[stylist] story of hoodlums

Sun Jan 9 18:25:22 UTC 2011

Pretty creative scene there, I saw the whole 
thing. Mr. Brandon had some honkin' mutton chops 
running down his long slender face :)

Brad

On 1/9/2011  11:19 AM James H. \"Jim\" Canaday M.A. N6YR said...

>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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Brad Dunse

If you think the Tallahassee Bridge is a certain 
part of a Native American song...
you might be a songwriter. --Anonymous

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