"The other thing is, truth be told, he thinks the title should have gone to Emmanuel Onofrio. For that matter, he's probably right, but Emmanuel say he has his hands full as it is; so Jimmy Dick is welcome to the job."
"Still, though," Joseph said, "he's got a point. You've got as much right to the title as Jimmy Dick does. You really ought to debate him. Look, the Lions are wanting to do a fund raiser. The call for kids needing glasses is a lot higher here than back home, and it costs a lot more. Their budget is shot and there's still a waiting list. Why don't you let me see if they think it's a good idea?"
"Naw," Walt answered. His words said no; his tone of voice said maybe. You could tell he wanted to say yes.
Evan spoke up with a dry voice and with a straight face. "Why don't you, Dad? It's for charity. Besides, it would be good advertising. Walt the Barber challenges Jimmy Dick the Drunk to a verbal duel on philosophy, for the title of Grantville's Greatest Philosopher. Marquis of Queensbury be damned. This will be a bare knuckles brawl. The last man standing will be declared the winner and will walk away with the title, 'Grantville's Greatest Philosopher.'"
Everyone laughed.
"I'm not joking," Joseph said. "Renato is right. A lot of people would come to something like this. I was eating at the restaurant when Jimmy dined with the German philosopher from Berlin. The place was packed. People were wanting to see the fireworks. Then it all happened in Latin and no one could follow it until the Berliner got up and stomped out. With the Lions selling the tickets, we could pack any place in town. It would be a great fund raiser and we could really use the money. The branch in Magdeburg is forever asking for help and we just don't have it to give."
"Let me think about it," Walt said.
Evan turned his head away so his father wouldn't see his smile.
"Stop smirking boy," Walt said.
"I wasn't smirking," Evan replied.
"Yeah, you were." Walt gave his son a mild reproof, passing it off as a joke. "I could've heard your face cracking if you'd been in the back room, much less at the next chair."
Evan quietly left telling jokes and chatting up the customers to his father. The older man insisted it was as much a part of the job as cutting hair. Many were the times he told his son, after a customer walked out and the shop was empty, "That fellow didn't need a hair cut, he just wanted to tell someone a joke, or share some gossip, or brag about something going on in his life, or complain about it, or whatever the reason other than a hair cut caused the man to be setting in the barber's chair." On other occasions when the shop was empty he would tell his son, "We're as much psychiatrist as barbers. You need to get better at chatting up the customers. I'm not always going to be here to do it for you. It's the butter on our bread, after all."
****
Over the next week, it seemed like every member of the Lions Club in town came in for a hair cut and every one of them asked pretty much the same question.
At the end of a week, Walter weakened and let them make him do exactly what he wanted to do.
****
Everyone at the Lions Club meeting assumed Joseph would organize the debate; after all, he'd proposed the idea. Besides, most of the other members worked full-time. Luckily, Joseph had his personal retirement account in the bank in Grantville, so he didn't lose it like people with out of town assets did. After the Ring of Fire his retirement hobby farm quit being a hobby. The garden doubled in size. Any other land they could plant went into grain, and the hog raised for slaughter became hogs for a cash crop.
Joseph, being stuck with the job for the crime of suggesting it, decided to make it as much fun as possible. Having sold the idea of a debate to the club, he now needed to sell the idea that it should be fun to the steering committee.
"Okay," Joseph said, "I've checked and they said it's alright to use the sanctuary." The Lions Club met in the basement of the Methodist church once a month unless something came up. "So we can sell three hundred advance tickets and still leave the hundred seats in the overflow area for tickets sold at the door."
Reyburn Berry spoke up. "Joe? Do you really think that many people will show up?"
Sondra Mae Prickett smiled. "Rey, it's all about promotion. I saw a time the store couldn't sell flip flops for two dollars a pair. When we advertised them as 'buy one pair for four dollars and get the second pair for free,' we couldn't keep them on the shelf."
Doris Debolt nodded. "Besides, it doesn't matter if they come or not, as long as they buy a ticket. This is a fund raiser. It's just an excuse to ask people for money."
"Not this time, Doris. This time it's a fun raiser. When you sell a ticket be sure to tell people to be there ten minutes before the opening bell because at five till, unclaimed seating will be considered open," Joseph said.
"The opening bell?" Rey looked puzzled, "You're making it sound like a prize fight."
"Yup. Sure am. It's what they discussed the day it first came up. A verbal duel, bare knuckles, no holds barred, the title goes to the last man standing. Everybody thought it was a hoot. Nobody would have given a damn about some stupid formal debate. Who cares about a debate? But a verbal brawl? We can sell every seat in the house for a verbal brawl. At ten dollars a seat, we're looking at four thousand dollars. The church is free, and we don't have to split the gate. Then we have a coffee and cookie mixer in the basement afterwards which will be worth another thousand dollars."
Rey looked almost cross eyed. "Are you serious!? Do you expect to raise five thousand dollars out of this?"
"No," Joseph said in a flat voice.
"Good, I thought you were serious."
"I expect to raise at least ten thousand."
Rey yelped. "What! How?"
"We have a referee and a timekeeper with a bell. At the end of each round we pass the hat through the hall . . . two hats, actually. Then we tally the take and the round goes to whoever has the most votes at a dollar a vote."
Rey sputtered. "But-someone could buy the match."
"Good. Let them. I don't care who wins. I just want to raise some serious money because every penny we take in is one more penny to put glasses on some kid's face."
Doris, getting whiplash watching the tennis ball bounce back and forth, finally broke the cycle. "But what if someone complains about it being unfair?"
"Let them. We're raising money, not settling the fate of the nation. Actually, it would be good if they do. Then we can stage a rematch and do it all over again," Joe said.
"You're crazy," Rey sputtered.
Doris smiled. "He's crazy like a fox, Rey."
"How are you going to collect the money between rounds without taking up half the night?"
"Just like at a Billy Graham crusade. One man goes down one isle handing out a bucket to each pew and someone collects them at the other end. It goes almost as fast as a man can walk. It will take longer to count it than it will to collect it. But we don't have to post the results before we start the next round. So, we're looking at ten rounds at a dollar a head for four hundred people-that could be another three or four thousand. But I'm only counting on one."
"I think you're counting un-hatched chickens."
"Sure am. But then, everything is donated so it won't cost us anything if it falls through. I cut a deal for ice cream sandwiches at cost and we return any we don't sell as long as we keep them frozen. I'll hit the Abrabanels up to donate the coffee."
Sondra Mae smiled like a pig in a mud puddle. "Sounds good to me. When?"
Joseph shrugged. "Don't know yet; still got some details to work out."
Rey looked concerned. "Such as?"
"Walt's in. Haven't asked Jimmy Dick yet."
"What? You've booked the hall, arranged for snacks, and who knows what else-but you haven't asked one of the debaters if he'll come?"