Joe walked into the Shoebox, a combination bar and illegal liquor shop on
the "dark side" of Chicago, with an air of unhappiness in his complexion.
It was a rather chilly day, but weather did't matter much in 1920's
Chicago.
"What happened this time, Joe?" asked Sam, the owner of the place. "Did you mess up again?"
"No, but that Louis Armstrong fellow stole the show again."
"You really hate him, don't you?" Sam pressed.
Sam was a rather portly fellow, who never usually stirred from his location on the seat behind the bar. He was really just resting from his "years and years" of travel.
"Well, uh no," Joe stuttered, "I mean, well... heh heh....Yeah, I guess."
"Killer, Joe."
Joe played in King Oliver's Creole band for a living. He was actually quite the swinging saxophone player. His primary trouble was the fact that Armstrong was a swinging-er cornet player, and the up-and-coming jazz giant usually upstaged him. Thus, feelings of envy welled up inside Joe Robinson's heart of hearts, and he would get pretty mad. The only problem was that Joe was usually too shy to admit that fact.
"Either way, how 'bout you have a nice beer on the house? I just got something called, um, 'Anheiser-Busch.' Apparently they've been around for a while, like 20 years, but I'm just gettin' into them. They're actually pretty good. Try some."
Joe grabbed the unfamiliar beer-bottle and guzzled a whole gulp. After wiping his mouth of the rancid-smelling solution, he gave a deep, bellowing, toad-like belch. "You know, this stuff makes me feel kinda like a frog."
Sam replied, "What's that supposed to mean?"
Joe finished downing the booze, and then, hiccuping, said, "I dunno (bud)... It's just kinda, er, (hic), funny feeling."
"Joe, all beer feels like that."
"Oh yeah (hic). I forgot..."
"Just sit back and rest. You'll get over the initial shock. I mean, as soon as you get addicted, it feels just fine."
After the words were uttered, a shady character named Jacky Bartholomew, who is known for having a nonexistent social life and a low rate of mental stability, intruded on the conversation: "Guys, never get addicted to nuthin... just a waste o' yer hard-earned time... I mean, I wuz into everything when I wuz young, and look where I am now.... Could ya pour me another booze? I like it hard and cool."
Sam gave an obvious "What a loony!" look to Joe, and then gave Jacky a brew of some of the more anesthetic brands, muttering, "Perhaps this will shut him up."
"Anyway," Sam continued, "are you planning a major comeback to outblast your opponent through the roofs of the ratings?"
"Probably not," answered Joe. "I think that I'll just go on doing exactly as I've been doing for the past couple of months."
"And what's that?"
"I don't know. Maybe I'll find out as I move along. In the end, I'm sure that everything will work out fine."
"All right. Whatever you say."
"Isn't that how it's always been?"
"No, it's always been 'The customer is always right.' Now it's 'Whatever you say.'"
"Whatever you say."
"Hey, if you say that enough, you just might attract some more customers than we get now."
"Whatever you say."
"Get outta town! (Hee hee!)"
Joe started in on another drink, when suddenly George Steinbach, or Sly Sty as he was more lovingly called by the folks in the polker club, bent over and whispered to Joe, "You gonna play in the big game in a couple o' days?" Sty was the in-house poker champ, and he had the money to prove it.
Joe finished his drink and replied, "Ya know, I don't think I really could go for that high stakes stuff. Low budget, you know."
Actually, Sly Sty had no idea what it meant to have a low budget, but he dismissed the poor patron anyway with a look of mock-understanding on his well-trained polker face.
Suddenly, Jacky screamed, "Copsh er comin'!"
Sam yelled, "Emergency precautions!" while thinking silently to himself, "Why isn't he asleep yet?"
Everyone quickly stuffed their bottles into their pants, acted as sober as possible, and made all possible signs of being in a normal juice bar, not a Speakeasy.
The cops kicked the door down, walked in and said, "We hear you've been selling alcohol illegally!"
Sam innocently replied, "Me? I only sell juice. Actually, I do sell some beer, I admit."
"Just as I suspected."
Sam chuckled and said, "Root Beer!" The rest of the bar smiled and giggled, though repulsed by the bluntly bad joke.
Though unamused, the cop turned sheepish and apologized: "Well then, I just suppose we'll get going. Ya know, with prohibition comin' out now, we gotta be careful. Personally, I can't wait 'till they amend it. It's like Stinky Cheese to enforce it."
"You'd be surprised," muttered Sam as police man left the bar, and everyone returned to their normal state of half-drunk lolly-gagging.
After a while, Joe made his way to the door. At this time, the young Jizzo, a member of the neighborhood gang "The Stingers", bumped into him. "Hey," Joe scolded, jokingly, "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
"Whatever you say," was Jizzo's reply.
Joe started laughing inwardly.
"What's so funny?" asked Jizzo.
Joe regained his composure and replied, "Never mind."
After a couple moments of awkward silence, Jizzo tried to strike up a conversation by saying, "You know, it's come to my attention that you are a slave to your work and you have no social life beyond the bounds of this illegal bar in the backstreets of Chicago."
Somewhat taken aback, Joe replied, "So?"
"So I was thinking, maybe you could hang out with my gang at some point. We could hang out and have fun."
After pausing for a while (just so he wouldn't look inconsiderate), Joe replied, "Sorry pal, but I'm too busy."
"Thanks for proving my point." Jizzo then averted his attention to Sam: "Hey, can I have something? I like it hard and cool."
"What's the magic word?" answered Sam, trying to improve on his youngest customer's manners.
Jizzo let out a long sigh. "Please?"
"All right," said Sam. He then took the anesthetics out again and winked at Joe.
Still somewhat startled by the boy's words, yet strangely amused at the proceedings, Joe left the bar, half-reluctantly.
"What happened this time, Joe?" asked Sam, the owner of the place. "Did you mess up again?"
"No, but that Louis Armstrong fellow stole the show again."
"You really hate him, don't you?" Sam pressed.
Sam was a rather portly fellow, who never usually stirred from his location on the seat behind the bar. He was really just resting from his "years and years" of travel.
"Well, uh no," Joe stuttered, "I mean, well... heh heh....Yeah, I guess."
"Killer, Joe."
Joe played in King Oliver's Creole band for a living. He was actually quite the swinging saxophone player. His primary trouble was the fact that Armstrong was a swinging-er cornet player, and the up-and-coming jazz giant usually upstaged him. Thus, feelings of envy welled up inside Joe Robinson's heart of hearts, and he would get pretty mad. The only problem was that Joe was usually too shy to admit that fact.
"Either way, how 'bout you have a nice beer on the house? I just got something called, um, 'Anheiser-Busch.' Apparently they've been around for a while, like 20 years, but I'm just gettin' into them. They're actually pretty good. Try some."
Joe grabbed the unfamiliar beer-bottle and guzzled a whole gulp. After wiping his mouth of the rancid-smelling solution, he gave a deep, bellowing, toad-like belch. "You know, this stuff makes me feel kinda like a frog."
Sam replied, "What's that supposed to mean?"
Joe finished downing the booze, and then, hiccuping, said, "I dunno (bud)... It's just kinda, er, (hic), funny feeling."
"Joe, all beer feels like that."
"Oh yeah (hic). I forgot..."
"Just sit back and rest. You'll get over the initial shock. I mean, as soon as you get addicted, it feels just fine."
After the words were uttered, a shady character named Jacky Bartholomew, who is known for having a nonexistent social life and a low rate of mental stability, intruded on the conversation: "Guys, never get addicted to nuthin... just a waste o' yer hard-earned time... I mean, I wuz into everything when I wuz young, and look where I am now.... Could ya pour me another booze? I like it hard and cool."
Sam gave an obvious "What a loony!" look to Joe, and then gave Jacky a brew of some of the more anesthetic brands, muttering, "Perhaps this will shut him up."
"Anyway," Sam continued, "are you planning a major comeback to outblast your opponent through the roofs of the ratings?"
"Probably not," answered Joe. "I think that I'll just go on doing exactly as I've been doing for the past couple of months."
"And what's that?"
"I don't know. Maybe I'll find out as I move along. In the end, I'm sure that everything will work out fine."
"All right. Whatever you say."
"Isn't that how it's always been?"
"No, it's always been 'The customer is always right.' Now it's 'Whatever you say.'"
"Whatever you say."
"Hey, if you say that enough, you just might attract some more customers than we get now."
"Whatever you say."
"Get outta town! (Hee hee!)"
Joe started in on another drink, when suddenly George Steinbach, or Sly Sty as he was more lovingly called by the folks in the polker club, bent over and whispered to Joe, "You gonna play in the big game in a couple o' days?" Sty was the in-house poker champ, and he had the money to prove it.
Joe finished his drink and replied, "Ya know, I don't think I really could go for that high stakes stuff. Low budget, you know."
Actually, Sly Sty had no idea what it meant to have a low budget, but he dismissed the poor patron anyway with a look of mock-understanding on his well-trained polker face.
Suddenly, Jacky screamed, "Copsh er comin'!"
Sam yelled, "Emergency precautions!" while thinking silently to himself, "Why isn't he asleep yet?"
Everyone quickly stuffed their bottles into their pants, acted as sober as possible, and made all possible signs of being in a normal juice bar, not a Speakeasy.
The cops kicked the door down, walked in and said, "We hear you've been selling alcohol illegally!"
Sam innocently replied, "Me? I only sell juice. Actually, I do sell some beer, I admit."
"Just as I suspected."
Sam chuckled and said, "Root Beer!" The rest of the bar smiled and giggled, though repulsed by the bluntly bad joke.
Though unamused, the cop turned sheepish and apologized: "Well then, I just suppose we'll get going. Ya know, with prohibition comin' out now, we gotta be careful. Personally, I can't wait 'till they amend it. It's like Stinky Cheese to enforce it."
"You'd be surprised," muttered Sam as police man left the bar, and everyone returned to their normal state of half-drunk lolly-gagging.
After a while, Joe made his way to the door. At this time, the young Jizzo, a member of the neighborhood gang "The Stingers", bumped into him. "Hey," Joe scolded, jokingly, "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
"Whatever you say," was Jizzo's reply.
Joe started laughing inwardly.
"What's so funny?" asked Jizzo.
Joe regained his composure and replied, "Never mind."
After a couple moments of awkward silence, Jizzo tried to strike up a conversation by saying, "You know, it's come to my attention that you are a slave to your work and you have no social life beyond the bounds of this illegal bar in the backstreets of Chicago."
Somewhat taken aback, Joe replied, "So?"
"So I was thinking, maybe you could hang out with my gang at some point. We could hang out and have fun."
After pausing for a while (just so he wouldn't look inconsiderate), Joe replied, "Sorry pal, but I'm too busy."
"Thanks for proving my point." Jizzo then averted his attention to Sam: "Hey, can I have something? I like it hard and cool."
"What's the magic word?" answered Sam, trying to improve on his youngest customer's manners.
Jizzo let out a long sigh. "Please?"
"All right," said Sam. He then took the anesthetics out again and winked at Joe.
Still somewhat startled by the boy's words, yet strangely amused at the proceedings, Joe left the bar, half-reluctantly.
