"Oh Stewball was a racehorse, and I wish he were mine.
He never drank water, he always drank wine."
Freedy was having a marvelous time. When the hirsute crew started singing, he was a tad dubious. But the more ale he drank, the better they sounded. Unexpected harmonies among all the gruff and out-of-key notes, sounding Beatlesque, Freedy decided. Burp. John, Paul, George and Freedy.
They careened into another song.
"I see you are a logger,
And not just a common bum,
'Cause no one but a logger
Stirs coffee with his thumb."
Bang! Bang! Bang, bang, bang! BANG!
Freedy frowned. Someone was drumming on the wood completely out of rhythm. The others trailed off singing while his suddenly flat sounding voice kept caterwauling.
"...And it's here I wait for someone
To stir coffee with his thummmmbbbbb......!!!"
They were all staring at him. Well, ah, hem, excuse me! I wasn't that bad!
One of the first of his two visitors spoke. "Are you going to answer that?" Billy? Bobby? They'd all introduced themselves but only after Freedy plunked an ale filled mug in front of each of them -- well, some had coffee cups of ale, because Freedy just didn't have that many visitors normally. These uncultured fellows didn't care in the least, as long as there was continuous stream of ale in their containers. They'd blown through the latest yeasty offerings and were dipping into his emergency/holiday supply.
Billy was the one who had spoken, he decided, because of all the scratches on his face. The brother who'd fallen through the skylight.
With a dopey clarity, he suddenly remembered -- these ruffians were intruders! By singing with them, they could say it was all one big accident and they hadn't meant to fall through the window and they were all friends and they might refuse to pay altogether!
He couldn't remember hardly any of their names, it was all just a cacophony of vowels and consonants and totally common names. Billy and Bob, Jay and Jim, whatever and whoever...anyway the point was, they weren't invited by any stretch of the imagination. He really should get up right now and call the police. Freedy always made a substantial contribution to the Christmas police fund. (Not being too sure about the provenance of his secret stash, it was a bit of insurance.)
Sure, they had apologized profusely and helped clear away the mess, sweeping the glass to one side and taking the splintered wood outside so they could use the table. They wouldn't get out of paying for the damage!
"I'll get it," the big leader said. Garland -- that was his name. Freedy remembered his name, because it was memorable and because he was the only one who didn't look like he'd just emerged from out of the back country. Dressed quite nicely in a gray suit, as a matter of fact, despite his hippy outsides.
He came back alone, or so Freedy thought at first. But trailing behind, half Garland's size was a clean-cut looking fellow, almost snappy looking in a tight black t-shirt and creased jeans. Hipster type. Curling mustache and long trimmed sideburns but wild yet cultivated hair on top. Black glasses. Looked liked he's spent all day at Starbucks. If anything, he was shorter than Freedy. Maybe five foot. But a commanding presence.
Or so Freedy assumed when all the others stood up and almost bowed. Freedy wasn't very good about figuring these status things out, except among his own kind. Small town status never changed much, and he was at the top and that's just the way he liked it.
"Clear the table away," the newcomer commanded.
"You heard Charlie!" Garland boomed. He winked at all of them, and drained his nearly full glass of ale.
The others also reverently drained their mugs and cups, and set them on the kitchen counter.
Charlie crunched over the glass to them, looking down at the mess in evident distaste and giving Freedy a look that said, 'Can't you clean up once in a while?'
Freedy almost objected, but the little man was already flipping a map onto the table with a flourish.
"I've mapped our route," Charlie intoned. "If we have our Thief, we can get started."
Freedy realized they were all staring at him.
Thief? Him?
He cleared his throat, he hemmed, he hawed and sputtered and started to speak. "I ...uh....as it were....I have no.....earthly clue what you're talking about!"
"Don't worry, boys," Garland said, putting his hand down on top of Freedy's head like he was a puppy. "Freedy here has the icy coolness of a cat burglar, the murderous skills of a bank robber, the larcenous heart of a C.E.O. He's our man!"
Freedy opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a kind of squeak.
Charlie stared at him dubiously, but then shrugged.
"As I was saying, I've mapped our route..."
1 comment:
In my opinion, this is another whole chapter of awesomeness. :)
I like that they're lumberjacks and I think it's fun making Charlie a hipster. XD
I found this part confusing, though: [The others fell trailed off singing]
Can't wait to read more!
Post a Comment