Smoking Baboon Snippet: Character study, Percy Tuttle

The Adventures of Percy Tuttle...

      Tracking Percy Tuttle down was just as easy as Louie Tuccio had said it would be. He left a trail behind him like a herd of elephants trampling through Macy's china department. He had no reason to cover his tracks; nobody was looking for him. He was a flamboyant customer with plenty of money to spread around; and spread it he did.

      I found plenty of background on this bird in the archives of the London Daily Mirror, eye witness accounts and anecdotal gossip; quite an entertaining character, all in all.

      The Tuttle fortune had been amassed by Percy's antecedents starting back in the mid nineteenth century when ...Great Britain was busy pillaging and conquering most of what remained of the Known and Unknown World. Great Granddad Tuttle was a man of vision and ambition. With the help of the British Rahj, he managed to 'liberate' the bulk of the hemp and jute trade from indigenous merchants, thereby securing for himself a vast fortune in supplying Her Royal Majesty's Navy the necessary materials for rope making and gunny sacking in which the Empire's considerable plunder could  be contained and shipped back to Dear Old Blighty.

      The Family Tuttle carried on as canny businessmen forestalling future losses selling off the Fiber Empire before the collapse of colonial rule. The chain, however, was broken when Percy showed up.

      His father summed up rough on his heir apparent: "Bloody young fool. If brains were silk thread, he couldn't supply sufficient material to make a pair of knickers for a parakeet!" On the Old Man's passing, a generous trust fund and allowance were bequeathed Percy with the proviso, on pain of forfeiture of said inheritance, that Percy was never to venture closer than five statute miles to the corporate offices of J.J. Tuttle & Associates, London, SW1.

      Aside from managing his successful business empire, Tuttle Senior was a scholar, explorer, archaeologist and rugged outdoorsman; the total antithesis of Percy. In his latter years in Africa, J.J. Tuttle encountered a remarkable young shaman-in-training in the remote jungles of Quaasiland, Central Africa.

      Tukufu 'Reginald' Zambezi rescued J.J. from becoming the main course during an M'bogo family reunion. The young shaman was a most striking figure, not to be forgotten; a strapping six-foot five, blue-black frame surmounted by a well chiseled shaven head. His face bore ritual scarification marking him as 'shaman'; his eyes burned brightly in his shining, intelligent face. There had arisen a most unfortunate misunderstanding regarding Tuttle's eligibility to follow 'starters' when he was overheard to loudly exclaim, "JESUS, CHRIST!" when one of the members of his entourage poured five gallons of boiling water into the collapsible bath tub in which J.J. was soaking.

      In the considerable gastronomic expertise of the cannibalistic M'bogo, such ecclesiastic outbursts were a sure sign that the person making said noises was a member of the clergy and, therefore, edible. Young Tukufu interceded on Tuttle's (and the tribe's) behalf, pointing out that there had been a grave error made in their dietary choice; that they were, in fact, 'killing the goose that laid the Golden Egg', etc. The tribal elders quickly picked up on the situation and transmogrified J.J. Tuttle from entrée to Honorary Member of the M'bogo Diner's Club Society, with full membership privileges. With no hard feelings, the celebrations were resumed.  Stuffed cabbage was substituted for J.J. as entree du jour.

      Tuttle fully appreciated the young man's foresight and intelligence. As a reward for getting him off the menu, Tukufu was adopted on the spot as Tuttle's protégé. Neither party ever regretted the relationship in the passage of time. Tuttle groomed the up and coming prodigy as if he was his own son; Tukufu reciprocated by exceeding his benefactor's expectations. The young man was sent to England to receive a good formal education; law, economics, history, literature and business science were a mere walk in the park to his agile mind. The title 'Doctor' was added to his name on meritorious completion of his studies at Cambridge. He became Tuttle's personal secretary, eventually managing most of the Old Man's affairs. Succession to heading up J.J. Tuttle and Associates, London, SW1, seemed to be in the bag for the young man. There was, however, a cloud on the horizon, no bigger than a man's hand…Percy.

      The good Doctor T. Reginald Zambezi and J.J. Tuttle collided on one topic in particular; Tuttle's son, Percy. The good Doctor had watched Percy grow to manhood from an awkward, motherless toddler and loved him as a doting uncle. J.J., on the other hand, could not bear the sight of young Percy and avoided him at all costs. He considered Percy to be soft, weak-minded gumboil of the first water totally lacking in business skills – or any other redeeming qualities, for that matter. The final straw was dropped just after Percy's eighteenth birthday.

      The break between J.J. Tuttle and the Doctor came about over one of Percy's faux pas.  For the sixth time in three months, Percy had managed to set his bedclothes on fire when he fell asleep while smoking in bed. This time the conflagration had extended past the confines of Percy's bedroom, migrating to his father's study. The Fire Brigade was summoned, but the study and its contents were a total loss.

 

      "Blast and Damnation! Zambezi, fetch me twelve-bore! This is the frozen limit! Make sure it's charged up with double-ought buckshot…Hell's Bells!" This went on for a considerable length of time. In attempting to pour a little oil on troubled waters, the doctor only managed to feed the flames.

       "I say J.J.; steady on…This could have happened to anyone."

      "Not six bleeding times, it couldn't…Are you going to fetch my gun or not?"

      "Not. Take hold of yourself, J.J.; after all, he is your son. You can't just go round shooting chaps over trifles, can you now?"

      "Trifle…Can't…MY SON…? Bugger 'im! Never mind the twelve-bore…I want to throttle 'im with me own hands!" Apoplectic rage consumed the Old Man…there was no reasoning with him any more. "Takin' that blister's part then, are you? Well, you're welcome to him…From this day forth; I'm putting YOU in charge of 'im…YOUR full time job!" J.J. fell back into his thick Scottish burr, "Yer nae more me councilor, Councilor; I'll nae more ta du wi' yon Great Twit, nether…and nae wi' yew na'more, come this dae for'd. GAT OOT ME HOOS, THE PAIR O'YE!"

      Time and the shrewd council of Tuttle's solicitors cooled the Old Man down. J.J. and the Doctor eventually reconciled…but things were never quite the same as before. Zambezi became go-between for father and son.

      Over the next decade Zambezi shaped his charge and guided his pursuits. An appreciation for the finer things of life was cultivated in his young gentleman. Percy's interests ran to the serious collecting of the arts and hand crafts of exotic cultures round the world -- and travel; he could never get enough of either one.

      He had, with the ensuing years, acquired a degree of polish and sophistication that brought some measure of pride and satisfaction to the good Doctor. Although, in all honesty, Percy was still a hopeless, gullible twit and could not be trusted too far off the lead. For all that, he had a heart of gold and disposition to match.

            His great Achilles Heel: the female of the species. He had absolutely no immunity built up in his system against the ravages of insidious feminine charms. A pretty face would fell Percy like whooping cough. This was the one perplexing conundrum the good doctor could not get past with Percy. Time and again the boy narrowly escaped a near-fatal trip down the matrimonial aisle – only through the last minute machinations of the marvelous brain of Zambezi, was he able to roam the world a free man.

      As it turned out, I found Mr. Tuttle in New York City – pursuing his interests. The society column of the New York Times followed his movements with great interest. Despite his anemic mental capacity, Percy was considered a prize catch for any aspiring ingénue with a taste for the finer things in life, money in particular. Though his ears stuck out at right angles from his head, Percy was considered attractive. His hair, mousey brown; eyes, watery blue; he wore a vacant, pleasant visage as if he was about to smile or laugh. He was reasonably fit playing golf and tennis whenever possible, his lanky frame a bit clumsy. An amiable companion for mixed company in general.