Post by fightingirishman on Nov 7, 2007 22:23:47 GMT -6
I wrote this for my creative writing class, but after I got it back, I extended it. G'times.
The Case of Beer
He slammed the door of his truck, slid something out of the back seat, and began to approach me. He was Drayton MacMurray, the owner of the cottage I had been working at all summer, and he was carrying a case of the finest imported beer available in these parts. My eyes were tempted to rest upon the green case, but instinct told me to immediately dart back down to the collection of the organic death of grass clippings, twigs, and leaves which at that moment, I would have been more than happy to join. My back stiffened as the word “join” threaded through my brain. It was a word I hadn’t used in awhile. The MacMurray property was isolated, and I hadn’t been in the company of anyone within ten years of my age since leaving the city.
Thankfully, I would be returning to Winnipeg in two days’ time, on Labour Day, to start my second year of university the next day. I had begun my university career with a full scholarship, but an oversight on one of my assignments turned out to be more major than I had expected. This rocked my GPA to the point where I lost my scholarship, and, for the first time ever, I was forced to work over the summer, instead of casually plucking guitar strings and lazily mulling about in the haze.
My attempts to find work had hitherto been futile when I had seen a poster ad as I was walking through Osborne Village one night. I called the number on the sheet, and landed an interview to work at the MacMurrays’ summer home as a groundskeeper. Mr. MacMurray had sensed my desperation as I nervously approached his desk that mid-May morning.
“So you’re not working yet?” he had asked quizzically, though with an intensity I had not experienced in my previous nineteen years.
I stammered some sort of answer to the negative.
Though Mr. MacMurray remained as stiff and as tense throughout the interview, he told his secretary to cancel all remaining interviews – he had his man. I walked down the street dumbfounded, clutching a bus ticket to the town nearest the home, as well as delusions that I wouldn’t have it that bad, despite instructions I would start work immediately upon my arrival.
I snapped back to reality as I finished filling another bag with nature’s debris and realized I had nothing else to do. I found that I often played these scenes in my mind while I was working. They were by far the most pleasant thoughts I’d had since the summer began, and since I was working alone for at least eight hours each day, I had to occupy my mind somehow.
While I daydreamed, Mr. MacMurray was upon me like a vulture on a carcass.
“I’m having a party tomorrow night!” he exclaimed, breaking me out of my daze. “This place looks like a hurricane hit it! Get going!”
Heavy rains had wiped out several days ripe for outdoor labour over the summer, so, in a sense, a combination hurricane had hit the place. I had to adjust my schedule sometimes, as it was impossible to accomplish anything when the lawn was a swamp. At any rate, there wasn’t anything that could happen to keep me from finishing all the work that needed to be done before tomorrow night.
With that assurance, I started to wonder whether my work was actually appreciated. Aside from my pay, my room and some food, I had been given nothing but hell from the MacMurray clan and their cronies all summer. For the briefest of moments, I hoped that the delicious beer Mr. MacMurray had been carrying would be a gift flowing down my throat, contraband, as I racked out on the bus ride back home.
I slept heavily that night, so I did not hear the maelstrom crackling outside my door. And so, as I shook myself awake at 5:06 that Sunday morning, the outlines of tree limbs jutted up from the ground in the pre-dawn light, like the arms of zombies emerging from graves in old movies, and created an effect just as shocking.
I was commenting on what I saw to no one in particular, but my stream of cursing was interrupted by Mr. MacMurray bursting through the door to the guest house.
“Boy! Get out there!”
I dressed and hurriedly began gathering the smaller branches, before dragging them to the shed. In my haste, I slipped on the soggy ground, soaking my shirt and shorts. I could have sworn I heard the MacMurrays snickering through an open window. No matter, I knew that I just needed to keep working, for if I failed to tidy up the property in time, I would never work in North America again. However, the potential for any form of positive recognition lingered in my mind, and drove me for far longer than it should have.
Once I had sawed the larger branches–by hand, no less–into more manageable pieces and hauled them to the shed, and then completely removed any damaged branches from the various arbor life around the property, and then ensured that there was no other damage to any of the MacMurrays’ other possessions, I remembered that I still had to decorate the dining room with, as I checked my watch, only an hour and a half to spare!
My mind was ablaze as I raced around inside the house, dropping the tablecloths, placemats, utensils, plates and glasses into their proper places at the correct angles. I may have set the world vertical speed record as I dashed up a ladder hanging colourful knick-knacks and streamers from the inside walls. At least tonight’s meal was to be catered, so I did not bear any of that responsibility. Throughout my dash, the hosts were at once relaxed and fretful, from what I could see out the corners of my eyes.
I finished up just as the doorbell rang to announce the arrival of the first guests. I was immediately instructed to head to my room, so I went and caught some shut-eye. Around 2 a.m., I snuck into the house and was scooping a generous helping of spaghetti onto a plate when the green glowing in the fridge struck my eyes like a precious emerald would absorb the eyes of a jewel thief. I hesitated, staring at the case before concluding that I would not enjoy the combination of beer and pasta. And besides, I could steal a man’s food, but, inexplicably, I just couldn’t steal his alcohol.
When I entered the house the next morning, carrying my bags so I could catch the bus back to the city, I was greeted by a whirlwind of activity. Mrs. MacMurray and the guests were buzzing around the house, crying and wailing. Mr. MacMurray was motionless on the couch as paramedics attended to him. I heard murmurs of “dead from alcohol poisoning” from one of the emergency workers.
Now was my chance! There was no pasta to hold me back now! I peered around to make sure the newly-deceased Drayton provided an adequate distraction for my scheme. I sneakily slid open the fridge, darted my hands towards the object of my desire, latched on, closed the door, and dashed. I was nearly to the chauffeur’s quarters when Mrs. MacMurray called out to me in between sobs: “You can just put that in the basement. We’ll all be drinking heavily after the funeral.”
I obliged the new widow and lurched down the stairs into the basement. I left the beer in a naturally cold room the MacMurrays had created to store excess beverages. I hesitated for a moment, staring at the green before clasping the door. In my peripheral vision, watery with tears, I saw unopened boxes of expensive goods being horded by the MacMurrays, and shook my head in disgust.
I climbed the stairs and emerged to see Mrs. MacMurray skulking towards me, proceeding to tangle me in her arms, tears mixed with snot dripping onto my forehead.
“It’s beautiful to see you’ll miss him, too. I actually have something we were going to give you together, since you’re leaving, but he can’t be here,” she said, surprisingly collectedly, while handing me a green case of beer.
I was dumbstruck as I analyzed the object of my desire. I realized the perforation was broken, and I looked inside.
“These were Drayton’s favourite shoes,” Mrs. MacMurray answered the question I was just about to ask. “They need to be fixed, so he couldn’t wear them last night. If you drop them off at Wilson’s on Kenaston, I’ll pick them up in a few days and he’ll wear them at the funeral.”
I rolled my eyes and spun around towards the front door. With the case of shoes under one arm, I grabbed my luggage, opened the door, closed the door, and dropped my baggage. I snuck around the side of the house to the lakefront. Once at the edge of the water, small waves lapping at my feet, I took the case in both hands and dropped it carelessly, my eyes surveying the liquid before me at a consistent speed. I crouched and picked the left shoe from the cardboard. I looked over the black wingtip, analyzing the imperfection Mrs. MacMurray referred to, and then chucked it into the lake. I did the same with the right shoe, kicked the case into the water, watching it rock back and forth.
Content with my revenge, I turned back towards the roadway.
“Labour fucking Day, indeed.”
The Case of Beer
He slammed the door of his truck, slid something out of the back seat, and began to approach me. He was Drayton MacMurray, the owner of the cottage I had been working at all summer, and he was carrying a case of the finest imported beer available in these parts. My eyes were tempted to rest upon the green case, but instinct told me to immediately dart back down to the collection of the organic death of grass clippings, twigs, and leaves which at that moment, I would have been more than happy to join. My back stiffened as the word “join” threaded through my brain. It was a word I hadn’t used in awhile. The MacMurray property was isolated, and I hadn’t been in the company of anyone within ten years of my age since leaving the city.
Thankfully, I would be returning to Winnipeg in two days’ time, on Labour Day, to start my second year of university the next day. I had begun my university career with a full scholarship, but an oversight on one of my assignments turned out to be more major than I had expected. This rocked my GPA to the point where I lost my scholarship, and, for the first time ever, I was forced to work over the summer, instead of casually plucking guitar strings and lazily mulling about in the haze.
My attempts to find work had hitherto been futile when I had seen a poster ad as I was walking through Osborne Village one night. I called the number on the sheet, and landed an interview to work at the MacMurrays’ summer home as a groundskeeper. Mr. MacMurray had sensed my desperation as I nervously approached his desk that mid-May morning.
“So you’re not working yet?” he had asked quizzically, though with an intensity I had not experienced in my previous nineteen years.
I stammered some sort of answer to the negative.
Though Mr. MacMurray remained as stiff and as tense throughout the interview, he told his secretary to cancel all remaining interviews – he had his man. I walked down the street dumbfounded, clutching a bus ticket to the town nearest the home, as well as delusions that I wouldn’t have it that bad, despite instructions I would start work immediately upon my arrival.
I snapped back to reality as I finished filling another bag with nature’s debris and realized I had nothing else to do. I found that I often played these scenes in my mind while I was working. They were by far the most pleasant thoughts I’d had since the summer began, and since I was working alone for at least eight hours each day, I had to occupy my mind somehow.
While I daydreamed, Mr. MacMurray was upon me like a vulture on a carcass.
“I’m having a party tomorrow night!” he exclaimed, breaking me out of my daze. “This place looks like a hurricane hit it! Get going!”
Heavy rains had wiped out several days ripe for outdoor labour over the summer, so, in a sense, a combination hurricane had hit the place. I had to adjust my schedule sometimes, as it was impossible to accomplish anything when the lawn was a swamp. At any rate, there wasn’t anything that could happen to keep me from finishing all the work that needed to be done before tomorrow night.
With that assurance, I started to wonder whether my work was actually appreciated. Aside from my pay, my room and some food, I had been given nothing but hell from the MacMurray clan and their cronies all summer. For the briefest of moments, I hoped that the delicious beer Mr. MacMurray had been carrying would be a gift flowing down my throat, contraband, as I racked out on the bus ride back home.
I slept heavily that night, so I did not hear the maelstrom crackling outside my door. And so, as I shook myself awake at 5:06 that Sunday morning, the outlines of tree limbs jutted up from the ground in the pre-dawn light, like the arms of zombies emerging from graves in old movies, and created an effect just as shocking.
I was commenting on what I saw to no one in particular, but my stream of cursing was interrupted by Mr. MacMurray bursting through the door to the guest house.
“Boy! Get out there!”
I dressed and hurriedly began gathering the smaller branches, before dragging them to the shed. In my haste, I slipped on the soggy ground, soaking my shirt and shorts. I could have sworn I heard the MacMurrays snickering through an open window. No matter, I knew that I just needed to keep working, for if I failed to tidy up the property in time, I would never work in North America again. However, the potential for any form of positive recognition lingered in my mind, and drove me for far longer than it should have.
Once I had sawed the larger branches–by hand, no less–into more manageable pieces and hauled them to the shed, and then completely removed any damaged branches from the various arbor life around the property, and then ensured that there was no other damage to any of the MacMurrays’ other possessions, I remembered that I still had to decorate the dining room with, as I checked my watch, only an hour and a half to spare!
My mind was ablaze as I raced around inside the house, dropping the tablecloths, placemats, utensils, plates and glasses into their proper places at the correct angles. I may have set the world vertical speed record as I dashed up a ladder hanging colourful knick-knacks and streamers from the inside walls. At least tonight’s meal was to be catered, so I did not bear any of that responsibility. Throughout my dash, the hosts were at once relaxed and fretful, from what I could see out the corners of my eyes.
I finished up just as the doorbell rang to announce the arrival of the first guests. I was immediately instructed to head to my room, so I went and caught some shut-eye. Around 2 a.m., I snuck into the house and was scooping a generous helping of spaghetti onto a plate when the green glowing in the fridge struck my eyes like a precious emerald would absorb the eyes of a jewel thief. I hesitated, staring at the case before concluding that I would not enjoy the combination of beer and pasta. And besides, I could steal a man’s food, but, inexplicably, I just couldn’t steal his alcohol.
When I entered the house the next morning, carrying my bags so I could catch the bus back to the city, I was greeted by a whirlwind of activity. Mrs. MacMurray and the guests were buzzing around the house, crying and wailing. Mr. MacMurray was motionless on the couch as paramedics attended to him. I heard murmurs of “dead from alcohol poisoning” from one of the emergency workers.
Now was my chance! There was no pasta to hold me back now! I peered around to make sure the newly-deceased Drayton provided an adequate distraction for my scheme. I sneakily slid open the fridge, darted my hands towards the object of my desire, latched on, closed the door, and dashed. I was nearly to the chauffeur’s quarters when Mrs. MacMurray called out to me in between sobs: “You can just put that in the basement. We’ll all be drinking heavily after the funeral.”
I obliged the new widow and lurched down the stairs into the basement. I left the beer in a naturally cold room the MacMurrays had created to store excess beverages. I hesitated for a moment, staring at the green before clasping the door. In my peripheral vision, watery with tears, I saw unopened boxes of expensive goods being horded by the MacMurrays, and shook my head in disgust.
I climbed the stairs and emerged to see Mrs. MacMurray skulking towards me, proceeding to tangle me in her arms, tears mixed with snot dripping onto my forehead.
“It’s beautiful to see you’ll miss him, too. I actually have something we were going to give you together, since you’re leaving, but he can’t be here,” she said, surprisingly collectedly, while handing me a green case of beer.
I was dumbstruck as I analyzed the object of my desire. I realized the perforation was broken, and I looked inside.
“These were Drayton’s favourite shoes,” Mrs. MacMurray answered the question I was just about to ask. “They need to be fixed, so he couldn’t wear them last night. If you drop them off at Wilson’s on Kenaston, I’ll pick them up in a few days and he’ll wear them at the funeral.”
I rolled my eyes and spun around towards the front door. With the case of shoes under one arm, I grabbed my luggage, opened the door, closed the door, and dropped my baggage. I snuck around the side of the house to the lakefront. Once at the edge of the water, small waves lapping at my feet, I took the case in both hands and dropped it carelessly, my eyes surveying the liquid before me at a consistent speed. I crouched and picked the left shoe from the cardboard. I looked over the black wingtip, analyzing the imperfection Mrs. MacMurray referred to, and then chucked it into the lake. I did the same with the right shoe, kicked the case into the water, watching it rock back and forth.
Content with my revenge, I turned back towards the roadway.
“Labour fucking Day, indeed.”