Secrecy was the first order of the
Brotherhood, so brothers Harold and Herbert called it Not The
Brotherhood. Hob Fadwaddle, the only other “known”
member, called it Not Only The Brotherhood. The organization’s purpose was just as
secret — or perhaps just as confused. At one time it was
vehemently anti-government/pro-conspiracy; now, after 9/11, it
championed an anti-conspiracy/pro-government stance. All things Brotherhood were clandestine
— especially the meeting place. The Brotherhood complex was
so well hidden that Herbert had to ask Harold for directions every
time they went to a meeting. No outsider was allowed in the
compound — except, of course, the covert expert Hob asked in
each month to give them covert advice. Or, given they were all masters of disguise,
maybe it wasn’t Hob doing the asking — for Harold
suspected that Hob was not really Hob at all but was, in fact,
Herbert! Not to be outdone, Herbert countersuspected
that Harold was Hob. Harold then counter-countersuspected that
Herbert’s suspicions might have merit and that he (Harold)
was Hob — maybe. For Harold did not discount the possibility
that Hob was not one of ’em, but was, rather . . . both of
them. Hob suspected from the beginning that he was not Herbert because Hob could always find the
compound without asking directions from Harold. But because he’d
long suspected Harold of being Herbert, it was quite possible that he
(Hob) was Herbert — in weak masquerade. And because he did not
recall asking in outside advice, he suspected that the direction-giving
Harold did the asking. Suspicions aside, they agreed that with their
ever-troublesome identities crisis, they needed occasional advice
— else they might not survive, and they were, after all,
“survivalists.” Although both Herbert and Harold
suspected that they did not agree, that it was only Hob who agreed,
Harold nonetheless went along with the idea so that he would be
above suspicion. Herbert likewise agreed, but only if they all
agreed that Harold was not above suspicion — because no one
was above suspicion. They all agreed — maybe! Time for “. . .” Jjgcvg’s
monthly advice. Jjgcvg had no first name, and no one could
pronounce his last name. He was, then, by nondefinition, an avatar
of stealth, and as such much in demand by all the surreptitious
groups hereabouts. Hob Fadwaddle struggled, as always:
“And now, a man who needs no introduction; I give you . . . a
. . . a . . . a man who . . . needs no . . . I give you. . .
.” “. . .” Jjgcvg was behind
schedule, so he just joined them at the table camouflaged to look like
a desk: “As always, gentlemen, first names only.” Herbert: “Hob.” Harold: “Herbert.” Hob: “Harold.” Jjgcvg started as he always started his
monthly covert talk, reminding them that no one was above suspicion
and that suspicion must be inclusive or else their secret
activities might become . . . public! Public! The very word made secret societies
cringe. As Jjgcvg often reminded them, “Public infiltration
is as deadly to secret organizations as is drinking Coca-Cola products!” Hob was first to the realization that
although he’d suspected both Harold and Herbert, he’d
not suspected himself — he’d not practiced inclusive
suspicion. To rectify the oversight, he accused himself of
infiltration, and Herbert voted unanimously (for all of ’em)
to expel Hob until the next meeting. Hob left in disgrace. Harold, not wanting to seem less diligent
than Hob in front of Jjgcvg, admitted that he was, and always had
been, Herbert. Herbert much relieved to find that he was not
himself, and no longer directionally challenged, left the compound
to test the premise — and couldn’t find his way back. With only one person left, Jjgcvg called off
the meeting for lack of a quorum. Having confessed to being Herbert, Harold was
committed to the charade, lest he draw suspicion. He dared not ask
himself directions, and so he joined his brother in not finding the
compound for a few hours. Jim Smith refilled the Pepsi machine, went to the
membership dues box, took out only the amount they owed him, and
once again rued the day he’d accepted this delivery route
full of secret organizations. Were it not for the Jjgcvg gambit,
he’d likely never get paid at all. At least he’d catch a break at the next
stop, the governor’s mansion. For the last three years he’d just told
the Executive Mansion staff that he was the governor, and
they’d paid him immediately.
This article appears in Oct 27 – Nov 2, 2005.
