The Purveyor of Joy: L.A. Goon's Tale

A tale of the power of joy told to The Rogue Trader by his mentor

The fire was a quiet, necessary thing, a low, rhythmic crackle against the vast, silent canvas of the northern Utah foothills. In years past, It was late autumn, the air sharp with the scent of pine and an impending frost. I was weary from the road, the kind of weariness that settles not in the bones but in the soul, demanding quiet and reflection. My own face, reflected in the shallow nearby pool, was all sharp angles, my cleanly shaved head contrasting with the wild, full white beard that had become my own personal timepiece. My clothes were simple, dark wool and leather that had seen every mile that I had myself.

Next to me, passing the ancient, chipped canteen of amber liquid, was Lawrence Atticus Goon. To the road, he was simply L.A. Goon, a name now spoken in whispers of pure, unadulterated fun. He looked, as always, like a paradox: a man whose body was thin and long, whose face was lined with a thousand smiles, but who somehow maintained the posture of a dandy, even beside a roadside fire. His silvery hair was full, a distinguished shock above a worn, well-tailored grey pinstripe suit. The suit's festive blue trim was faded, and his thin bow tie, though immaculate, had tails that had clearly seen too many bumpy trails.

“Ah, hobo stew,” L.A. murmured, dipping a piece of aromatic crusty bread into the aluminum foil packet roasting over the embers. “A hearty meal of travelers and dreamers. Always tastes best when it’s got a bit of campfire smoke for spice, eh, son?”

I took the canteen back, the liquor warm and comforting. “It’s good, L.A. It’s always good. But you’re quiet tonight. You were telling me about this spot... said it’s where you got started. As a purveyor?”

He chuckled, a dry, melodic sound. “A purveyor yes of joy. A much more lucrative and honest trade, I assure you. And yes, this spot right here, along this little creek, just west of what was then barely a dusty whisper they called Farmington. It was here, about fifty years ago now, that a particularly depressing chapter of my life came to an end. It was the night Lawrence Atticus Goon died, and L.A. Goon was born.”

He then settled back, adjusting his black, string, bow tie. The firelight danced in his eyes, turning them into twin pools of distant memory.

“I was barely thirty then, though feeling more like ninety. The road was a blur of dust, taverns, and the smell of cheap ink. I was a catalog man, you see. A traveling trader of mass-printed, thick catalogs. Those books, they promised ‘A Gateway to the Future!’” his voice dropped to a dull drone, mimicking his younger self. “All they held inside was tin cookware, pre-packaged seed assortments, and ugly, stiff leather shoes. I was peddling empty hope all the while feeling it drain right out of me, too. The world felt grey, the future felt like more pages of the same dull merchandise.”

He gestured into the darkness toward the trees. “My only companion was Beatrice, a caramel-brown Spanish burro. Best creature a man could ask for, even if she did possess the critical eye of a private school headmaster. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect her ears from the heat, and on that day, I’d picked a bright yellow sunflower, a sign of the fall, I suppose, and tucked it right into the tattered brim. We were a sight: a depressed man and a burro wearing a cheerful, wilting hat.”

“That day was an unbelievably long one. We had followed the worn pathways, tired and dusty. When we found this grove, this little pocket of trees with the creek running through it and feeding this small, dark pool, I thought I'd found paradise. Beatrice immediately dropped her head and started to graze enjoying the crisp fall grass. I set up the smallest of fires, too tired for much else.”

L.A. took a slow, deliberate sip from the canteen, holding the liquor on his tongue as if savoring a secret.

“That night the darkness came, and with it, my mood. You know how it is when you’re truly alone? There’s no one to break the rhythm of your own dreary thoughts. Every failure, every regret, every long stretch of monotonous road you’ve yet to travel comes to sit right beside you, to share the meal you eat alone. I was convinced I was going to be nothing more than a footnote in a list of failed peddlers crossing the countryside. I was sinking under the weight of it, drowning in the gloom.”

“Then,” he continued, leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I started to hear it. From the deeper shadows of the tree line, a sound. It was low, guttural, a threatening growl, but not the sound of an animal. It was… heavier. It felt like the sadness itself was coming to life, manifesting its self as a solid thing, a malicious storm gathering just beyond the light. I had this profound, terrifying certainty that this thing was ready to burst into the clearing and strike me down, ending this dreary, useless existence right there.”

I nodded, eyes fixed on the fire, understanding the sentiment. The road is full of strange things; the worst are always the ones that come from inside your own head.

“The dread was like a physical weight on my chest,” L.A. recalled, his hand resting on his breast pocket. “It intensified the depression inside until I was desperate, helpless. And then, I noticed Beatrice. Her ears, usually flopped over her sunflower hat, were rigid, her eyes wide and rolling. The encroaching doom was affecting her, too.”

“In front of me, the low shrubs lining the pool began to shutter and dance, not violently, but with a kind of contained energy. And then, the eyes. Hundreds of tiny, bright, pinpricks of light peering out from the multi-colored leaves and twigs. The threatening noise deep in the trees kept building, a low-frequency hum of despair.”

“And that was when then they stepped out.”

L.A. Paused, as if searching for words, or for dramatic effect, letting the silence stretch before the reveal.

“Dozens of them. Small creatures, emerging from the shrubs and into the clearing, forming a crescent-moon barrier around me and my faithful Beatrice. They were familiar, exactly like the Pukwudgie legends I’d heard about from the Wampanoag and Lenape tribes from back east, you know the stories. The mischievous short, goblin-like beings with grey, knotty skin, impossibly large ears, and big noses. Vaguely hedgehog-like in their dense, prickly appearance. They ranged from about a foot and a half to two feet high, dressed in the most absurdly cheerful attire: colorful cloths woven from tree bark and stitched together with brightly colored leaves, like little festive rags. They stepped into the waning crescent moonlight and the faint glow of my fire.”

“One a clear leader, slightly taller, perhaps two feet even, and with a trail of porcupine quills leading from his scalp, where several well-placed fallen feathers were arranged that trailed down his back like a ridiculous, natural war-bonnet. They all carried small wooden staffs, not weapons, mind you, but more like walking sticks, or perhaps just necessary props for their performance that came next.”

L.A.’s eyes flashed, excited by the memory. “The terrifying noise, that pure, ambient sound of doom was now coming from all around the scene, a pressure wave of despair that made me want to curl up and vanish. But the creatures… they seemed to ignore it entirely, knowingly, as if it were an old adversary. In the face of this absolute, encroaching dread, the leader raised his staff.”

“And they began to dance.”

“It was a rhythmic, bounding, and utterly joyous thing. They sang and chanted, their voices high and bright, in a language I didn’t recognize, yet I understood it perfectly. The song wasn’t directed at me, or at Beatrice, or even at the fire. It was directed entirely at the growing sound of doom. And the message was simple: You cannot stop unbridled joy.”

“They were energetic, playful, almost mocking the darkness with their sheer, infectious fun. They danced across the surface of the stream-fed pool, using their wooden staffs to ride the gentle current like tiny, absurd gondolas, making the funniest faces with huge, inviting smiles. They were light, swift, and completely unbothered by the cosmic weight that was crushing me.”

“Then came the turning point,” L.A. whispered, gripping my shoulder momentarily, with a playful shake. “The leader, the one with the quills and feathers, sprinted right past my nose, hopping effortlessly onto the back of poor, frozen Beatrice, and whispered something right into her ear.” the knowing smile of remembering came across his face, “I have no idea what he said, but whatever it was, it broke the spell.”

“Beatrice”, he chuckled to himself, “my dignified, dour, sunflower-hatted burro, let out a noise somewhere between a bray and a giggle, reared up on her hind legs, and, in a Move yo unbelievable to be real, proceeded to dance a clumsy, magnificent jig. Her hat went askew, the sunflower bobbed like a drunken drummer, and her serious expression was replaced with a kind of stunned, burro-joy.”

“The sight of it, my perpetually stoic companion, surrounded by tiny, capering goblins, watching my work animal perform a drunken two-step, was so utterly, outrageously humorous that something inside me snapped. I didn't just smile. I didn’t just chuckle. I threw my head back and let out a huge, desperate, grateful peal of laughter, driven by this ridiculous sight. It was loud, raw, and it drove the gloom right out of my heart.”

“The threatening noise, the pressure of despair, it hated the sound of my laughter. It hated the sight of that silly jig. As I laughed, the gloom gave way, fading back into the wilderness like a mist disturbed by the sun. The creatures sang and cheered, a chorus of happy, tiny sound, and then, as quickly as they had appeared, they vanished back into the shrubs and trees. I fell asleep there, the laughter still echoing in my mind, the joy and positive energy of that ridiculous, midnight dance comforting me and changing something fundamental within my soul.”

L.A. reached out and patted the damp, mossy ground beneath us. “And that, my friend, is why this spot is special. I realized that night that the future wasn't in those drab, heavy catalogs. The future was in the dance, the laughter, the sheer, obstinate refusal to let the gloom win. I packed up my catalogs the next morning and started making things to bring people together, that made them laugh.”

“This entire grove, this whole valley, became a place of life and joy, driven by the spirit of those festive forest creatures. I built a pavilion, a dance floor, a place where people could come and share fun, communal enjoyment, right here, just off the path. That’s how Lawrence Atticus Goon, the sad peddler, became L.A. Goon, a name of legend for all that is positive and fun.”

He smiled, a genuine, powerful thing that belied his age. “So, son. Tell me. What dreary catalogs are you carrying in your head tonight that need a good, burro-jig to banish them?”

Postscript

I stared into the fire, considering his question. I didn't answer right away. L.A. never pushed; he just waited, his old eyes gleaming with decades of road-dust and discovered merriment. The air was silent again, save for the fire's gentle hiss.

We sat for a long time after that, finishing the stew and the canteen. Eventually, the coals softened to ash, and L.A., always an early riser, was the first to settle down. I watched him sleep, the silvery hair catching the ambient moonlight, the festive blue trim of his suit looking perfectly at home beside a dirt fire pit.

I think about L.A. Goon a lot when I travel these foothills now. He was right; this spot is special. I’ve come through here many times since that night, and every time, I see the light of the Purveyor's legacy spreading. The little grove, once just a stop for a depressed man and his donkey, grew into something magnificent. It's more than a mere carnival now; it's a testament to the power of pure, honest fun.

Where L.A. found his answer, now stand the dizzying lights of the carousel, the scent of hot caramel apples thick on the air, and the clang and laughter of dozens of foolish, wonderful carnival games. Generation after generation comes here, young and old, to chase the kind of easy, accessible joy that L.A. first witnessed, the joy of being ridiculous, of refusing to sink.

He taught me then, and he teaches me still, that the gloom, the dread, that menacing growl in the darkness, is real. But it's fragile. The greatest despair in the world can be driven off by the smallest act of defiance: a joyful, incomprehensible song, a splash of color against the grey, and yes, sometimes, the sight of a caramel-brown Spanish burro doing a magnificent, clumsy jig. You just need to be brave enough to laugh. And if you ever see something skittering through the bushes in the park out of the corner of your eye, well, you may be a believer too.

I finally stretched out on my blanket, pulling my old wool coat tighter against the chill, leaving L.A. to his dreams. I had no catalogs in my head tonight, just the comfortable silence of a shared story, and the faint, enduring echo of a burro's joyful bray.