From Winamop.com
Uncle Pringle and the Sexual Accuser
by Martin Green
I might have known it couldnt last. I was spending a quiet afternoon on the patio of our suburban New York house reading the Sunday Times when my wife Ellen came out, telephone in hand. I felt a twinge of annoyance, which vanished once she told me it was Professor Henry Samson. He was an older man, probably in his 60s now, a sci-fi writer like myself whod once been my mentor. I hadnt seen him in a while but had heard he was now teaching at our local college.
Hello, Hank, I said. How are you?
Not too good, Im afraid. Thats why I called you. Is this a bad time?
Not at all. Whats the matter?
Well, you may remember that when I was a youngster I worked in an ad agency in the city. Now one of the women who worked there has accused me of sexually assaulting her. She posted it on Facebook
But that must have been forty years ago. How come shes doing it now?
Its that hashtagMeToo thing or whatever they call it. Women are coming out all over the place with accusations.
But you didnt sexually harass her, did you?
To tell you the truth I dont remember the women and I dont remember what I did. There were a lot of attractive young ladies in the agency and who knows, maybe I did something that today is considered a sexual assault. The thing is that the college is considering dismissing me.
What? Youre kidding?
I wish I was. In the present climate, being accused is like being convicted. Anyway, I remember you telling me about your Uncle Pringle. Hes kind of a problem solver. I was wondering if perhaps he could help me.
Hmmm. Hes Eleanors uncle actually. But yes, he actually helped me with a problem I had at the office. He helped a friend who was hexed by a witch. He helped an elderly couple whod been swindled by con men. Ive also seen him confront mob bosses. If anybody can help you, Uncle Pringle can. Let me call and make sure hes in the city and then Ill call you and we can meet at my place sometime next week.
Id be really grateful. Thanks a lot, Paul.
The following Wednesday I was again out on the patio, but this time with Professor Samson, Uncle Pringle and Eleanor. Shed served us tea and cookies. All right, said Uncle Pringle to the Professor, Paul has told me something of your problem but why dont you describe it to me.
Uncle Pringle was a small man in his sixties with neat-looking hands and feet and to my mind bore a resemble to the British actor who was his namesake, Claude Rains, resemblance which he poo-poohed. Hed been in some secret government t agency and now said he was a consultant although just what he consulted about and whom he consulted for was obscure. He listened carefully as Professor Samson told his story, adding that he was pretty sure his dismissal from the college was imminent. Hmmm, said Uncle Pringle. And you say you dont remember this woman or what you might have done to her?
I honestly dont. It was a long time ago.
Yes. Theres no doubt that sexual assault of women is a serious concern and its good that the women are now coming out with their stories. Still, I wonder if in some cases there may be injustices involved. It seems as if every day someone new is being accused.
Some girl even accused the older President Bush of sexually assaulting her when they were taking a picture of them. The poor old guy in a wheelchair might have touched her behind.
Whats the name of your accuser? asked Uncle Pringle.
Its Maisie. Maisie Taylor.
Do you know where she lives.
Not exactly. Somewhere in New York.
Thats all right. Ill have no trouble finding her address.
At this point, Uncle Pringles cell phone rang. Yes, Donald, he said. What is it now? Ive warned you about doing that. No, I will not fly to Washington. I have another matter to attend to. Uncle Pringle ended the call.
Was that...? I said.
An old business acquaintance of mine who, Im afraid, has gotten in over his head. Well, I have some ideas on how to approach this Maisie Taylor. Professor, sit tight and Ill be calling you tomorrow,
The following morning at ten oclock a small white-haired man rang the bell of an apartment in Queens. The door was opened by a plump but still attractive woman of about sixty. She had blue eyes and brown hair, possibly dyed, was carefully made-up and wore a stylish dress. Yes? she said.
Hello, Maisie, said Uncle Pringle. Youre looking well. I dont suppose you remember me. I heard about your Facebook post about Henry Samson. I too worked in the add agency and I wanted to apologize to you.
Apologize? Whatever for?
I wonder if I may come in and Ill explain.
All right. She led Uncle Pringle into a nicely-furnished apartment and seated him in the living room. Would you like some coffee? she asked.
That would be lovely.
In a few minutes she was back with two cups of coffee and some cookies. She seated herself opposite Uncle Pringle. You know, I still dont think I remember you.
Uncle Pringle smiled. Well, thats not surprising. I was only the mailroom boy, and I had black hair then. I always flirted and joked with the girls.
You know, I think I do remember you. You were a flirt. But what did you do to me?
One time when I was at your desk you dropped something and bent over to pick it up. I couldnt help myself. I patted your, well, you know. I immediately said I was sorry and you told me never to do that again.
I see.
I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am and to ask for your forgiveness.
Well, you were a young fellow then. It was nice of you to take the trouble to find me and come over. Yes, I can forgive you.
I appreciate that. Now, I have a favor to ask of you.
The next day the office of the college president, Maurice Hamilton, was somewhat crowded. The people assembled there were Professor Samson, Uncle Pringle, Maisie Taylor and myself. Dr. Hamilton was a large man who talked slowly and fiddled with a pipe. Uncle Pringle had just finished telling Maisie that this was Professor Samson, the man shed posted about on Facebook. I dont think I would have recognized you, said Maisie.
Did you know that because of your Facebook post Professor Samson is about to be dismissed as a teacher at this college? said Uncle Pringle.
No, I certainly didnt mean to cause anyone to lose his job. Im glad I didnt post anything about you.
I have something else to tell you, said Uncle Pringle. "That story I told you was a lie. I never actually worked in the same office as you.
Maisie gasped. You didnt? But I thought I remembered you, always joking and flirting.
I wanted to demonstrate to you how faulty memory can be. Now, can you be sure that Professor Samson sexually assaulted you?
I dont really know. It was about forty years ago. No matter, I dont want the Professor to lose his job because of me. I might have been mistaken.
Well, Dr. Hamilton, what do you think?
Hmmm, said Dr. Hamilton. I would say, harrumph, uh He paused and fiddled with his pipe. Uh, I believe theres enough reasonable doubt here that dismissing Professor Samson would not serve any good cause. He paused and fiddled again. And Ms. Taylor has indicated she didnt want Professor Samson to lose his job in any case. Pause, fiddle. So, harrumph, I believe our business here is finished. Thank you all for coming.
The following Sunday I was again out on my patio but this time Id been joined by Professor Samson, Uncle Pringle and of course my wife Ellen. It was a warm day and Ellen had provided cold drinks. I cant thank you enough, Professor Samson said to Uncle Pringle.
It was my pleasure, said Uncle Pringle.
You must have been very convincing to make Masie believe you worked at her ad agency, said Ellen.
Well, I did a little research. There was actually a mailroom boy who cracked jokes and flirted with the women. Hes now the agency president.
At this point Uncle Pringles cell phone rang. He looked at it and sighed. Yes, Donald. That doesnt surprise me. Come to Washington? Well, my business here in New York has been finished so I suppose I can. But if you dont listen to me this will be the last time. He put the phone down.
Was that...? we all said.
Just an old and stubborn acquaintance. Lets forget about that and enjoy the afternoon. Whats the latest trend in science-fiction?
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