The New Traditionalists

Perversely, it was only with the slightest degree of rancor that I let him into the basement.
"Don't let me out," he said.
I think he meant it in absolute terms, as if letting him out might not be the thing to do.
"Of course, you're assuming quite a bit," I smiled in a cagy sort of way.
For some reason this upset him. He started fidgeting and rocking to and fro on his heels. I decided that inaction was probably the best course to take. He, however, had other plans.
"Look at this," he proffered, and drew out a small volume, colored green.
I opened it up.
"This is Izaak Walton," I said.
"Of course," he replied, nodding in an approving way, "I expected you to know that."
"So you expect me to read and understand....." I went on.
"Only Izaak Walton," he said.
Then he stood there, looking at me. I had time to wind my watch, so I did. I handed the book back to him.
"I won't take it," he said.
"I would be disappointed indeed should a small child hear what I am about to say," I remarked, dropping Izaak Walton on the floor.
"Oh, really!" he snarled," I've had just about enough of your disjointed manner of speech."
"Pick up your damned book or I'll let you out!" I hissed.
He was still just standing there, like a flower pot with the flower's roots grown through it into the dirt.
"I consider Izaak Walton a friend," I said.
By now, I could tell he wasn't listening. He was starting to take root, his eyes a hazy pair of gumballs in his head. There wasn't any point in continuing because there wasn't any point in stopping. We were, so to speak, at a critical juncture.
In order to fit him through the door, I needed a wedge. I used the Izaak Walton volume. I was only barely able to generate enough leverage, but it was sufficient. I got everything out but his left fifth finger.
"There! How's that, now?"
"Well, not too bad," he commented, still shaking his head as if something were rattling about in there. "Sometimes," he went on, " a fellow just doesn't know what's best for him."