[stylist] story of hoodlums

Sun Jan 9 17:44:03 UTC 2011

Jim, a sensitive old black and white piece. I could hear the old reeled,
movie cameras whirring. (I liked it.)

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of James H. "Jim" Canaday M.A. N6YR
Sent: Sunday, January 09, 2011 11:19 AM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] story of hoodlums

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.

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