Second Breakfast at Tiffany's 1

[elwinglyre]

( With special nod to Truman Capote for the first lines)

I am always drawn back to the places where I have lived, Number 3 Bagshot Row, Bilbo's home at Bag End and Highburrow Hall. It was in this old stone apartment in the Westfarthing that I experienced my first taste of city life. In Michel Delving, mere yards from the Town Hole, I lived during the innocent years before the war of the ring. During my stay at Highburrow, I never became accustomed to living above ground or the fast life of the city. The apartment's accoutrements were for one, Samwise Gamgee, son of Hamfast, a pretense. Furnished in fineries never found in Number 3, or in Bag End for that matter, the apartment was too lavish-- decorated by a well to do hobbit lass who had more than a passing interest in me. The walls were plastered and papered in a frivolous pattern of ferns and fancy foliage that my gardener roots found ostentatious. Plants weren't to be on walls but in the ground! The furniture hard and imposing, upholstered in mossy mixtures of velvet and satin which I thought far too frilly for a backside. I prefer simple comfort. 

My niche of a study afforded me that simple comfort. Book case and plain oak desk with a sturdy chair. Unnatural and out of place to those that come to visit, but for me the most natural space that apartment. By hiding in the parchment, I could forget the lace curtains and fine spun rugs. The walls would disappear, and instead the Gaffer would be weeding the garden, with me beside. I could day dream of elves, white towers and golden halls instead of polished fine-wood floors and ornate sconces.

I spent my days there at my desk. Writing, or should I say, trying to write. It seemed whatever inspiration I once had left the moment I stepped past the threshold of this place I called my new home three flights in the sky. What ever euphoric feeling that once graced me when I began my urban adventure, left my breast empty and forlorn as I spent hours with a pen in hand and no words pouring forth from the flowing tip other than the transcription for which I was paid. 

Not that I was sad, or even had cause to feel bitter. When Mr. Bilbo fled for parts unknown he thought he was doing right. Just that his leaving myself and my brothers and sisters alone at Bag End to listen to the likes of oceans of Bilbo's relatives, clamoring for hidden treasure, demanding the property as their own and stuffing odds and ends of Bilbo's down their shirts and in their pockets when they come to realize it weren't theirs-- now that grew to be a chore. In actuality, Bag End was mine, if I so wanted it. Left to his gardener's son and family, all in ink, witnessed by the Mayor and legal. A nasty shock to the whole Sackville-Baggineses, who thought Bag End would finally be theirs. 

Bilbo gave us all but his two most treasured items: his Ring and his Red Book. Neither mattered. To me, Bag End was hollow after Bilbo left. I'd rather have had him raising ire with Lobelia than any treasure. My former employer, my other father, my teacher and friend. Gone. He took care of us after my Gaffer passed. Took the whole Gamgee family in without so much as a blink of the eye. Treated us like his own blood and left us the lot when he disappeared to go live with the elves.

I thought of following him. I did. But I am Samwise Gamgee, not some starry eyed elf with dreams of noble conquests or a dwarve with schemes of captured treasures. Illusions such as those weren't for the likes of me. The Gaffer learned me the seasons of the land, while Bilbo learned me the secrets of the page. What a mystery there were to each, and knowing each I was torn in two. I took care of my own as best I could at Bag End, but at time came when Marigold said, 'twas time I took care of myself. 

Therefore, when the opportunity was offered to serve as a transcriber in Michel Delving and reside at the stone apartment referred to as Highburrow Hall, I wrapped twine around my most cherished books (kindly mathoms from dear Bilbo), pocked my ink and quills and bundled my modest clothing. I left. Not without a goodbye, mind you, as Bilbo did, but I left.  I left the rest to mine own at Bag End and Number 3, and I began my new journey. 

Even at that time, I fancied that someday I would see Bilbo again. As I smudged the ink with my stubby fingers, I wondered what ever possessed me to conceive I could transcribe as Bilbo could, let alone make a living at it. He'd taught me my letters well enough. But, I'd rather write stories or translate elvish than enter accounts neat in a row or record hobbit family history. However, the library in Michel Delving hired a scribe in me. Now my days were for rote and dream spun writing was on my own time.

I hoped, but I never would have imagined I'd see Bilbo again years later and under the circumstances I did. All this with the company of a dear friend, in truth, more than friend, who I came to know well during those days I lived in that lonely stone apartment. Frodo Baggins was his name. A name I shall not let Hobbiton or Middle Earth forget. A name I shall never forget with my very last breath.  

In our days at Highburrow Hall, neither of us would have believed that we would scribble our thoughts with those of dear Bilbo's into his Red Book. 

Frodo Baggins had been a resident of  the stone apartment before I came to live there. I'd only known Frodo Baggins by name, never meeting him. I knew of him. From my days in the Shire, how could I not? Tales of his colorful shenanigans were fodder for long lazy afternoon at The Green Dragon near By Water-- stealing from Farmer Maggot, acting a young ruffian and being an unwelcome bad influence on his young cousins. His woeful beginnings and orphan status was an open sore to Bilbo, who wanted to bring this Frodo Baggins to Bag End, but Esmeralda Brandybuck would never hear of this. To her, Bilbo was a crazy old hobbit bachelor and no proper surrogate parent for the likes of an impressionable young hobbit such as one Frodo Baggins. Therefore, poor Bilbo saw his dear cousin (lovingly referred to as his nephew) only on his visits to Buckland, which were  infrequent to Bilbo's regret. 

But Bilbo's stories touched the young hobbit's heart (as they did mine), and young Frodo dreamed of adventure. He ran away, and ran away again until at last, the Brandybucks no longer chased after him. Frodo was old enough to know his mind, but Bilbo was blamed for filling his head with tales of elves and tall ships and the Lonely Mountain and the like. 

That is how he came to be in the apartment below mine-- at least part of the story of how he came to be there. For the time, I conveniently leave out those details which are tender spots and are best left not exposed outright but revealed slowly with much forethought and consideration for those others entangled.

Upon first coming to my first (and only) apartment, I'd catch sight of this Frodo Baggins and of course I was curious. Never was he one to be overlooked in those days. I'd heard the tales, and I knew from Bilbo his true story, not just the gossip, but I'd never met him or had been introduced. I knew he had no idea who I was. Never did I see him go out but saw him return in early daylight. He kept impossible hours, coming in when I, and most respectable hobbits, rise in the morning. He was always dressed to my eyes extravagantly. Not that he looked unattractive in his finery-- only that plush velvet and expensive satin brocade weskits and the like weren't to my thrifty taste. Times he came home alone, others with a companion, lad or lass, and most times leaving them wanting outside on the steps. 

Then there were the persistent ones. It was one of these such occasions that I finally came to meet Frodo Baggins face to face. 

I was taking a quiet bath when the window rattled behind me and burst open, cold air billowing and blowing the curtains, stamping out the toasty humid warmth of my bath. I jumped, splashing hot water across the floor. Goose bumps popped out on my skin like morning dew on rose petals. That was how I met him-- me in my all together, and Frodo in his plush embroidered weskit, hair tussled and scarf askew. 

He came in through the bathroom window.

"So sorry," were the first words I heard from him. Looking at the dandy sitting on my bathroom window frame, I concluded this intruder was not in the least sorry. 

Down below the window I heard yelling from his abandoned suitor. Pummeling the front door, and calling up "Frodo?! Be a dear Frodo and let me in!" to which Frodo pretended not to hear and instead turned his interest  within the room he'd just broken into. Mine.

"Misplaced my key-- left it somewhere," the intruder stammered bagging his head on the window frame. "Fiddlesticks! There goes my hat," he said, watching it fall. "I seem to be locked out of my apartment-- again." I knew this lad was no threat, at least to no one but himself. He slid off the sill, feet slipping on to the wet floor before asking me, "Who are you?" 

Obviously the dandy I saw before me was inebriated. I thought to myself "Who am I? Who are you?" With naught to cover myself but a small washing cloth, I struggled to grab a towel off the floor next to the tub asking him, "Why are you climbing through my window?"

"Sorry, wrong window," Frodo stood up, still patting his pockets. "Dear, look at my coat and trousers. All wet. Do you think this material will shrink?" 

I had to choke back a laugh. He'd not batted an eye that I was naked, or that he was in my apartment. 

"Dear me," he said, slipping again on the floor. "And you aren't ol' Proudfoot either?!"

"Should I be?" I asked.

"Well, this is his apartment," he responded, inspecting his trousers closer.

"Well, this apartment has been mine for going on nine weeks."

"It has? Pardon me. Sorry for the intrusion." He walked to the door, and having a second thought turned. "My name is Frodo, Frodo Baggins. And you are?"

"Samwise," I said. "Samwise Gamgee. And excuse me for not meeting your acquaintance properly, but I seem to be attired in only this thin towel."

"No need to shake my hand," Frodo said, smiling impishly. "I quite understand." 

He strolled around the bathing room, inspecting the room as carefully as he'd just inspected his trousers, picking up my soaps and feeling the linens. 

"Redecorated, I see. Very nice."

"Thank you," I said, clearing my throat. "If you don't mind?"

"Why should I mind? Go ahead and get dressed. I'll let myself out. Used to with ol' Proudfoot. The old goat. Always pawing at me. Still, I'll miss him. He helped me to move merchandise I'd acquired."

From what little I'd seen of Frodo Baggins and heard, I could guess what merchandise he'd acquired and the type of company he kept as of late. My heart was glad Mr. Bilbo wasn't around to see. 

"Now this has to be the work of a hobbit lass," Frodo said, admiring the oils and powers by my wash basin. "And one with a very educated nose," he added, whiffing the top of the bottle. "Hyacinths."

"Why, may I ask, are you still here?" 

Instead of saying, 'why excuse me' and stepping from the room, or 'so very sorry' and ducking back out the window, he sat down in the only chair in the bath, crossing his legs. It was at that very moment the banging at the front door ceased. 

"Only three possible reasons why Alfonso Brockhouse would cease rattling our door. Either he's given up and staggered home-- and this has never happened," he said, wagging his finger at me. "Or he's passed out drunk on the steps," to which, he stood up and poked his head out the window. "No. That leaves the last. Our impertinent landlord, Master Wellwishes, has let the most undesirable Brockhouse in the apartments. Listen. Shortly we will both hear his fists beating down my door below..."

And with that a caterwauling and banging ascended through the floorboards-- the like of which had never graced the walls of Highburrow Hall before or since. 

"Frodo!? Frodo?! Let me in. You promised one kiss. Frodo!? Frodo?!" 

I walked to the door and raised my hand to knob. If he wouldn't leave, I certainly would. I soon found this wasn't easy. He followed me to my bedroom, babbling on about wet trousers and idle landlords. Rather, I felt odd as if I was not in my own room. Instead, this Frodo Baggins, who I knew little about, sat on the edge of my feather bed like it was his own and proceeded to tell me which nightshirt he most preferred.  All the while, the noise downstairs escalated.

Suddenly on the top floor, Master Wellwishes bellowed out his door: "Frodo! Frodo Baggins! Take care of your guest or you'll be finding another room to rest that worthless head. And understand this: I'll make sure not one respectable place will take you into their establishment!" 

With that Frodo decided he had no choice but to meet his unhappy suitor outside his door.

In my nightshirt, I followed him to my front room door. What possessed me to do this, I do not know. Curiosity was the excuse to which I  later attributed this unlikely decision.

"Not one idle moment, not one, Master Samwise," Frodo sighed, opening my door. "Only when I shut my eyes, shut my eyes and dream, do I find peace. How is it with you Samwise? Ever have a moment when the air is still, and the dew has dried and your eyes become clear? Ever had a true moment of solitary bliss?"

"Until recently, not many. And presently, not unless you leave."

In that moment, I most remember his eyes. Dancing eyes, blue, bright and flickering with trouble. I saw the flicker go out like a puff of a candle. He was honestly hurt by my words. Considering he was the one in my home, it weren't for me to feel sorry for them words. Still, I did. And the moment he saw I was sorry, he laughed. Not just a small weak laugh, one the shook the walls and made Alfonso Brockhouse look up the stairs at the ruckus.

 He saw Frodo. And he saw me in my nightshirt, and then he saw red. 

"Frodo Baggins! Who's that you're taking on with?" He barreled up the stairs, half falling and half leaping. He was much thicker and sturdier than Frodo. No way he could, even on a good day, stand up against Brockhouse. Not that it should be any of my worry.

Then I thought on Master Bilbo, and how he regretted leaving Frodo to fend on his own. The Gaffer always said I was thick and didn't have no hobbit-sense. Least wise, from what I did next, my Gaffer was right.

Brockhouse shoved Frodo into the railing, calling him all manner of foul words. Then between them I stepped, and ill planned it was.  Brockhouse hit me, sending me flying back, through the door of my own apartment. With one swift, clever kick, Frodo slammed it shut.

There was yelling. Then there were whispers. I opened my door a crack and could barely believe the sight: Mr. Frodo was arm in arm with Brockhouse, leading him down the stairs, whispering in his ear. I cursed myself. That Frodo was nothing but a...

Then they walked past his room below mine and down the last steps, stopping at the front door.  Frodo said something I didn't catch. And opening the front door, out the suitor stepped.

I eased back quietly into my apartment.

Five days passed. I heard not one scrape of a chair or hint of a voice from below. On the sixth day, he brought me what he called an offering, of a sort: seed cake and tea.

Comments

[anwise-gamgee.livejournal.com]

this is fantastic! :)