[stylist] story of hoodlums

[Donna Hill]

Jim,
Excellent story. It really grabbed my attention. Can't help wondering 
what might happen down the line if our wealthy friend actually knew why 
Sean's uniform was muddy. Maybe another story for another day?
Donna

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On 1/9/2011 12:19 PM, James H. "Jim" Canaday M.A. N6YR wrote:
>
> 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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