The World According to Gladstone Gander

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” ---Proverb


Gladstone Gander loved grapes. I say this with sincerity—not only the luscious fruit, but also the liquid beverage into which they transform, and their color. And, since he was filthy rich, he invested a good amount of his fortune to a vineyard; in his yard rests a massive, concrete statue of a cluster of grapes. He preferred the red wine variety, but occasionally ate green ones. Every noontide, he sits on the porch of his mansion, in his “rocker” (a chair made of pure gold), and plucks grapes from their clusters. His bill would always be covered in red or black—even so, whenever he took his morning stroll, we would see him wobble or swoon as if in a drunken stupor.

As his name implies, humorously, he was a male goose. He typically wore a plaid vest, with three golden buttons, the patchwork colored black, gold, and maroon. A boater rested upon his slick, oval head. His feathers were of the purest white, like an angel. His large, luminous eyes were colored blue like a robin’s egg. His orange bill was shaped like that of an arrowhead. His webbed feet were colored in the same manner as his bill. He clutched a wooden walking cane with his wing. I usually saw him chewing on the butt of a cigar—however, it could have also been a grape.

He was rich—yes, richer than a king! His towering mansion loomed over us; we watched in awe. A brilliant display of Gothic art was the building! The statue rested on the lawn. A fountain, spraying water, was shaped in the matter of Bacchus, Roman god of wine. Each of the hedges next to the black mass were fashioned into Roman soldiers. The whole thing was, according to Mr. Gander’s biographer, “very expensive.” Gladstone Gander had a strange mood about him—he was grumpy to individual folks who passed by him, or who ventured onto his magnificent lawn. Other times, he was gentle and kind, a very “magnanimous” philanthropist. We compared him to Dickens’s Ebenezer Scrooge and Robinson’s Richard Cory. And now, as the sun rises over the State of Providence, which is our home, Gladstone Gander locks his mansion and begins his morning stroll.

And on we lived—we were just the “good folk” of Grape, which was the name of our town. We were honest and trusting folk, trying to make a living in this bizarre world; and yet, none of us were jealous of Gladstone Gander. None of us wanted his money. He did donate a small portion to us as a community. However, as he walked down the concrete sidewalk every morning, we all said “Hello” as he passed us by—and, as I can recollect, not a single person in Grape went up to him asked the goose for money. If Mr. Gander was in a “good mood,” he would loan a sum of twenty-dollars to the children at the bus stop, or buy food for the homeless. Otherwise, he was just his cranky self.

One day—I forget which month it was—the weather was gorgeous, the children playing outside in the yards without coats on. Some were playing hopscotch; others football or basketball, pending the amount of players. As usual, Gladstone Gander opened the door to his mansion, fixed the cuffs of his plaid vest, swung his cane in a circle with a “finger,” and walked down the steps onto the sidewalk. The children ceased their playing; the adults ceased their household chores (I was sitting on the porch reading). Gladstone Gander waved to us all, and we shouted in unison: “Good morning, Gladstone Gander.” He then bowed and whistled on his way. That day the whole town of Grape witnessed his downfall from fame; it truly was a tragic end for Gladstone Gander. As he walked, whistling to the tune of “Yankee Doodle,” one of the children swayed from the playing crowd, running up behind the bewildered goose and tapped him on the shoulder.

The child was a red-haired, red-cheeked, girl of about six years of age, dressed in a pink dress. Gladstone Gander turned, cocked his head to the right, raising his white brows. The girl giggled, her arms behind her back—she blushed, looking at first down to the concrete, then up at the goose.

“How may I help you, little girl?” squawked Gladstone Gander.

The girl inhaled, and replied:

“Goosey Goosey Gander,
Whither shall I wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my Lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
So I took him by his left leg
And threw him down the stairs.
The stairs went crack!
He broke his back
And all the little ducks went quack, quack, quack!”

She then curtseyed, rejoining her little friends playing hopscotch. Gladstone Gander stood there for a moment, looking to the blue, cloudless sky; he tapped his webbed foot in the hard concrete. We all watched him, as we always do, anticipating his next move. He “scratched” the under the pit of his right wing with his bill, fluttered, then shouted in a most serious, shrieking voice:

“NONSENSE! DESPICABLE NONSENSE! OH, BY THE GRAPES OF WRATH, HONK! HONK! HONK!”

Off he went, into the sunlight. He resumed his whistling; we resumed our chores and leisure. He halted his walk. He withdrew a few grapes from his vest pocket—he gulped them down, fluttering, then honked as all geese do. Then, in an instant, his neck stiffened, his cheeks puffed—his wings stretched out behind him, he “rose” slightly into the air; his blue eyes bulged. A golden egg popped from out of his buttocks!

We all stared in shock. The egg sat on the concrete. Gladstone Gander bent over, observing the shiny shell. He poked it with his cane. The children ceased their play—their eyes locked onto the prized egg. Gladstone Gander saw this; he liked the children, but he knew that they craved material possessions and any forms of legal tender that they could get their petty little hands on. The egg shined golden in the sunlight. A few of the children (boys, as I saw) stepped forward. Next came a few girls. Soon, by my eyes and the whole district of Grape’s, the children created a circle ’round the reluctant goose. He stretched a wing out, smiling (his teeth massive, the jaws powerful), and touched the shiny egg with the tip of his wing. The circle of staring eyes imploded, ever so tighter, until Gladstone Gander extended his neck and honked in horrible fright.

“Give us the golden egg, Mr. Gander,” said a lousy-haired boy. His scowl was fierce.

“If you so desire,” said Gladstone Gander, afraid. “J-Just d-don’t hurt me!”

“Goosey Goosey Gander!” said a girl.

“Wither shall I wander?” said another.

The crowd of children all began to recite the nonsense poem in unison. This caused the goose to sweat a terrific storm. We just watched him, for he was great, and we figured, as all adults do, that the children were just playing a game. The circle enclosed him; he honked repeatedly in terrific horror—I ceased my reading, and I deciphered this phrase, which I thought I heard him say: “You pesky kids! Leave me alone!” The golden aura of the egg disappeared. We soon saw a circle of children, the body of Gladstone Gander gone without a trace. We heard screaming and yelling; shoes, shirts, and feathers were flying everywhere; blood spattered upon the sidewalk. The children indeed were “killing the golden goose.” Parents rushed out from their houses to break up the fight. The children began to punch one another. Purple liquid poured onto the concrete. About half of the circle was removed—then the body of Gladstone Gander was visible. The fight was virtually over; the children dismissed and watched in satisfaction.

Gladstone Gander rose from the hard surface. His vest was ripped. His boater was tipped to the left. His right eye was bruised. Blood was spattered on his bill. The collar of his vest cupped around his neck. Feathers surrounded his feet. A few teeth were knocked out of his jaws. In his left wing, he held the golden egg—albeit, it was cracked, for he held the lower half as yolk dripped beside him. Our eyes watched in horror. He smiled, laughed like a crazed lunatic, and said in a soft, meddled voice:

“Anyone for tennis?”

We saw him wobble his way back to the mansion. He tossed the broken shell into the rain gutter as he passed by. He turned, smiled at us once more, locking himself in his abode for the rest of the day. The children resumed their play, the adults resumed our chores, and the day finished on a good note just as it had started.

***

The next morning, we didn’t see Gladstone Gander come out of his mansion. As we anticipated his arrival, the rumor around the District of Grape was that he “put a bullet through his head.” The rumor was false—in fact, we learned from the newspapers that he was highly intoxicated on wine, choking on a cluster of red grapes as he swallowed them whole.