December, 1919 – Chapter 11

Welcome to chapter eleven of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week, unless the author has radical arm surgery. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 11

I flipped the big German’s card over and over in my hand, staring off at a darkening Philadelphia skyline. The clouds hung low, pregnant with snow due any day now, hugging the city in a cold embrace. The weather matched the mood; all the talk in the taverns felt muted and melancholy, like the entire city was collectively mourning those last few drops of booze left to die too young in the bottom of barrels. I’d cloistered myself on the roof of the brewery, tucked back behind the second stacked brick chimney where I thought no one could easily find me.

There, in the shadow of my father’s legacy, I cried. The wind slapped so fierce against my face I thought my tears would freeze, freeze like my spirit had as I watched the flames lick at the wood of his coffin. Threats and shadows finally snapped my last thread of stoicism, and I sat, like a child lost in the sprawling maze of a rush hour downtown, unsure what to do, or how to do it.

Berman and Moore never left my mind, but now, given Ritter’s insistence and insinuation, I saw demons in every shadow of every street corner. Protection? From who, and how? Legally, physically, emotionally? I looked down again at the crisp edges of the card, tracing my fingers over the elongated fours of the accompanying phone number. I hadn’t called. Not yet. I needed time to understand the danger, and know if it was only me who needed protection.

At the thought of my decisions putting my mother or Virginia or sweet William in danger, I abandoned any attempt at stifling my sadness. My sobs meandered upward on the draft between buildings, disappearing forever into the grey as my body purged itself of all the pent up fear and frustration.

“Crying won’t solve anything.” The voice startled me into action, and I jumped up, drew the small knife I’d been cradling like a paranoid vagrant, and turned to face its owner.

George looked terrible. Worse than terrible. His face pallid and sickly with huge, dark circles under each eye that made it like he’d just gone ten rounds with Jess Willard, and then another ten with Jack Dempsy. He’d lost weight, too, but still towered over me, imposing and austere. I moved back, keeping the knife out in front of me like a kitten brandishing its underdeveloped claws at that the maws of an hungry timber wolf.

“No need for that, Jack.” He lowered himself onto a brick outcropping across from me. “I’m not here to hurt you. In fact the opposite. Sit down.”

He motioned casually for me to pocket the knife and lower my guard. I put the knife back into its little leather home, but kept my hand wrapped around the handle, my nerves too cautious to trust anything or anyone.

“Heh, this prohibition might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Haven’t had a drink in two weeks. Was pretty rough at first, but I think the light’s finally coming back into my soul.” He held out his large, gnarled hand flat, palm down. It shook violently for a second before he closed it into a fist, brought it to his face, and blew warm air into the hole in the middle. He shivered, too, shoulders involuntarily shrugging despite a very heavy canvas coat.

“I can’t apologize for what I did. It happened and the consequences can’t be undone.” He didn’t make eye contact as he spoke, just stared off at some point behind me. “Virginia won’t talk to me. I understand, of course, but it’s killing me. Her mother doesn’t know anything, and the lie, or at least the lack of truth, eats away at me every day. I haven’t touched a drop since. The whiskey transforms me into a man I can’t trust.”

“George…” I said, trying to be gentle.

He cut me off. “You don’t have to do that, Jack. So like your dad. Try to make everything better even when it isn’t,” he said as he shivered, or shook, again. I couldn’t tell whether he was fighting the DTs or the cold, or some awful combination. “Your dad was like a brother to me. Losing him, then losing the brewery, then losing my entire identity to this temperance movement…I just couldn’t cope.”

I relaxed my grip on the blade and let the tension slide out of my muscles. He seemed sincere, and from his demeanor, it looked like the cold turkey detoxing had left him too weak to be a threat to me. My fear at being caught alone with him suddenly shifted to pity. Strange, I thought, how our emotions can flutter so ephemerally from one extreme to the other.

He sniffed, wiping his nose. “I never expected you and Ginnie to…well…you know. Andrew always joked about it, but she’s my girl, and I never accepted that she’d grown up. I want you to know…” his voice dropped, like he couldn’t figure out what to say, or was very reluctant to say what he needed to. “I’m happy for her. For you. Who better for my girl than my best friend’s son?”

He took his hand out of his coat pocket, and held it forward. The last hand I’d shook was Ritter’s, that massive, powerful paw that made my hand feel like it was made of tissue. George’s hand felt strong, too, but less assertive, less mighty, more connected and forgiving, like the callous digits, scarred and dry, were forgiveness and embarrassment incarnate. I took it, shook it. He coughed and flipped the collar of his coat up against the stubble on his neck.

“Let’s get down,” I said, shaking off a shiver myself. “It’s going to start snowing any minute now, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to climb down a slick, frozen ladder.” George forced a smile, and weakly got to his feet. As he shuffled toward the steel railing that lead back down to the brewery floor, he turned back to me.

“I know it won’t matter, but can you tell Virginia that I miss her?” It was hard to tell in the bluster, but for a moment I thought I saw a tear well in his eye.

“Crying won’t solve anything,” I said, flashing a cheeky smile.

He sniffed and nodded, before disappearing down the ladder, into the dark shadows of the brewery floor below.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 10

Welcome to chapter ten of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week, unless the author is hit by a car. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 10

“Rumor has it you gave the IRS inspector a hard time.” McGuire didn’t look up from the newspaper he was reading.

“I suppose.” I said, standing in the doorway to his cramped office. He’d just brewed coffee and the silky smell of roast swam across the room and up my nose. “I thought it was all pretty simple, really. He asked questions. I answered them.” I wanted to sit down, but McGuire made no offer.

“Rumor also has it that you’re not going to take this lying down.” He said, lifting his head and looking at me, one eyebrow raised.

I swallowed the lump of anxiety in my throat. Only Virginia knew about the malt; William had suspicions, but was far too meek to speak to anyone.

“They’re my rumors, of course,” McGuire said, after I remained silent. “Rumors that you’re going to finally put that writing talent of yours to good use. Rumors that you have some insider information into the way this “prohibition” is being handled.” He leaned back in his leather chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Rumors that a certain paper might be happy to run that story, if it’s well written.”

I stumbled to respond. “Oh. Yea. That. I probably should write something, huh?” The fear decrescendoed, but I still had to beat the fires of panic down to keep them from spreading to my face.

McGuire smiled. “Beats transcribing notes. Here.” Across the desk he slid a worn leather notebook, brow and cheeks scratched and marred by years of journalistic abuse. I opened it to find perfectly crisp white sheets beneath the covers. “The outside’s not much to look at, but I had Jason downstairs bind a whole new pad inside. That leather’s got history; it’s what I used when I first started writing.” He said, looking equal parts proud and expectant. “Time to starting taking the notes yourself, Cooper.”

I wanted to reach over the desk and hug him, but quickly returned to the doorway. McGuire wasn’t the hugging type, but this was the first time he’d done anything even bordering on paternal.

I flicked through the pages, letting the sharp edges of the brand new paper pass across the callous of my thumb. The sheets fanned a dry mustiness into my face. The smell of fresh potential. “Thank you,” I said, quieter than I intended, “I’ll put it to good use. I know just the man to talk to first.”

“Good.” He said, pushing himself and his chair away from the desk, standing, and stretching. “I’ve been doing some outside reading. Is this something you could do?” He passed a section of newspaper to me, folded over, like he was trying to shield the contents from prying eyes. The national headlines had all been centered on the coming legal changes, but this one, clearly from a small-town paper was different:

“Pottsville Brewery to Weather Coming Drought with “Near-Beer”

A low-alcohol brew had been part of Virginia’s original idea, but I had shot her down, thinking it impossible. Continued brewing, even of something barely alcoholic, would certainly keep us in malt and hops. Maybe even give us an avenue to launder some of our other, less public projects. “Near-beer.” I said, pretending to ponder.

“Yep. Looks like beer, smells like beer. There’s so little alcohol it narrowly dips under the government’s mandate. I tried some last week in the District; doesn’t taste amazing, but it’s better than nothing if you’ve got that particular thirst for suds.” McGuire said, pantomiming a swig from a very large and very imaginary mug of beer. “From what I understand it’s just watered down regular beer.”

“Potentially a small beer made with second or third wort runnings. Watering down a regular beer would create something cidery and nigh undrinkable.” I looked up at the ceiling, imagine the tiny grist you’d use to brew a beer less than one percent by volume.

“Now you sound like your father.” McGuire said, breaking my concentration with a slap on the shoulder. “Uptown is yours now; I say you keep it running through all this. I’d put a hefty bet on that being what your father wanted.”

I hung my head, picturing dad. McGuire was probably right, but the mention of him, his plans, the rest of his life, stung. “We already signed everything over to the IRS. This would have been a little more helpful a week ago. There’s no way we can go back on that now.” I said. I hoped I wasn’t being too short.

“I’ve already thought of that,” he said, as he picked up the phone. “Jess, can you please send in Mr. Schweinsteiger?” A voice on the other end complied and then hung up.

A minute later, a hulking frame, nearly 6 and a half feet, ducked to step into McGuire’s office. He was lean but muscular, square-jawed, but handsome in an imposing sort of way. “Ah, Mr. Cooper, my pleasure. Should I call you Jack?” He spoke very quickly, words painted in a fresh coat of German accent. “Oh but how rude! Let me introduce myself. Tobias Schweinsteiger, esquire.” He bowed at the waist, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling fan.

I bowed back, and took the man’s hand in an overly firm handshake. The power in his hands bordered on supernatural. I thought for a second he was going to shake my entire body in one accidentally violent greeting. “Schweinsteiger?” I asked, butchering the attempt to pronounce his name with my American inflection.

“Ya. My family has come along way from raising pigs. Now I put them in prison.” He laughed. I could have sworn the whole room shook. “Gregory says you may be in need of my services?”

Gregory. McGuire’s first name, finally. I looked over at him, and he shrugged. “Services? What is it exactly that you do?” I asked.

“I help those who have been wronged. Especially wronged by bad people. I have a reputation, you see.”

“A reputation?” I said, looking up into his grey eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “I have been practicing law in the US for sometime now, but I wasn’t always a barrister. In Germany, zey call me Der Ritter.”

McGuire chimed in. “The Knight.”

Schweinsteiger reached into his coat and pulled out a card. With a flick, he tucked it into my shirt pocket. He then lifted his right fist to his chest – as if he was holding a sword – and grinned at me.

“I protect the innocent,” he said, pride now blended into his accent. “From what I have been told, you may need some protection.”

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 9

Welcome to chapter nine of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 9

He introduced himself as Reginald “but you can call me Reggie” Buckner. He announced on licorice tainted breath that he was here at the behest of the Internal Revenue Service, and would be performing a final inventory. He smelled like musk left to dry on old paper. He smiled like a card shark about to drop a royal flush on an unsuspecting table of players who were all in.

The brewery staff lined up like weary soldiers; Virginia, William, and myself as front line vanguards, scouting out the inspector’s tactical positions. His pacing was methodical and practiced, the deliberate, probably counted steps of a dangerously bureaucratic man who took his job very seriously and liked it very much.

“I know this may be uncomfortable, but if we can simply review what is in stock against your final purchase orders, we can have this done quickly.” Buckner said, flipping through sheets of paper attached to a clipboard. His pencil darted across the page, grating graphite engraving an epitaph on our legal tombstone. “First things firsts, let’s discuss raw ingredients.”

The hired laborers had piled the remaining bags of uncracked malt into a tidy pyramid directly in the middle of the brewery floor. Loose kernels spilled from small tears in the cloth, the sugary life blood of the brewery seeping out through a hundred tiny cuts. Buckner kicked a sack,covering his shiny black shoes in yellowish dust. “Malted barley first. The confirmation slip from your last delivery says you accepted forty five, one hundred pound bags of American two-row barley from Shipley Malting Company. I only count 32 bags. Where are the other 13?”

I spoke up. “We brewed a stock ale two weeks ago. It used nearly twice the malt of our normal recipes.”

“And who are you, boy? I’ll take my information from someone in charge, thank you.” He said, nose turned skyward, as dismissively as possible.

Virginia’s knuckles stretched white. “This is Jack Cooper, sir.” Her voice slashed through the tension in the room, a delicate but deadly axe. “And he owns this brewery.”

Buckner looked down at his papers, then back up at me, then back down at his papers. “This is Jack Cooper?” The condescension fell off his face while incredulity climbed up it. “I’m sorry. I just…I expected someone…older.”

Virginia snapped, defensive and bitter. “Jack’s plenty old enough.” A fire, hard to define as anger or angst, flashed across her eyes.

“No need to get upset, ma’am, I’m just trying to do my job. Anyway, Jack, you were saying about the missing malt?” His tone shifted back to hard and professional, but the subtle change in his body language betrayed embarrassment.

“The stock ale took extra; about 300 pounds worth. We lost a batch of English style barleywine to infection last month, too, which should account for the difference.”

Buckner scribbled something hastily on his paper. “And do you have anything to account for this loss?” He asked, locking his eyes to mine. Grey, cold, probing.

“Nothing on paper,” I said, ” but our logistics manager, William, can verify.” William fidgeted, cracked his knuckles, and looked straight at the floor.

Buckner ran his finger down the paper, stopping abruptly and tapping when he reached William’s name. “Ah, Mr. Johnson. Can you verify?”

William sputtered, his words tripping over his tongue like a drunk on a midnight stumble home. “Er, yes. We brewed with it all. It’s gone.” William could barely make eye contact, and his fidgeting grew more pronounced the longer he stood at attention.

“You seem nervous, Mr. Johnson. Are you not feeling well?” He asked. Virginia’s elbow nudged mine subtly, but noticeably.

“Will cut his hand badly yesterday; I think he’s still shaken about it.” I said, deflecting.

Buckner walked closer to William, and asked to see his hand. Will raised it up, chest high, turning his palm over to show the dark red stains of dried blood on the white linen mummied around his fingers. “What happened? That looks serious.” Buckner said, keep his distance from the bloody hand.

“I…I cut it on the grist mill. There was some sharp metal and I wasn’t pay attention…” Will trailed off.

“I told him he should be resting. He’s afraid of blood. Last year our cooper snapped a hoop on one of the barrels, and it nearly took is arm off. I thought Will was going to faint.” I said, ” Unfortunately, we were all frantic to prepare for your visit, and, like my dad always said, a brewery is a dangerous place to rush.” I nodded at William, and he seems to calm down. A little.

Satisfied, Buckner walked back to the pile of sacks, scribbling more notes. “If Jack can answer the rest of my questions, feel free to go home and rest, Mr. Johnson.” Will looked at me, and I nodded. He quickly made for the door, thanking our dutiful inspector before grabbing his hat and coat and vanishing into the snow globed afternoon.

“He’s an odd one.” Buckner said, looking at the doorway.

“Yea, but he worked for my father for years, and is great at keeping orders straight.” I said. “What’s next?”

The rest of the inspection played out smoothly, all the actors knowing their roles, remembering their lines. The hop leaves, all sticky with yellow powder, were placed into large wooden boxes, and hauled out by two of Buckner’s behatted lackeys. After explaining that our yeast was nearly older than the brewery itself, and that to destroy it would be to destroy a piece of Philadelphian history, Buckner decided to let me take a small bottled culture home, on the one condition that I deliver it to the University of Pennsylvania’s biology department within the week. His men made quick work of the sacks of malt, loading them onto the back of a wooden framed truck, to be hauled away as contraband to warehouses unknown.

I signed the papers. Buckner seemed pleased, and thanked me, on behalf of the US government, for my understanding and cooperation during this period of transition. With a tip of his hat, he said, “I’ve always liked your beer.” He turned and looked at the kettles. “It’ll be sad to see this place turned into a stinking fish den. But I have to do my job. No hard feelings, I hope.”

“None.” I said. “The law is the law.” Buckner seemed very pleased with the obedient nature of my last comment. He turned and left, head down, reviewing his papers one last time.

Virginia grinned at me. I threw a smile back.

Beneath our feet, tucked under some old planks and almost forgotten rusted grates, hid thirteen pristine sacks. Just shy of 650 pounds of American two-row barley.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 8

Welcome to chapter eight of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday (or Thursday, sorry!). Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 8

Blood dripped and slipped through the rollers of the mill. William cradled his hand, wailing inconsolably, like the machine had ripped it clean off. I turned his palm upward to examine the wound, careful not cause any more undue pain. It was an ugly slash, glistening red and slick, but nothing some iodine and fresh bandages couldn’t fix.

“Oh, William, this isn’t so bad. It’s pretty superficial.” I said, half-lying, trying to keep him from panicking.

“I could have lost my hand!” He said, unsatisfied. “That thing is a death trap.” He pointed at the grist mill with his good hand, keeping the other, wrapped in the now crimson and white of his over shirt, close to his chest.

“You’ll live,” I said. “There’s some aspirin in my bag. You should probably take some before the throbbing kicks in.”

He shuffled off, so I continued the disassembly work. When in use, the mill heaved and chunked, its joints creaky and achy from old age and rust. It should have been replaced years ago, but my father had sworn the gap between the rollers was so perfect, he dare not mess with it. In defense of his eccentricity, our grists had been finer and our brew days smoother since he unlocked the magic of the ancient mill, but as I sat with a wrench and screw driver, separating sheets of sharp, worn metal, I realized just how dangerously out of service it had become.

William had made a deal to sell it to a local wheat farmer for much more than it was probably worth, and given that Nate hadn’t paid me after my little mayor-fueled disappearing show, I needed the money. William continued to whimper like pathetic puppy even though the bleeding had stopped. His quiet sobbing summed up the feeling in the brewery, embodied the sinking emotions of everyone having to pack and box up their jobs, their dreams, their lives, all so the now illegal parcel could be inspected and checked off a list by some nameless IRS lackey in the coming days.

From underneath the shoot, with catcher removed, I picked out large bits of old malt, briefly turning on the motor to clear out any smaller, hidden grains. The mill spun violently, twin rollers moving in opposite directions, inhaling soft, fresh, sweet kernels, mangling them, exposing their unprotected insides before unceremoniously dumping them onto the floor.

But without that brutal journey through and transformation at the maw of a many-toothed monster, the malt would never fulfill a greater destiny, never start the great cycle of conversion and consumption, of birth and decay, of disparate parts coming together to make a greater whole. My father always extolled yeast as the veritable mother of all brewing, but to me, a beer’s real life began at the mill.

Virginia moved silently, like a cat trying to avoid detection. The purple-black under her eye had faded to mottled yellow and brown. She’d come in early and said nothing to me, scouring the inside of the mash tun as if we were going to brew. The rhythmic shick and slide of her coarse sponge on the stainless steel played a background beat to the rest of our work, a somber melody of shuffling sacks and tired sighs. George made no appearances.

As I wrenched loose the bolt holding one of the rollers in place, Virginia passed behind me, moving towards the fermentation tanks. My nerves stood at full attention, sending a shivery salute down my spine when my nose caught the waft of her shampoo.

“Going to be hard to brew without a mill.” She said, an ethereal whisper dissipating into the cold air.

I turned to respond, but she’d already moved out of earshot. I figured after that night, after George had discovered us and threatened us, that she would have given up this crazy crusade. But apparently I was wrong. Always underestimating. Never quite finding that rarefied wavelength where Ginnie buzzed so beautifully with life. Her brown mop bobbed back and forth as she scrubbed.

William caught me staring.

“It’s OK, Jack.” He said, much calmer. “I know you’re both young, but it’s pretty easy to see what’s going on here.”

I looked at William, stoicism giving away to boyish embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” I said, trailing off.

“Because of George?” William plopped down next to me, right hand firmly squeezing left. “He’s her father, sure, but she’s allowed to make her own decisions. She’s nineteen. No longer bound to his direction, legally.”

I knew George didn’t give a damn about the law. “Thanks, William.” I said, forcing a smile.

“No one knows what’s going to happen. This new law might only last a year or two. Or it might go on forever.” He said, looking across at Virginia. “My point, and the thing you should be focused on, is that we don’t have much certainty to cling to these days. When there’s a sure thing, and you can feel the truth of it so deep in your bones, you should probably go for it. Consequences be damned.”

His words swam around my brain like an Olympian doing laps. I’d allowed my December days to fill to the brim with anger, regret, crippling self-pity, meanwhile ignoring all the potential beauty of a brand new January.

After a brief silence, he nudged my arm, and asked for help up. Once back on his feet, he hugged me, announcing he was going home to have his wife, Mary, nurse his hand. Soon after William, the last of the day workers we’d hired said their goodbyes with tipped hats, leaving the two of us alone, again.

“I’m going to tell William not to sell the mill.” I said, clanging my wrench on the metal still attached to the hopper. “I’ll find a way to make money. Maybe more hours at the paper.” The declaration met only with silence, so I walked over to the tank Ginnie had cloistered herself in like a spring robin on her nest.

“I ruined the perfect gap,” I said, waving the loose roller in front of my face, “but I guess that’s OK. I’ll set it up myself this time.”

Virginia climbed out of the fermentation tank and stood in front of me. “Good.” She said, wrapping one arm around my waist. “And I agree.”

“Agree with what?” I asked.

“William.” She whispered, resting her head against my chest. The sun hovered halfway down the horizon, throwing its rippled twin across the blue and green sprawl of the Delaware as the planet, and my heart, embraced the coming night.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 7

Welcome to chapter seven of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 7

The wind whipped, fierce and angry, in random blusters that felt like ice-cold fists to my face. I’d known some cold winters in the city, but the weather now seemed crueler, more foreboding than a typical New Year’s eve in Philadelphia. I shrugged the wool of my coat up higher, to cover some of the exposed skin of my neck. I hadn’t had time to grab my scarf.

Mayor Moore plodded beside me. Behind, Berman lurked, collar up and hands in pockets, hat pulled down to the point where his eyes looked like a snake’s. Moore’s mustached lip curled ever so slightly up every time another gust cut across our path; the only sign he felt the cold at all. Nate would be furious I was gone, but who was I to deny two such lofty and prominent branches of the Philly tree of law?

We walked in silence for some time, Berman herding us at cross streets, leading us to destination unknown. We crossed the Schuylkill on 3rd, made a left on North 20th, and then sauntered past a ghostly, snow-dusted Logan’s Square. No one in their right mind would be in the park on a day like this. No one except the mayor, a detective, and some poor confused kid, that is. Just as I’d had enough, and was about to demand some information, we stopped at the bleach-white steps of the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul.

“Let’s get out of the cold, shall we?” Moore said, lithely bounding up the steps. Berman lingered behind, the ever loyal sheep dog. I couldn’t refuse, and my bones wouldn’t mind the warmth.

The towering stone of the cathedral swallowed us up like spiritual down, wrapping me in soft, yellow, candle-borne glow and subtle waft of incense. I’d never been much for religion but always loved the churches themselves; such grandeur and sophistication, equal parts welcoming and isolating. A priest shuffled near the altar, arranging a piece of purple cloth, while another disappeared into the under croft through a tiny side door. The church hummed with latent energy, drowning out the whispers of the two docents near the entrance.

“I always come here when I need to think.” Moore said, leaning closer to me. He moved down the aisle towards the front of the room, gently waving, coaxing me to follow. Berman leaned against a pillar, but didn’t remove his hat or coat. I felt nervous but safe, somehow protected by the sanctity of the building, if nothing else.

“Father Donovan knows me well. My family has been coming here for decades.” Moore said, kneeling and quickly crossing himself before leaning back against the pew. “Do you go to church, Jack?”

“No…well not for a long time.” I said. “My mother was raised Anglican, but my father always said he was too busy to waste a Sunday morning away from the brewery.”

“A shame,” Moore whispered, “no man should ever be too busy for his spirit.”

I took a bite of the irony in his words. “My father was never too busy for his spirit. I’d say it was his spirit that drove him. He was just never one for genuflecting at someone else’s altar.”

“Hmm, having met him, I can believe that.” Moore turned around and looked at Berman. He hadn’t even shifted his stance. “I’m sorry about him,” Moore said, “He’s harsh, but effective. I needed to talk to you, and in private.”

The oddness of the situation made my head swim. Why would a man who directly worked for President Roosevelt need to talk to a seventeen year old nobody from Philadelphia? The dimness and heavy warmth of the church made the situation feel surreal, a dream Nate would snap me awake from any minute when he found me asleep on my desk. But Moore refused to dissipates into nothingness, and Berman refused to go with him.

“I know you’ve been following McGuire, and I know McGuire’s been looking into my office and associates.” He tilted his head backwards, starting straight up at the bas-relief dotted dome. “I know you’re looking for some closure, Jack. Your father was a good man, and the way he died was…regrettable.”

My mind dropped its clutch, shifting from confusion to anger. “Regrettable?” I nearly yelled, rippling an echo all the way down the nave and back. The priest at the altar turned, demanding silence with a steely look. I nestled back into the cushion of the pew, heart pounding, rage rising. “He was murdered.” I whispered, though gritted teeth.

“No, he wasn’t,” Moore said confidently. “It was an accident. The sooner you and McGuire accept that and stop hounding my colleagues, the sooner we can all move past this mess.” He turned his head, settling his square-framed eyes on mine. “You have to drop this and focus on taking care of your mother. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, or your family, or even your livelihood, Jack.”

My brain fumbled, and I dropped my words.  Moore raised his arm, beckoning Berman over. The sullen trenchcoat obliged, slowly.

“Berman will take you back to the Gazette,” he said, crossing his hands on his lap. “This is the last I want to hear about any of this. You do not want to see me again, understand?”

I forced a nod, as Berman grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me out of the pew. He jerked me back down the aisle and out the door, into a gentle flurry of the year’s final snow.

“Get lost, Cooper.” Berman all but threw me down the church stairs. “You know where you stand now, and it’s on the wrong side,” he said, knocking my shoulder as he walked past. “I’ll be watching you.”

I spit on the street behind him, but he didn’t turn back. The wind threw itself at my face yet again, nearly freezing the tears welling in the corners of my eyes. The church bells tolled, on and on and on, out into the coming storm.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 6

Welcome to chapter six of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 6

My days in the newsroom drag. The constant ringing of telephones and smacking of typewriters used to annoy me, but now they act like a journalistic lullaby. If not for some particularly potent coffee from Marco’s down on Market street, I’d probably be waking up with indentations of keys and fresh ink on my face.

The echo of Virginia’s gunshot keeps me awake. As I heard it crack all the bones of that quiet night three days ago, back turned, unsure who fired or from where, I imagined it zipping straight for me, like father, like son, fates cruelly twisted together like some defective DNA. Even though it hadn’t hit me, or anyone for that matter, it still played tricks on my subconscious, and as I lay in bed, watching the moon’s silvery fingers through the windows, all I could hear was the explosion of powder and my heart beating.

I had since avoided the brewery, hiding beneath piles of notes that needed transcription, occupying my mind with the minutiae of McGuire’s notes, hoping to find some new information about the murder. The police hadn’t changed their story, but McGuire was certain that the details had been washed, dried, and folded within the walls of the precinct before ever being made public. That was the game I played of late; burrow as deep down into the prosaic as possible to shelter myself from the bomb blast of reality that had scorched my earth near clean.

Virgnia’s gun and George’s fist weigh heavy, but not heaviest. It had been two weeks since my father had slipped from this life to the next, but I hadn’t really mourned. There had been no time. At least I tricked and then convinced myself that there had been no time; I’d actively thrown myself into anything and every activity I could find – financial paperwork, business plans, supply orders – bent on filling his shoes without taking the time to fully realize that he wasn’t there to wear them anymore. Besides, it seemed like mother was doing enough mourning for two. She wouldn’t eat much and slept as much as the cat, curled up on the chaise in the front room, endlessly staring out the window like his salt and pepper stubble might come up the front steps any minute now. Andy the little silver tabby, had rekindled his love affair with her lap, and I could pretty much always find them, an unaffected pair, dodging waking life by not participating in it.

I’d only seen Ginnie from a distance. I could see the purple on her cheek, the limp in her left leg, but she was alive, and had somehow placated her father’s wrath. Her body looked pained, but her eyes and spirit seemed as determined as ever.

“Are you almost done?” The voice broke my concentration, and I realized I had been staring blankly at nothing, fingers not moving on the keys. Nate stood in front my my desk, shoulders slumped in disappointment. “I know you’ve got a lot in your head, Jack,” he said, trying to inject some wisdom, “but we can’t fall behind here. I don’t want to have to hire someone else.You’re too good to easily replace.”

“I’m sorry, Nate,” I said, “I did finish Thompson’s and Pine’s notes though.” I handed him a dense pile of crisp sheets still stinking of the iron and carbon of fresh ink.

“And those?” He nodded to the even bigger pile to the left of my elbow.

“Not yet.” I said. “McGuire’s is still in here, before you ask, plus a few things Anderson asked me to transcribe for the story they’re running tomorrow.”

Nate’s face contorted in a mixture of panic and pain, like a dog who had just bitten down on a bumble bee. “You haven’t type up that story yet?” His raised voice cut through the din of the newsroom; a sour note so out of time with the majors and minors of business as usual. Voices dropped, eyed turned. “They gave that to you days ago! It should already be blocked by now!”

“No one asked me about it. I’ll do it right now if it’s so important.” I said. “Give me an hour.”

“An hour! Well don’t let anything distract you. I don’t want to have to fire you, but not even McGuire can stay my hand if you end up delaying the entire press.” His last puff signaled the end of his huff, and the switchboard operators stuck their heads out of their stained wooden doorways to see him march down to his office, still raving to himself about topics unintelligible.

I began to type, slowly at first, mopping the emotional clutter from my brain. The metal letters crashed through the silk ribbon, one heavy clank and thud at a time. “M-a-y-o-r  J  H-a-m-p-t-o-n  M-o-o-r-e  t-o  S-h-u-t-t-e-r  A-l-c-o-h-o-l  E-s-t-a-b-l-i-s-h-m-e-n-t-s  P-e-r-s-o-n-a-l-l-y.” I slung the ribbon back across to the other side with a satisfying ching. “J-a-n-u-a-r-y  T-h-i-r-d  1-9-2-0.”

As I energetically hammered the return key to begin the body of the release, my phone blared a hello, nearly shaking its own hook. “This is Jack,” I answered.

“Mr. Cooper?” A bright female voice on the other end said. “There is someone here to see you. Can you please come down to reception immediately?”

I assumed it was Ginnie, or mother, or possibly even Elmer, who’d been hounding me about a signature for days. “I’m very sorry, but I cannot spare even a minute now. Can you tell the caller to try me again later, or leave me a message?”

“Erm, Mr. Cooper, I don’t think that will work. You should probably just come down here.” Her voice trembled ever so slightly.

I could picture Nate’s face, near exploding, red, contorted, if he came back to find my chair empty. “Well I’m sorry, it’s just not a good time.” I could hear someone in the background, a low voice bearing the rasp of a smoker. The receptionist’s voice faded, and I could hear a slight “oh!” as someone took the receiver from her hand.

“Jack Cooper?”

“Yes, sir?” I said.

“This is detective Keith Berman, Philadelphia Police. I am here with Mayor Moore. You have two minutes to get down here, or I’ll send two uniforms up there to escort you down less than amiably.”

The phone clicked, and went dead.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 5

Welcome to chapter five of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 5

“Are you insane?”

My voice bounded and then rebounded off the tinny walls of the malt warehouse like it was playing tag with itself. Virginia had asked me to stay late and help her organize the malts for the upcoming inspection, promising George we could handle it and all but demanding he go home. It felt strange to be alone with her when the kettles were cold and dormant, but it was hard to refuse her when she got her heart and mind set on an idea.

“Maybe. But what else are we going to do with this place?” she said, holding her arms up and spinning around. “I’ve been thinking about this since they first took that nonsense before Congress. We’d never be suspected of anything, given your age.”

I shrugged, unsure what to say. She kicked a sack of malt, sending a puff of dust out across the floor. “I thought you’d be more into it. You’re the perfect cover,” she said, bumping her shoulder into mine, “well you and the fish.”

A simple plan. A stupid plan. But a plan, where I’d thought of nothing. The smell of the fish would mask the smell of malts and hops, but continuing to brew, right here, under the nose of investigators, seemed crazier than trying to give a rabid wolf a bubble bath. “Aren’t you worried?” I said.

“About what?” She jumped up onto the miniature pyramid of sacks. “I’ve been reading about the Caribbean rum runners,” she said, looking half a pirate herself in the subtle glow of the moon. “They got away with it by being sneaky. So we brew at night, when no one can see the steam. You keep working at the paper,” she said, nodding inclusively at me, “and make a formal statement that the brewery is complying with the federal mandate to close down. We give the fish monger a cut, and he says nothing. We roll the finished barrels and bottles down the docks, and load them onto a boat.”

The confidence in her voice resounded, filling the entirety of the space. She stood atop that malty throne like nothing in the world could touch her, like she was the queen of the quaff, the baroness of bootlegging. For a fleeting second I wanted to jump up there with her, grab her, kiss her, throw all my inborn caution to the winds of illegal fate. But I hesitated. My mother’s rationtionality ran thick in my marrow, and my bravery scurried off into the shadows.

“What about George?” I asked, mining my brain for any excuse to temper her. “He’ll catch us way faster than the police, and, um, how exactly are we going to brew without him?”

“Leave my dad to me,” she said, as if she had any control over George. “His pride won’t let him go without work for long. Soon enough he’ll be too busy to keep up with what I’m doing. If I’m bringing in money, he’s not likely to care where it came from. As for the brewing, you and I have been doing this long enough to make a few batches ourselves.”

I shrugged again. “It all sounds pretty wild, Ginnie, but,” my voice dropped. “Why?” I turned and look around at the kernels of malt strewn near the mill. “If the government wants to ban alcohol, that’s what they’re going to do. We can find other work, and move onto something else.”

Her expression shifted from conviction to dejection. She clambered down from her makeshift throne and over to me. Taking my hand, she guided me back into the main room of the brewery, to the rows of fermenter, the gleaming kettle, the maze of pipes like the nervous system of the brewery.

“Why?” she whispered. “This is why. Your grandfather built this place, and your father made it his life. This yeast soaked mess is our home, Jack. We break the law so we don’t break our spirits.”

She ran her hand along the kettle. “I don’t know anything or anywhere else, really.” I locked my eyes to hers in a brown and green tango of romantic shyness. “I don’t know anyone else, either.” She moved in closer, putting one arm around my back and resting her head in the nook of my shoulder. “This place is my everything, and I can’t just let it disappear like it never existed.” I hugged her, relishing the closeness.

“OK.” I said.

“OK?” She looked up at me.

“But we take it real slow. And give it all up at the first sign of trouble. And don’t drag anyone else into it unless we absolutely have to.” I said, trying to build in some insurance. “Deal?”

“Deal!” She threw both arms around my neck. I thought, as her face moved near mine, that she was going to kiss me, but she instead dropped her head next to mine, filling my mouth and nose with a bushel of sweet smelling hair.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” a voice growled from near the main doors. Even George’s shadow, that massive creeping silhouette, seemed angry. You could almost smell the whiskey in his words. “I leave you two alone for a minute and this shit happens. I should have suspected it. Go home, Jack, before I take you there myself.”

“George, we were just…” I said.

“I don’t want to know.” he said, almost sounding disgusted. “I’m sure it’s Virginia’s fault anyway. Always with the boys.” He stomped further into the brewery, eyes red and glossy. I could feel Virginia tensing against me, bracing herself for the coming onslaught.

“Dad, it’s Jack. We’ve known each other forever. Let’s just go home.” she said, trying to plead with the man behind the drunk.

“No. He’s not the same old Jack. Andrew made sure of that when he left the brewery to him, not me.” His words slurred slightly, like his tongue was caught in a fishing net.

I stepped forward, putting myself between father and daughter. “George, I didn’t choose how this worked out, it just did. Don’t blame me or Ginnie.” George dominated the space, looming at least a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me.

“I’ll blame who I want, boy.” The emphasis on the last word hovered in the air, a poisonous cloud of hate and anger. “Now move. I need to discipline my overly familiar daughter.”

“No.” I said.

George spoke next with his fist. A quick jab dropped me to my knees, ribs aching, air rushing out of my lungs. I tried to recover, but couldn’t move or catch my breath. George pulled me up by my hair.

As he pulled his fist back, knuckles white with rage, breath reeking, ready to single-handedly put me to bed, a sharp gunshot split the night in two.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 4

Welcome to chapter four of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 4

As the hammer sank the pin deep into the flesh of the primer, a spark nested in a bed of powder, heating it, igniting it, exploding it, forcing the bullet out of its cozy barreled home into the crisp December air. The cold didn’t slow its attack; it seemed neither bothered nor fettered by the chill as it ripped into the wood at the end of the lane much faster than my eyes could track it. Before the man-shaped target could recover from the first blow, a second, then a third, then a fourth pounded into his chest and neck. Every time the gun roared out into the afternoon, my eyes involuntarily blinked. Like a modern, metal Medusa, they didn’t want to look directly at the fury, lest it turn its deadly attention on me.

A fifth shot careened wide, just to the left. McGuire lowered his pistol and exhaled deeply.

“Don’t just stand there, kid. Either shoot or leave. I hate having someone looking over my shoulder. Makes me nervous.” he said, without turning to look at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, words manifesting as puffs of steam, “I don’t shoot. I mean I’ve never shot. My father didn’t like guns.” The targets shuddering under the force of all the slugs sent my mind down a dark alley that lead to an image of my father, down and bleeding, multiple holes in his back.

“Funny attitude for a veteran,” he said, carefully sliding bullets into the magazine with practiced, calloused fingers. “I suppose I can understand that. Your dad was a good soldier, but never really cut out for a life of fighting.”

The non-stop shots, coming at random intervals, echoed out into the skyline, eventually fading out somewhere near the clouds. I closed my eyes and in my mind tried to layer yelling, cries of pain, and artillery strikes on top of the gunfire. No one ever talked about the war much, and I had no way of knowing what my father, McGuire, and those hundreds of thousands of other men had endured. Every crack and bang crept through my subconscious like a worm made of fear, playing back all those nights my dad had woken up in the worst part of his dreams, screaming, crying, shaking at some memory of northern France.

“Nate told me you’d be here, so I…”

McGuire interrupted, “of course he told you I’d be here. Bet he didn’t tell you why I’d be here.” He fired his eighth shot with composure, plugging a perfect hole in the middle of the circle on the target’s right shoulder. “See that goon with slicked back hair in lane 10? That’s Joseph Cavoli, some glorified knuckleduster from New York. Next to him, in the sharp grey suit? Brian Cleary, a distiller from Boston. Both claimed to have come down here to find work, but it’s been two months, and neither have jobs. They’ve been chummy with detective Berman, and I want to know why.”

I watched the two men fire shiny new revolvers. They lacked the grace and precision of McGuire, but made up for it in enthusiasm. Six shots for every one of McGuire’s. They laughed with each other, dropping bullet after bullet into spinning chambers,  but from this distance, it was impossible to make out what they were saying.

“Look kid, I know why you’re here. I knew you’d read those notes,” he said, finally setting the gun down and turning to face me. In his olive drab jacket he looked like a quintessential soldier; broad, brave, bold. “I can’t help you. Not yet at least. I’m working from the ghost of a hunch here. I knew you’d come find me, I just didn’t think you’d come find me here.” Smoke from the powder had started to choke the afternoon with sulfur and charcoal.

I stood silently, partly unsure what to say, partly intimidated by place and presence. McGuire forced a smile. “If I find out anything, I’ll tell you and your mother first. Please just trust me. Don’t you have more important things to do than follow me around, anyway? Like, maybe, oh, I don’t know, running a brewery?”

I blushed. He had a point. I’d just run off and left everything to George in my fog of selfish mourning. As I turned to leave, I stopped, brain whirring. “Wait, how did you know about that?”

“There’s not much goes on in this city I don’t know about,” he said. “Call it reporter’s intuition.” He smiled. I nodded.

“Oh, and kid? Do yourself a favor. Learn how to shoot. I have a feeling the streets of Philadelphia are going to get a lot uglier in the wake of the 18th.” McGuire turned back to his target, raised his pistol, and fired.

---

Virginia slung herself halfway into the window of the kettle, sucking in the sweet steam from the wort. “Hops! We need more hops!”

George sighed. “It’s a pale ale for chrissake! If we add any more hops it’s going to be too bitter to drink. You have to learn the limits of these things, Virginia.”

“But they smell so good! Looks, Jack will agree with me. Needs more hops, right Jack?” She swung down off the small step ladder and ran over to me. George glared at me before sinking his shovel into a huge pile of spent grain. “So glad you found some time to come see us. Are you just going to stand there, or actually try to do some work?” He said, tossing the shovel to me. “This pile needs to be moved so that farmer Prescott can come pick it up. I said he could have this batch.”

“Free?” I said. “Dad usually sold it for a pennies a pound.”

“Well your dad ain’t here, is he?” George said, “Prescott had a rough crop last summer and he needs to keep his animals fed, so I said he could have it. We ain’t using it for anything anymore. There’s more to this business than beer and dollars. Your dad knew that.”

Virginia nudged me with her elbow and whispered, “Don’t mind him. He’s just being grumpy. Come smell this wort. Don’t you think it needs more hops?” She grabbed my hand and jerked me across the room to the kettle. As she dangled again, steam rising up through her curls, the malt mixed with her Watkins hair rinse, flooding my brain with delicious memories. She reached up and grabbed me by the waist, pulling me down down to her level.

“I’ve got a plan, like we talked about before” she said, in the privacy of their bubbling kettle. “But we can’t tell George.”

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 2

Onto and into the second chapter of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 2

I’ve always likened the brewery to a newsroom; a teaming hive of lives all running about on singular errands, but working towards the same ultimate goal. But where the newsroom housed literal lives, men in ties making phone calls and attacking paper with pen, the brewery overflowed with the sensation of life, pungent yeasts procreating, malt melting into sugary wort, nature allowing us to ever so briefly throw a bridle over its power. I’d spent most of my youth in that warehouse off of Market street, not so much helping as observing. My dad tried to instill a sense of work ethic in me, but there’s only so much seriousness a ten-year-old can stomach. Darting between copper kettles, across grated floors, over the new woven linen hoses, I watched men – no – titans, impossibly large and ribboned with muscle, heave bags of malt. They towered over me, sweaty, menacing, rough-hewn and dangerous, until they flashed me a smile. Sometimes, father would scoop a tiny bit of cracked malt into my hands as an odd, but welcome treat.

Nothing had physically changed, and the kettles still steamed their work into the cold morning. My father’s ghost hadn’t found its way back here yet, apparently, and his normal spot, next to the brew log, looked shadowed and sad. The boil bubbled subdued and doleful; even the birds who normally chirped and wrestled over strewn grain sang some subtle sorrow. The brewery itself, the building and all the equipment my dad has poured his life into, was in mourning.

Will spotted me first. “My boy, oh my dear boy. I’m so glad you came. You didn’t have to, you know. We can all take care of this place until you’re ready.” he said, clearly trying to be gentle.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, “I needed to get away.”

William turned and ushered me onto the brewery floor. He waddled, his knees unsure, and occasionally reached down to pull up the belt that was desperately trying to slip off of his huge belly. What he lacked in physical coordination, he made up for with wit and business savvy. “We’ve still got several orders to fill. Dobbin’s on 9th needs another barrel, but we’ll be late on our orders for Petsworth” he said, trailing off as he looked upward at the rays bouncing through the skylights.

A voiced boomed from the catwalk near the grain hopper, “Not that any of that will matter in a few weeks!” To those who didn’t know him, George looked frightening. A burst pipe and a fist of steam had badly burned the side of his face five years ago, and left his right eye milky and dead. He towered too, over six feet, built like some mythological hero. Father joked that George was descended from Hercules. “So, Jack, I guess you’re it now?” he said, venom sneaking into every word.

“Oh nevermind him,” said William, slightly under his breath, “before the war, he’d thought your father would leave him in charge, is all. I’m sure you’ll work together to get this mess sorted.” This mess. Now it was my mess. Twenty-three states had twisted closed the hydrants of free-flowing booze before the US had trenched into Europe, and now, even the capital had pulled the plug on any form of distillation. In part thanks to a dozen or so politically smart and stubborn brewers in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania had stayed sane, and our brewery had survived the initial drought. But that “nonsense about the 18th” (as my father called it), stood signed, ratified, a hydra snarling its prohibitionist and protestant heads at our entire operation. It was only a matter of time before the gavel cracked, and the statist fingers of the law, supported by the Anti-Saloon League and the Temperance Union, crept in to ruin the business.

My mess. The only conversation I’d had with father about the coming tide amounted to, “don’t worry about it,” which was proving decidedly unhelpful now. I’d overheard him talking about using the brewery to make “near beer,” exploiting a loophole to skirt under the listed alcohol limits but still make beer and turn some, if much lesser, profit. There wouldn’t be much else to do with a brewery in a world where alcohol was illegal, aside from dismantling the copper and selling the space to some cannery or fishmonger.

“It’s not just that.” George had come down from the catwalk and now stood in front of us, massive arms locked across his chest. “He’s too young.”

I didn’t argue. This past October had been my seventeenth. While standing in for father during the war had tempered my boyish immaturity, I was terrified at the prospect of being in charge. I was my father’s son, especially temperamentally, but I had a fair share of my meek mother rattling around in my genes, too.

“I know, George. I need your help,” I said, stifling tears. The last thing I needed was to cry in front of him. He slapped a huge hand on the back of my head and pulled me forward until our foreheads were touching.

“Your father was a brother to me. I can’t change his decision now, but I can and will tell you what’s best for this brewery.” he said. I could see the pain in his one good eye. As tough as he was, the loss had lodge a knife into his heart. William batted at George. He let go of my head before nearly crushing me in a hug.

“We do need some sort of plan.” William said, “none of us quite know what Andrew was going to do.”

“We keep brewing.” The newest voice lilted in sharp opposition to William’s shrillness. Brow covered in malt dust, plaid sleeves rolled up, walnut hair tucked up and back, Virginia appeared from behind the kettle like a Venus just emerged from the fermentation tank. “We do what we do,” she said, a playful madness flashing across her green eyes.

“We brew. We mash and boil and ferment until they come in here with guns and force us to stop.”

To be continued…

Two Announcements, One Blog Post

Resolutions. Never liked ‘um. They always seem like psychological scapegoats, faux-vagaries and promises cobbled together to atone for holiday gluttony.

So no, I won’t be making any resolutions for 2015.  Instead, I want to announce my two big projects for the year. Admittedly 2014 was sort of punchy and random on the blog, partly because my neurons naturally fire punchy and random, partly because in the blur of re-adjusting my life after loss, I found it difficult to look too far into the future.

But 2015 offers a fresh twelve on the Gregorian, plenty of time to plan, and a coming spring packed to the petals with potential. I’ve always worked best within the confines of a larger tasks, knowing I’m working towards some discernible end, tackling the very large by splitting it into the very small.

Nonfiction Project: Homegrew.com

My garden embodied emotional peace for me last year, and as I was planning out what I wanted to grow this year, it struck me: why not grow my own barley? I’ve already got hops in the ground, so grain seemed like a natural progression. From there I figured I might as well reclaim my own rainwater to water said crops, and it didn’t take too many logical leaps to add wrangling my own yeast strain to the list of springtime yard-jobs.

And then, if I had all four ingredients, just sitting there all nice-like, I might as well brew some beer, right?

Thus, from the verdant loamy field of my brain, Homegrew was born. I plan to grow and malt my own barley, isolate and cultivate my own wild yeast strain, collect and filter rainwater, and pluck and dry some hops all to brew a beer completely made by my hand. Nothing store bought, ingredients wise. I will not, however, be building my own tools (he says now…).

I’ve already created the site, and will track every step of my journey via categorized posts. My goal is to turn the site into a searchable archive of how I did each step, the problems I faced, and (hopefully) how I overcame them. It’s sort of like extreme homebrewing meets extreme gardening meets extreme blogging. Sort of.

Please stop by and check out the new site at: www.homegrew.com. I already added some preseason content, but new posts will start rolling in as I do research, buy seeds, etc. I may cross-post on Literature and Libation some, but for the most part, it will be all original, new content.

Thanks to my friend Melody for the “From Seed to Sip” inspiration

Fiction Project: “December, 1919”

The last Session had Alan McLeod asking what beer books we’d like to see in the coming year. While there were many excellent suggestions, one collective desire sounded a bit louder (or a bit closer to home) for me: beer fiction. I’ve written some tangentially beer-related fiction before (here, here, and here), and many other short stories inspired by beer, but they’ve always been one-offs, standalone flashes, never anything of any real substance or scale.

In 2015, I plan to remedy that. Instead of following the traditional path of writing a whole manuscript, editing it, and sending it off to collect rejections from publishers, I figured I’d do what I (like to) do best, and blog the story. Or serialize it into 52 parts. One chapter a week, every Wednesday, for a year. Around a thousand words per chapter, give or take a plot point or two.

Without having to add a “spoiler alert” tag, the story is titled, “December, 1919” and tells the story of Matthew Cooper, a young man who unexpectedly inherits his father’s brewery (and legacy) on the cusp of Prohibition in the US.

The first chapter will go up next Wednesday, January 21. I hope you’ll stop by and read a while.

Cheers, prosit, sláinte, and thanks for all the support.