The Non-Expert
The Adventure of the Stuttering John
Experts answer what they know. The Non-Expert answers anything. This week a Romeo’s troubles are too difficult for ROSECRANS BALDWIN’s small brain, but luckily some famous detectives agree to take on the case.
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Have a question? Need some advice? Ignored by everyone else? Send us your questions via email. The Non-Expert handles all subjects and is updated on Fridays, and is written by a member of The Morning News staff.
* * *
Question: Dear Non-Expert—I like this girl lately and I don’t know if she likes me more than as a friend as she’s normally really nice to people. Although I seem to have seen her gaze at me from time to time, and when we say hi she has this really beautiful smile. We talk about practically anything, and she seems really keen to talk to me. She seems to have had problems with previous relationships as each of the other guys left her, and says she can’t really trust people anymore. But she told me she would always trust me. I keep getting the idea that she wants to be with me, and has remembered to send me birthday wishes, which is really rare among friends. I would really like if you could analyze my situation and give me some tips and ideas of whether this kind of relationship could work. Cheers. —Barry J.
Answer: Barry, this job is too big for the Non-Expert. The analysis called for in this situation is beyond our powers. Giving tips and ideas here, for such an intriguing case, is probably best left to other professionals…
This was how he introduced himself. We never did learn his last name—his card had been printed with letters much too large for the paper, and, with such a lengthy first name, Mr. J’s surname was simply clipped off after the initial. As for his appearance, though there was neither anything unusual to note nor much to my eyes that was particularly telling, Holmes, however, lazing on the couch with a pillow under his neck, took one look at Mr. J and announced with some contempt, “You have woman problems, do you not, sir?”
“Why yes,” said the startled Mr. J, just closing the door. “I like this girl lately and I don’t know—”
“And also,” Holmes continued, interrupting him, “you have recently lost a great deal of money. As well you are left-handed, though you favor your right when you unlock the door to your house. And, if I’m not mistaken, you are among London’s worst billiards players.”
Mr. J stood in shock near the fireplace and did not seem to know what to say. I, on the other hand, have witnessed frequently Holmes’s remarkable skills of deduction and yet, even I was perplexed.
“Why Holmes, how on earth—”
“My dear Watson, if you’ll only remember the hand Mr. J offered when he gave you his card and then pair that with the bulge of what’s obviously his house keys in his right pocket, the matter of the hands will be obvious.”
Holmes stood up and seized his violin before continuing, using the bow to emphasize his points: “Even blind tots, Watson, know that when a man wearing last season’s finest clothes, yet in such horrible condition as we observe here, it’s because his accounts have fallen on hard times. And really, I would expect even an idiot could observe the many blue chalk marks around Mr. J’s cuffs. Our man here spent this afternoon playing billiards, though at a consistent loss since only the worst players blame their failures on a lack of chalk.”
Mr. J stood stock-still, perhaps shocked by this wizardry into silence. I feared offense. “Please,” I said to our guest, encouraging him to sit down, “do not take Mr. Holmes’s comments as insults, for even he can be occasionally swept away by his powers.” And, thankfully, the man sat down with no great loss of pride, though Holmes, rolling his eyes, scoffed through his nose and picked out a short popular song upon his violin strings.
“So, sir,” Holmes said, “out with it. What has the lesser sex done now?”
Mr. J began, “I don’t know if she likes me more than as a friend as she’s normally really nice to people—”
“All women are nice,” interrupted Holmes, “or should be, as it is their sole aptitude beside deceit.”
“And I seem to have seen her gaze at me from time to time,” said Mr. J, “and when we say hi she has this really beautiful smile.”
“Excellent,” said Holmes, nodding. “Please continue.”
“We talk about practically anything,” J said, becoming almost breathless while he related his list of pains, “and she seems really keen to talk to me. She seems to have had problems with previous relationships as each of the other guys left her, and says she can’t really trust people anymore. But she told me she would always trust me.”
“And you believed her?” Holmes asked, sounding stunned.
“I keep getting the idea that she wants to be with me, and has remembered to send me birthday wishes, which is really rare among friends.”
And this, personally, I found to be a most interesting comment, as I have witnessed the same. It has been 14 years since Holmes acknowledged my birthday, and that time was only an accident—I had received a present from my mother that Holmes, before I had even undone the wrapping, immediately identified as a muffler, and one purchased at discount. This day, in fact, that Mr. J walked into our rooms was my birthday as well, though by no sign from Holmes would anyone have suspected as such.
Holmes laughed loudly at this point by Mr. J and encouraged him to go on with a wave of his hand—but it was a dismissive wave, I noted.
“I would really like if you could analyze my situation,” said J, now almost begging, “and give me some tips and ideas of whether this kind of relationship could work?”
And this, curiously, for I could not explain it with any previous cases in mind, made Holmes laugh even harder, until he was rolling on the floor—dangerously from a doctor’s point of view since Holmes nearly pricked himself with the cocaine needle he’d employed only an hour earlier and left upon the rug.
“Oh yes, oh a situation, indeed,” guffawed Holmes, lying on his back, when his laughs had subsided. “Watson, please show this baboon Mr. J to the door. He does not have a case for us; there is no mystery here. Obviously the woman is lying to him, like women do with regularity, and even if she is sincere, my dear Mr. J, she will eventually disappoint you, as women do with all of us.”
And with this Holmes began laughing again, even howling loud enough for Mrs. Hudson on the floor below us to rap her ceiling with her broom. (I suspected at that moment that Holmes would remind me later of his final point, word-for-word, so I could set down his brilliance properly for prosperity.) But J sat silent—perhaps he muttered a quiet “cheers” under his breath—while maintaining his eyes on Holmes, perhaps even pleading in silence for a second consideration, but I knew enough to escort him out a moment later.
Once Holmes has settled upon a conclusion about something—one’s idiocy, for example—there is no second chance, not even for the closest of friends.
But Holmes can be full of surprises. Indeed, it is his business to surprise London, as well as myself, with his insights in regular fashion. “And thus concludes the mystery of Mr. J,” Holmes said when I had shut the door. “But now, Watson, though I know your small brain is probably not ready for any complex serenades, shall I play you something on the violin? Perhaps,” he said, and then he struck up those notes familiar to anyone who’s enjoyed a joyful childhood with cake and cone-shaped hats, “a tune more appropriate to the day?”
It was a mysterious evening, I will admit, when we were visited by Mr. J, and not without its own small satisfactions.
It was one of those late, hot Friday afternoons when even the flies know what doom feels like. You can tell, because they’ve picked your arm for their final meal. I had my revolver leveled at one of the pests when there was a knock on the door—seven knocks, actually, just like the devil would if he stuttered—and, a moment later, before I’ve said anything, in walks a guy they call Barry J.
Though maybe nobody calls him that. Maybe nobody calls him nothing. Even I didn’t learn his name until after I killed him.
Barry starts yammering before the door’s even closed. “I like this girl lately,” he says, “and I don’t know if she likes me more than as a friend as she’s normally really nice to people although I seem to have seen her gaze at me—”
“Woah there, Lucky Seven,” I say. “I only see clients after breakfast, and this morning I forgot to have breakfast. Plus, I’ve read this book before—you’re in love with a hooker and she says it’s just business.”
Maybe he doesn’t hear me. Maybe he doesn’t hear at all. I knew a deaf girl once—her legs provided all the talk I needed. Our Mr. J shows himself to a chair but he can’t sit still. I show myself to keeping the revolver right where it is, pointed at the poor bastard’s heart.
“We talk about practically anything,” he says, chatting fast and sweating faster, “and she seems really keen to talk to me. She seems to have had problems with previous relationships as each of the other guys left her, and says she can’t really trust people anymore. But she told me she would always trust me.”
“That’s nice,” I tell him, raising my voice a little, “but I need to know your name before we start dating.” But he doesn’t hear a word I say, he’s already going again: “I keep getting the idea that she wants to be with me, and has remembered to send me birthday wishes—”
“Kid,” I shout over him, “listen, save the Hallmark for somebody who will open the envelope, either you tell me your name or in five seconds—”
“I would really like—”
“This isn’t a joke, I’m counting four—”
“If you could analyze my situation and give me—”
“Three—”
“Some tips and ideas of—”
“Two—”
“Whether this kind of relationship could work.”
They teach you in cop school never to wait to one; the good ones see it coming and the bad ones are already coming for your neck anyway.
It’s when he’s slumped on the floor that he manages somehow to reach into his wallet and hand me his business card. “Barry J,” it says, in nice black letters, and they’re not flaked at all. I even feel kind of bad for the guy. Then I notice he’s bleeding all over my linoleum, which is just my luck—the maid won’t be in until Tuesday.
“Cheers,” the stiff croaks. Then he gets stiffer. These are the kinds of Fridays I have, and if that’s somebody’s idea of a joke, I’m not laughing.
Question: Dear Non-Expert—I like this girl lately and I don’t know if she likes me more than as a friend as she’s normally really nice to people. Although I seem to have seen her gaze at me from time to time, and when we say hi she has this really beautiful smile. We talk about practically anything, and she seems really keen to talk to me. She seems to have had problems with previous relationships as each of the other guys left her, and says she can’t really trust people anymore. But she told me she would always trust me. I keep getting the idea that she wants to be with me, and has remembered to send me birthday wishes, which is really rare among friends. I would really like if you could analyze my situation and give me some tips and ideas of whether this kind of relationship could work. Cheers. —Barry J.
Answer: Barry, this job is too big for the Non-Expert. The analysis called for in this situation is beyond our powers. Giving tips and ideas here, for such an intriguing case, is probably best left to other professionals…
The Adventure of the Trusting Girl
We’ve had some curious guests upon our small quarters at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect any stranger than the first and only appearance of Mr. Bartholomew J.This was how he introduced himself. We never did learn his last name—his card had been printed with letters much too large for the paper, and, with such a lengthy first name, Mr. J’s surname was simply clipped off after the initial. As for his appearance, though there was neither anything unusual to note nor much to my eyes that was particularly telling, Holmes, however, lazing on the couch with a pillow under his neck, took one look at Mr. J and announced with some contempt, “You have woman problems, do you not, sir?”
“Why yes,” said the startled Mr. J, just closing the door. “I like this girl lately and I don’t know—”
“And also,” Holmes continued, interrupting him, “you have recently lost a great deal of money. As well you are left-handed, though you favor your right when you unlock the door to your house. And, if I’m not mistaken, you are among London’s worst billiards players.”
Mr. J stood in shock near the fireplace and did not seem to know what to say. I, on the other hand, have witnessed frequently Holmes’s remarkable skills of deduction and yet, even I was perplexed.
“Why Holmes, how on earth—”
“My dear Watson, if you’ll only remember the hand Mr. J offered when he gave you his card and then pair that with the bulge of what’s obviously his house keys in his right pocket, the matter of the hands will be obvious.”
Holmes stood up and seized his violin before continuing, using the bow to emphasize his points: “Even blind tots, Watson, know that when a man wearing last season’s finest clothes, yet in such horrible condition as we observe here, it’s because his accounts have fallen on hard times. And really, I would expect even an idiot could observe the many blue chalk marks around Mr. J’s cuffs. Our man here spent this afternoon playing billiards, though at a consistent loss since only the worst players blame their failures on a lack of chalk.”
Mr. J stood stock-still, perhaps shocked by this wizardry into silence. I feared offense. “Please,” I said to our guest, encouraging him to sit down, “do not take Mr. Holmes’s comments as insults, for even he can be occasionally swept away by his powers.” And, thankfully, the man sat down with no great loss of pride, though Holmes, rolling his eyes, scoffed through his nose and picked out a short popular song upon his violin strings.
“So, sir,” Holmes said, “out with it. What has the lesser sex done now?”
Mr. J began, “I don’t know if she likes me more than as a friend as she’s normally really nice to people—”
“All women are nice,” interrupted Holmes, “or should be, as it is their sole aptitude beside deceit.”
“And I seem to have seen her gaze at me from time to time,” said Mr. J, “and when we say hi she has this really beautiful smile.”
“Excellent,” said Holmes, nodding. “Please continue.”
“We talk about practically anything,” J said, becoming almost breathless while he related his list of pains, “and she seems really keen to talk to me. She seems to have had problems with previous relationships as each of the other guys left her, and says she can’t really trust people anymore. But she told me she would always trust me.”
“And you believed her?” Holmes asked, sounding stunned.
“I keep getting the idea that she wants to be with me, and has remembered to send me birthday wishes, which is really rare among friends.”
And this, personally, I found to be a most interesting comment, as I have witnessed the same. It has been 14 years since Holmes acknowledged my birthday, and that time was only an accident—I had received a present from my mother that Holmes, before I had even undone the wrapping, immediately identified as a muffler, and one purchased at discount. This day, in fact, that Mr. J walked into our rooms was my birthday as well, though by no sign from Holmes would anyone have suspected as such.
Holmes laughed loudly at this point by Mr. J and encouraged him to go on with a wave of his hand—but it was a dismissive wave, I noted.
“I would really like if you could analyze my situation,” said J, now almost begging, “and give me some tips and ideas of whether this kind of relationship could work?”
And this, curiously, for I could not explain it with any previous cases in mind, made Holmes laugh even harder, until he was rolling on the floor—dangerously from a doctor’s point of view since Holmes nearly pricked himself with the cocaine needle he’d employed only an hour earlier and left upon the rug.
“Oh yes, oh a situation, indeed,” guffawed Holmes, lying on his back, when his laughs had subsided. “Watson, please show this baboon Mr. J to the door. He does not have a case for us; there is no mystery here. Obviously the woman is lying to him, like women do with regularity, and even if she is sincere, my dear Mr. J, she will eventually disappoint you, as women do with all of us.”
And with this Holmes began laughing again, even howling loud enough for Mrs. Hudson on the floor below us to rap her ceiling with her broom. (I suspected at that moment that Holmes would remind me later of his final point, word-for-word, so I could set down his brilliance properly for prosperity.) But J sat silent—perhaps he muttered a quiet “cheers” under his breath—while maintaining his eyes on Holmes, perhaps even pleading in silence for a second consideration, but I knew enough to escort him out a moment later.
Once Holmes has settled upon a conclusion about something—one’s idiocy, for example—there is no second chance, not even for the closest of friends.
But Holmes can be full of surprises. Indeed, it is his business to surprise London, as well as myself, with his insights in regular fashion. “And thus concludes the mystery of Mr. J,” Holmes said when I had shut the door. “But now, Watson, though I know your small brain is probably not ready for any complex serenades, shall I play you something on the violin? Perhaps,” he said, and then he struck up those notes familiar to anyone who’s enjoyed a joyful childhood with cake and cone-shaped hats, “a tune more appropriate to the day?”
It was a mysterious evening, I will admit, when we were visited by Mr. J, and not without its own small satisfactions.
The Case of the Stuttering John
The words on my pebbled glass door read, in flaked black letters, “Philip Marlowe…Investigations.” They say nothing about “Couples Therapy” and I would like to keep it that way. The door is shut and I’d like to keep it that way, too, except some guy is always walking in with a legend about himself he needs you to believe. I quit believing a long time ago—you save enough dimes on tithing to afford some eggs and bacon once in a while.It was one of those late, hot Friday afternoons when even the flies know what doom feels like. You can tell, because they’ve picked your arm for their final meal. I had my revolver leveled at one of the pests when there was a knock on the door—seven knocks, actually, just like the devil would if he stuttered—and, a moment later, before I’ve said anything, in walks a guy they call Barry J.
Though maybe nobody calls him that. Maybe nobody calls him nothing. Even I didn’t learn his name until after I killed him.
Barry starts yammering before the door’s even closed. “I like this girl lately,” he says, “and I don’t know if she likes me more than as a friend as she’s normally really nice to people although I seem to have seen her gaze at me—”
“Woah there, Lucky Seven,” I say. “I only see clients after breakfast, and this morning I forgot to have breakfast. Plus, I’ve read this book before—you’re in love with a hooker and she says it’s just business.”
Maybe he doesn’t hear me. Maybe he doesn’t hear at all. I knew a deaf girl once—her legs provided all the talk I needed. Our Mr. J shows himself to a chair but he can’t sit still. I show myself to keeping the revolver right where it is, pointed at the poor bastard’s heart.
“We talk about practically anything,” he says, chatting fast and sweating faster, “and she seems really keen to talk to me. She seems to have had problems with previous relationships as each of the other guys left her, and says she can’t really trust people anymore. But she told me she would always trust me.”
“That’s nice,” I tell him, raising my voice a little, “but I need to know your name before we start dating.” But he doesn’t hear a word I say, he’s already going again: “I keep getting the idea that she wants to be with me, and has remembered to send me birthday wishes—”
“Kid,” I shout over him, “listen, save the Hallmark for somebody who will open the envelope, either you tell me your name or in five seconds—”
“I would really like—”
“This isn’t a joke, I’m counting four—”
“If you could analyze my situation and give me—”
“Three—”
“Some tips and ideas of—”
“Two—”
“Whether this kind of relationship could work.”
They teach you in cop school never to wait to one; the good ones see it coming and the bad ones are already coming for your neck anyway.
It’s when he’s slumped on the floor that he manages somehow to reach into his wallet and hand me his business card. “Barry J,” it says, in nice black letters, and they’re not flaked at all. I even feel kind of bad for the guy. Then I notice he’s bleeding all over my linoleum, which is just my luck—the maid won’t be in until Tuesday.
“Cheers,” the stiff croaks. Then he gets stiffer. These are the kinds of Fridays I have, and if that’s somebody’s idea of a joke, I’m not laughing.
—Published May 5, 2006
