Grabbing the velvet-sheathed rope which hangs from the ceiling just above his head, Spencer pulls the cords three times. A distant muffled *gong gong gong* echoes up the stonewalled staircase, and is heard in a distant butler’s pantry four floors beneath his turret bedroom. A few moments pass, footsteps sound, and then Cook enters the room without knocking. 
“Sir? You rang for me, sir?” Surprised at her disheveled toggery, Spencer ponders the elderly woman’s squalid appearance and tries to remember why he gonged. Cook seems to have been roused from a deep slumber. She smoothes her hair nervously with one hand while stifling a yawn with the other. She is only wearing one shoe. Tippie the ferret perches upon her shoulder. A lemur rides in her apron pocket. “What can I do for you, sir?” she asks but there is no sign of impatience in her voice. Her countenance calm; her demeanor, while disheveled, is rather zen-like in its serenity.
Spencer looks over and notices it is 3:00 a.m. “Goodness, I’ve done it again, haven’t I, dear woman? I thought it was 3:00 p.m. Will you ever forgive me for ringing you at this hour? Well enough, well enough, I must pack for my forthcoming absquatulation. I leave in four hours. Go prepare us both a double-shot, no make it a triple. We’ve much to do in preparation. Ankle along downstairs and sidle up to the espresso machine.”
Cook smiles, “I’m your huckleberry, sir. Do not fear retribution or reprisal on my part upon being awakened by some far-flung need. Indeed, I, much like your Sainted Mother before me, live to serve. Is Miz Margaret sleeping in the kennels tonight? I noticed her door was open and her bed still made. I suspected she would after today’s visit from Millicent Spinort. Such a poisonality. The woman is beyond contempt. Did you notice her puffin lapel pin? Imagine, flaunting her legacy in such an overt manner.” Cook gives a fair rendition of Nixon’s salute as he boarded the plane and then departs.
I am not a crook. Spencer rises and dons a periwinkle dressing gown, plaid Bermuda shorts, and a pair of Crocs, lime-green ones. He picks up the remote, chooses the Western station. aahhh, there’s always something splendid waiting for me at 3:00 a.m., today it is the good, the bad, and the ugly. hmmmmmm… wonder what the movie is? Genius, sheer genius! It’s Cat Balou. Better than a spaghetti western, more fun than noodling catfish, a happenstance worth noting. Marvelous cinema. Lee Marvin on a drunk horse.
He opens his bureau drawer and begins removing clothing. Wife-beaters, spurs, a green bandana, three pairs of plaid boxers, a yellow bowtie with pale blue spots, his spats, collar stays, two pair chinos, and a couple oxford cloth shirts, pale blue. Four pair of argyle socks, a terrycloth sweat band with matching Nike socks, his Arthur Ashe - Wimbledon polo shirt, and cufflinks. Surveying the items piled neatly upon his bed, he sighs. I haven’t a thing to wear. I’ll have to go to the attic. Again. Perhaps Grandfather’s uniform will be apropo. I believe Cook had it cleaned after the last re-enactment.
Hearing a gentle knock on the door, he crosses the room and opens it. “Margaret, my pet, having trouble sleeping? How good it is to see you. Even at this unholy hour. Come in and watch Jane Fonda and Clint Eastwood.”
”I’ve come to put the kibosh on this trip, Spencer. Cook has informed me of your plans. I know you despise a kibitzing mother, but she’s right this time. You simply must stay here and attend Anastasia Terdman’s funeral. We have known the Terdman’s for generations. Spencer! Are you listening to me!?” Margaret picked up the remote from atop the gargoyle’s head and put it in her mouth.
“You’re right, of course. I hoped you wouldn’t notice I was leaving. Fetch my fedora, it’s tuxes at dawn.”
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