[stylist] story of hoodlums

[James H. "Jim" Canaday M.A. N6YR]

from the prompt of a couple of days ago, 728 words:


The night fog lay across San Francisco like 
congealed pork chop gravy on cold mashed 
potatoes.  Dank little puddles marked the 
neighborhoods of both low and mighty.  It would soon become the year 1900.

This murky night, Sean sped his bicycle through 
the streets as quickly as possible; the great man 
Joab J. St. Brendan tipped telegram boys very 
well indeed.  “Important telegram for Mr. St. 
Brendan!”  Sean had heard that sometimes Mr. St. 
Brendan’s telegrams involved business worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Sean carried his brightly polished dispatch case 
behind him.  He was known throughout the city as 
the “on the ball telegram boy,” with his sharp 
pressed blue and white uniform pants and shirt.  Being the fastest helped.

Sean smiled and said to himself, “the great Mr. 
Joab J. St. Brendan will tip me extra just for looking neat tonight.”

Whenever Sean was on the streets in his uniform, 
he earned big tips.  Other people knew 
this.  Tonight he rounded a corner just two 
blocks from Mr. Brendan’s suite.  As he did, Sean 
caught sight of them: those damned 
hoodlums.  Those five street toughs, standing 
under a gaslight smoking and talking big, their 
caps pulled down low.  Had they seen him?  They 
had jumped him for his tips last week.

Sean pedaled around the corner on to Van Ness 
Street.  He was desperately trying to avoid their 
attention as he watched the hoodlums behind his 
left shoulder.  So he didn’t see the menacing 
muddy puddle before him.  In one splash Sean 
Callahan’s pants were despicably coated with mud to the knees.

Sean knew he surely could not stop near those 
braggadocious hoodlums.  He also couldn’t delay 
delivery of the great man’s important 
telegram.  His pedaling didn’t slow, but Sean bit 
his lip hard.  His green eyes took on a steely 
glint.  In a minute or two, the hoodlums were left behind.

“Telegram for Mr. St. Brendan,” Sean waved to the 
doorman of the Hoskins Plaza as he entered.

“You’re all muddy Sean boy!  Stop!”

“Can’t stop sir.  Important telegram!”

The doorman let him pass.  He also sent a note to 
the manager to explain the mud.

After being passed by a couple of hotel staff, 
and then Mr. St. Brendan’s own business manager, 
Sean stood before the great man.  Sean had 
interrupted a happy scene of four wealthy businessmen toasting something.

He handed him the telegram in a leather 
holder,  “sir, I have an important telegram for 
you.  Shall I wait for a reply?”  Sean knew he 
looked terrible in all of that mud, but at least 
he had done his job.  That fine tip didn’t seem so likely now.

  “Here you go Sean,” Mr. Brendan distractedly 
handed him a dime (a large tip) as he took the 
leather holder.  The great man scanned the urgent 
telegram and muttered something about a cousin in 
New York.  “No, you don’t need to wait for a reply, be on your way boy.”

Sean felt a tremendous relief.  He turned and 
walked toward the door.  Just then Mr. Joab J. 
St. Brendan noticed the muddy footprints on that 
expensive in laid floor, and the mud on Sean’s formerly splendorous uniform.

“Stop!  You damned hoodlum!”  Joab St. Brendan 
said reprimanding Sean.  But as he heard himself 
shout this, he heard it shouted in his own face 
twenty-six years before with a stab in his 
heart.  Back then some Knob Hill dandy shouted 
“Stop!  You damned hoodlum!” looking down his 
nose at a smudge faced street tough named Joey 
Brandon.  Joey Brandon now in his Hoskins Plaza 
suite remembered and took a deep breath.

“Sean 
 boy, come back here, it is okay,” spoke 
the great man in a cracking voice.

Sean felt fear now, more than he did at the 
corner of Van Ness by those hoodlums.

“Yes sir?”

    “Please forgive my outburst.  Sean, here’s 
another nickel.” And Joab St. Brendan gently put 
his hand on Sean’s shoulder, “one of my workers 
will fetch you a cup of warm chocolate while your 
uniform is properly cleaned here in my hotel.  Can you wait?”

“Uh!  Yes sir.  Thank you sir!  But 
 why?”  Sean 
couldn’t believe his luck; he just didn’t understand.

“Because, ahem  
 well it’s the right thing to do.”

And with that, the great man Mr. Joab J. St. 
Brendan turned back to his cronies over their cigars and whiskey.