the fridge and grabbed a beer. It was the only thing in there, the rest had been cleaned out. The last time Bobby had been in there, some of the stuff looked to be moving.
Popping open the beer, Bobby walked to his favorite chair and sat. He took a long drink and sighed.
"So, what's your story, Kraut?" Bobby asked and then cringed. He hadn't meant to use the derogatory nickname. It had slipped out without him thinking. Ziegler looked up and paused. He then moved to the couch and sat.
"I take it that isn't a complimentary statement?" Ziegler raised an eyebrow.
Bobby didn't respond and the German nodded.
"I thought as much. The men from last night seemed fond of that word."
Ziegler looked at Bobby for a long minute.
"Why did you stop them if you hate me?"
Bobby shrugged.
"I don't like nobody getting killed."
"Even a 'Kraut'?" Ziegler pressed.
Bobby only nodded and Ziegler sat back.
"People like those at the club are not uncommon," he said. "Men like them started this war, as they start every war. Men afraid of others not like them. Afraid that their comfortable world will be upset by new ideas and new concepts."
It felt like a body blow to Bobby. Was he like that? Did he fear change? In many ways, he had to agree. He was afraid of change. He felt comfort in predictability.
But, to the purpose of hurting somebody? To keep his world at the expense of somebody else's life? No, never that. He wasn't a coward, and he had his temper. He had even lost that temper a few times when pushed too hard. But, he was never a bully.
Perhaps, that is what made him different from the Club 250 crowd. Bobby didn't need to prove anything to anyone. Ok, that wasn't quite true—he needed to prove himself to his friends. People that, just like Bobby, wanted to be left alone. To let each person live their lives. It was one of the ideals that he had so loved about the up-time United States of America.
A kind of peace began to wash over Bobby. He was slow, would always be slow. What he had now was perspective. He now had a way to conceive and frame his thoughts and feelings. And, with that revelation came its own strength.
Bobby Jones wasn't a racist. The lives of people like Ziegler mattered just as his own did. Fear and pride. Those were the problems. His personal hurdles to overcome. The pride wasn't going to change. It was too much a part of how Bobby viewed himself, his foundation.
But, the fear? That was something else. It was no longer this unnamed thing. It was a real, solid enemy that Bobby could fight.
"Pretty smart for a down-timer," Bobby said.
"You mean for a Kraut?" Ziegler asked.
"No, a down-timer. How'd you get so smart?"
"I worked as a valet for my lord . . ." Ziegler waved his hand. "His name doesn't matter; you wouldn't have heard of him. He was a very minor member of the nobility. He loved to travel."
"My lady, his wife, is trying at the best of times, and my lord spent as much time as possible on the road. He took me along, and I met people and read quite a bit during the trips when he didn't require my services. I learned English, though not your strange tongue, in England and Calais. With that type of travel, you learn quite a few things."
****
In the years that followed, Ziegler wouldn't have been able to identify why he had made the decision he made. Perhaps he saw something in Bobby that others had overlooked in their years of knowing him. The spark had been there, of that Ziegler was quite sure. However, it had flared as Bobby came to realization. There was a certain stubborn integrity in Bobby Jones. It wasn't the kind that kept him honest. Indeed, Bobby could, and would, lie with the best of them. This was especially true when something came up against his pride or challenged his world view. That was ok; Ziegler learned to live with those foibles. After all, his own former employers were the same way. They were both good men, once you stripped away the callousness that life had given them.
Perhaps that is what drew Ziegler to Bobby. Bobby was so much like Ziegler's now-dead lord. They were both proud, self-righteous men who were slow to think and slower to admit error. Ziegler had had some success molding his young lord. Unfortunately, that same lord had died to a highwayman's arrow entirely too young.
"I will offer this, Bobby," Ziegler finally said. "I offer that you permit me to stay here, in the extra bedroom. In exchange, I'll keep this house clean and meals available. I'll find a job that I can perform and pay rent as well, though at a discounted rate due to keeping the house."
Bobby bridled. "I don't need no slave."
Ziegler laughed. "Hardly a slave or a servant. I won't lay out your clothes for you or help you dress. My days of that are done. No, I'll keep this place running. It's what I'm used to."
"Let me think on that a bit." Bobby said. "What do I call you? Bart?"
Ziegler shuddered visibly. "Good Lord, no! I'd rather be called Kraut!" A pause. "In fact, let's go with Kraut."
"Seriously?" Bobby was surprised.
"Yes. My mother always told me that the best way to rob an insult of its power is to adopt that insult as your own." Ziegler grinned. "Besides, I do like sauerkraut."
****