[stylist] story of hoodlums

Mon Jan 10 05:15:01 UTC 2011

you got that right, the great man would've had 
the big mutton chops, gold studded cuff links, fine taylored suit.  oh yes.
thanks Brad.
jc

At 12:25 PM 1/9/2011, you wrote:
>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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