15 + 5 points
Alphabet Soup Redux by John G. X.
June 21st, 2007 2:47 PM
I started this task thinking it would be easy enough. Start with "A"...move to "B"...and when you reach "Z," simply stop.
But when I reached "Z" I decided the story needed to keep going towards a more natural resolution. So I went through the alphabet three times and ended up at "A" for the fourth time.
It's not a work of high literature. Probably not even worthy of Oprah's Book Club. But it fits the requirements and, in fact, goes beyond the call of duty.
Alphabet Soup Redux
“A cold one sure would be nice,” I said with a tired sigh, wiping a swath of sweat from my wet, fiery, filth-stained brow. “Beastly hot out here...too damn hot to be working out in the sun, eh, old man?”
“Clooney’s Pub has all-day happy hour,” replied my boss, head down under the noontime glare, with nary a bead of perspiration on his leathery landscaper’s face. Doyle — owner of O’Shaughnessy’s Tree and Shrubbery Unlimited and a 35-year veteran of the landscaping business — was always cool and undaunted by the rigors of outdoor labor. Even when the mercury surged close to three digits on the Fahrenheit scale, that lucky old Irish bastard never even got red in the face...or at least no redder than he was by heritage.
Fucker.
“Great! How about we finish trimming this hedge and head over there, eh? I’ll buy the first round. Just as long as you keep it cheap. Know what I mean? Lager of Milwaukee’s finest caliber is the most I can afford right now.”
“Maybe a wee dram of single-malt whisky,” he said with one lightly-graying eyebrow cocked in my direction, “as a reward for me letting your lazy butt knock off work early?”
“No way, my broke ass can’t swing it. Only if you give me a raise...,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my lips alongside the rivulets of sweat.
“Perhaps,” said Doyle, with just enough quiet sincerity that I actually got my hopes up a little. “Quick, finish that section of hedge there and we can pack it in. Right about now a beer does sound good.”
Sun blasting my face like a kiln melting a lopsided ceramic mug, I made hasty work with the electric trimmers, tossed our equipment into the wheelbarrow, and trotted to Doyle’s waiting F-150 pickup before my boss changed his mind.
“Time for a frosty one!,” I shouted as he trudged over to the driver’s side door.
“Ugh, you twenty-somethings are always last to arrive in the morning and first to leave in the afternoon. Vain, too. Women from my day wore less jewelry than you young fellas. ‘X Generation,’ my ass. You’re more like the ‘Zzzzzzz Generation’...!”
“’Z’ as in ‘zymurgy,’ maybe. An honorable profession for thousands of years! Brewmasters were once ranked among every town’s most cherished members. Can I help it that I simply like to drink more beer than I brew?”
Doyle threw his worn and blackened work gloves into the F-150’s cab. “Everything’s a wisecrack to you, huh? First you convince me to let you off work at lunchtime, and then you dare to ask me for a raise! Good thing I like your company, or else I’d get me some illegal day laborers from downtown to work for half your wages.”
“Hey, c’mon now! I work hard for you...most of the time. Just this one time I’m asking for a break. Killing yourself on the job isn’t worth it if you’re too tired and sore to enjoy the money afterward.”
Lurching the Ford into first gear, Doyle nodded in silence. Moist and humid air started to flow through the open cab windows as we rolled down the hill from Bernal Heights and merged onto Mission Street.
“Next one is where you turn,” I said, pointing to the left. “On 25th. Park somewhere on Valencia, I guess.”
“Quiet, you,” Doyle growled with mocking anger. “Rhonda and I used to throw back cold ones at Clooney’s before you were drinking bottles of mommy’s breast milk.”
“Sure thing, pops. Tell me again about how you won the war singlehandedly? Uzis firing in both hands, just like John Rambo? Viet Cong falling in piles before your eyes? Women swooning at the sight of your medals and uniform when you returned home?”
“X-wives screaming about unpaid alimony is more like it!”
“You mean they weren’t impressed by that Purple Heart you got by tripping over your own rifle?”
“Zip it, wiseass.”
A parking space appeared on the side of the road, a mere 20 feet from the bar’s inviting shade.
“Beautiful,” Doyle said and zigged the Ford into the spot with expert precision. “C’mon, you owe me a beer.”
Daylight faded into glorious shadow as we strolled into Clooney’s cool interior and grabbed two stools at the horseshoe bar.
“Every day I think about knocking off early and coming back to the old haunt. For the past three decades, I’ve thought about it and thought about it…and never did it…until today.”
“Good beer is a requirement for sanity,” I said, ordering a pair of Budweisers and sliding one icy glass to my boss. “Have a pint and take a load off for once.”
“I think I will,” he said. Just then his weathered face bent into a crooked smile. Kinda like a baseball glove. Leathery but loveable nonetheless. Maybe I was too hard on the ol’ guy.
No more wisecracks for today, I promised to myself.
“One for the boss,” I announced with a raised glass, “and one for the buyer. Prost!”
“Queerest toast I ever heard, but I’ll drink to it anyway.”
“Right! Slainte, then, you Irish sheepdog.”
“That’s more like it! Up with ‘em,” Doyle said, draining his pint dry with one gigantic gulp and then singing in a previously unheard and exaggerated brogue, “O, goodbye Muirshin Durkin, I’m sick and tired of workin’…I’ll no more dig the praties and I’ll no more be a fool!”
Very soon we were both very drunk. Whisky followed the beers and before I knew it, Doyle and I were chatting like peers and buddies. X’s 1979 debut album began to play on the jukebox and we both bleated along as the band sang about leaving Los Angeles, and love gone wrong, and landlords who can go to hell.
Young...old...it no longer mattered, as long as we had our beers to link us together.
Zymurgists had worked their magic again.
A toast to the brewers!
-30-
But when I reached "Z" I decided the story needed to keep going towards a more natural resolution. So I went through the alphabet three times and ended up at "A" for the fourth time.
It's not a work of high literature. Probably not even worthy of Oprah's Book Club. But it fits the requirements and, in fact, goes beyond the call of duty.
Alphabet Soup Redux
“A cold one sure would be nice,” I said with a tired sigh, wiping a swath of sweat from my wet, fiery, filth-stained brow. “Beastly hot out here...too damn hot to be working out in the sun, eh, old man?”
“Clooney’s Pub has all-day happy hour,” replied my boss, head down under the noontime glare, with nary a bead of perspiration on his leathery landscaper’s face. Doyle — owner of O’Shaughnessy’s Tree and Shrubbery Unlimited and a 35-year veteran of the landscaping business — was always cool and undaunted by the rigors of outdoor labor. Even when the mercury surged close to three digits on the Fahrenheit scale, that lucky old Irish bastard never even got red in the face...or at least no redder than he was by heritage.
Fucker.
“Great! How about we finish trimming this hedge and head over there, eh? I’ll buy the first round. Just as long as you keep it cheap. Know what I mean? Lager of Milwaukee’s finest caliber is the most I can afford right now.”
“Maybe a wee dram of single-malt whisky,” he said with one lightly-graying eyebrow cocked in my direction, “as a reward for me letting your lazy butt knock off work early?”
“No way, my broke ass can’t swing it. Only if you give me a raise...,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my lips alongside the rivulets of sweat.
“Perhaps,” said Doyle, with just enough quiet sincerity that I actually got my hopes up a little. “Quick, finish that section of hedge there and we can pack it in. Right about now a beer does sound good.”
Sun blasting my face like a kiln melting a lopsided ceramic mug, I made hasty work with the electric trimmers, tossed our equipment into the wheelbarrow, and trotted to Doyle’s waiting F-150 pickup before my boss changed his mind.
“Time for a frosty one!,” I shouted as he trudged over to the driver’s side door.
“Ugh, you twenty-somethings are always last to arrive in the morning and first to leave in the afternoon. Vain, too. Women from my day wore less jewelry than you young fellas. ‘X Generation,’ my ass. You’re more like the ‘Zzzzzzz Generation’...!”
“’Z’ as in ‘zymurgy,’ maybe. An honorable profession for thousands of years! Brewmasters were once ranked among every town’s most cherished members. Can I help it that I simply like to drink more beer than I brew?”
Doyle threw his worn and blackened work gloves into the F-150’s cab. “Everything’s a wisecrack to you, huh? First you convince me to let you off work at lunchtime, and then you dare to ask me for a raise! Good thing I like your company, or else I’d get me some illegal day laborers from downtown to work for half your wages.”
“Hey, c’mon now! I work hard for you...most of the time. Just this one time I’m asking for a break. Killing yourself on the job isn’t worth it if you’re too tired and sore to enjoy the money afterward.”
Lurching the Ford into first gear, Doyle nodded in silence. Moist and humid air started to flow through the open cab windows as we rolled down the hill from Bernal Heights and merged onto Mission Street.
“Next one is where you turn,” I said, pointing to the left. “On 25th. Park somewhere on Valencia, I guess.”
“Quiet, you,” Doyle growled with mocking anger. “Rhonda and I used to throw back cold ones at Clooney’s before you were drinking bottles of mommy’s breast milk.”
“Sure thing, pops. Tell me again about how you won the war singlehandedly? Uzis firing in both hands, just like John Rambo? Viet Cong falling in piles before your eyes? Women swooning at the sight of your medals and uniform when you returned home?”
“X-wives screaming about unpaid alimony is more like it!”
“You mean they weren’t impressed by that Purple Heart you got by tripping over your own rifle?”
“Zip it, wiseass.”
A parking space appeared on the side of the road, a mere 20 feet from the bar’s inviting shade.
“Beautiful,” Doyle said and zigged the Ford into the spot with expert precision. “C’mon, you owe me a beer.”
Daylight faded into glorious shadow as we strolled into Clooney’s cool interior and grabbed two stools at the horseshoe bar.
“Every day I think about knocking off early and coming back to the old haunt. For the past three decades, I’ve thought about it and thought about it…and never did it…until today.”
“Good beer is a requirement for sanity,” I said, ordering a pair of Budweisers and sliding one icy glass to my boss. “Have a pint and take a load off for once.”
“I think I will,” he said. Just then his weathered face bent into a crooked smile. Kinda like a baseball glove. Leathery but loveable nonetheless. Maybe I was too hard on the ol’ guy.
No more wisecracks for today, I promised to myself.
“One for the boss,” I announced with a raised glass, “and one for the buyer. Prost!”
“Queerest toast I ever heard, but I’ll drink to it anyway.”
“Right! Slainte, then, you Irish sheepdog.”
“That’s more like it! Up with ‘em,” Doyle said, draining his pint dry with one gigantic gulp and then singing in a previously unheard and exaggerated brogue, “O, goodbye Muirshin Durkin, I’m sick and tired of workin’…I’ll no more dig the praties and I’ll no more be a fool!”
Very soon we were both very drunk. Whisky followed the beers and before I knew it, Doyle and I were chatting like peers and buddies. X’s 1979 debut album began to play on the jukebox and we both bleated along as the band sang about leaving Los Angeles, and love gone wrong, and landlords who can go to hell.
Young...old...it no longer mattered, as long as we had our beers to link us together.
Zymurgists had worked their magic again.
A toast to the brewers!
-30-
Points for a continuous story and obvious effort. :)