Chapter Six
10:48 AM St. Patrick's Day morning saw Sam helping the delivery guy roll fresh beer kegs into the bar's small stock room, ready to hook up to the taps for the party that evening.
Carla slouched over the bar's counter, teetering between angry and despondent.
"You know, there's always next year, Carla," Sam said, tipping the delivery guy, then checking to make sure the exertion of moving and stacking all those kegs hadn't mussed up his hair.
"That's the problem, isn't it," Carla said. "We keep sayin' there's always next year. But, 'next year' is like 'tomorrow,' Sam. You never get to see it. There's only today, and today, and today, and today… Until – suddenly – it's St. Patrick's Day again, and we don't have a single stinkin' prank to pull on Gary!"
The door opened and Woody strode in, followed by—
"Norm!" Sam greeted. "You're in early today. What's up?"
"My blood pressure, Sam," Norm grunted irritably, settling onto his customary stool.
"Ah…" Sam winced. "Then, Cliff is still…"
"He won't talk to me, Sam," Norm said, just playing with the beer mug Sam slid him. "Well, except to say he never wants to set foot in Cheers again."
"Where's he been hanging out, then?" Woody asked.
"Would you believe Gary's Tavern?" Norm shook his head and sighed. "I don't know, guys. I think it really messed him up when that date blew up in his face."
"Oh, man," Woody said, struggling to hold back a rather inappropriate giggle. "I never saw anything like that. Poor Mr. Clavin running down those stairs, and Dr. Crane running after him, shouting and snapping his fingers. Then, that pretty lady came down all worried, and Mr. Clavin just curled up in a little rocking ball…"
"It was a complete and total meltdown…" Sam said somberly and shook his head. "Man… You know, you can't help but feel for the guy. All he wanted was some confidence, you know? A little self-esteem. Was that really so much to ask?"
"For Clavin?" Carla snarked.
"Guess there really are no shortcuts in life, are there," Woody said, tying on an apron. "Oh, and speaking of shortcuts, I was thinking: What if we all went down to Gary's with electric shears, right? We order something off the top shelf, yeah, and, when he turns around to reach for it, we—"
"We are not shaving Gary's head, OK," Sam said, carefully smoothing his own hair. "Look, it's just about opening time, and Carla's right: we have nothing. I say we just let Gary have this one…you know, let him think he's got us beat. But really, it's just a ploy – to give us more time to get him next year!"
Carla rolled her eyes and pushed off the bar.
"Yeah, whatever," she grumped. "Sounds like more excuses to me…"
Busy holidays tend to make time quicken its pace and, by 5:25 PM, Cheers was unusually busy. All the tables were full, the back room was crammed to bursting, and clots of laughing, drinking people clogged the paths Carla usually trod as she squeezed her way back to the bar.
"Even for St. Patrick's Day, this is nuts," Carla shouted over the live Irish folk band and happily chattering crowds, taking a moment to wipe her brow and catch her breath as she waited for Woody to refill her serving tray. "I've never seen the joint so packed! Where's Sam?"
"Oh, he went up to Melville's to see if he could bum a few spare chairs," Woody shouted back as he topped an Irish coffee with a squirt of whipped cream. He and Carla were standing barely two feet apart, yet Carla still had to lean closer to catch his words. "Miss Howe's suggestion."
"Sounds like one of her dopey ideas," Carla snarked. "Seriously, though, when did we become standing-room-only? There's something screwy going on here, I'm telling you. Gary's up to something. All these people didn't just walk in here on their own."
Al looked up from his accustomed stool, set on a diagonal from Norm's corner territory, and barked a sarcastic laugh.
"I'm not kidding!" Carla shot back. "This kind of turn out isn't normal, even for a holiday. I smell a set up!"
Norm snorted over his beer mug.
"What are you saying?" he asked. "Do you think, like, Gary paid a bunch of people to jam themselves in here? What would be the point of that?"
"Uh oh," Paul said, staring toward the door where a stocky man in a blue uniform was making his way down toward the bar. "Don't look now, but isn't that the Fire Marshal?"
"What?" Norm squinted, craning his neck to see past the crowds. "Hey, Carla? What's the max capacity of this bar?"
"Why?" she asked suspiciously as she hefted her newly filled drinks tray.
"Because I think you might have been on to something with that set-up idea," Norm said, and indicated the uniformed man with his chin. "What do you think? That guy with the fire department?"
Carla looked over just in time to see Rebecca smile at the man and pour him a beer from the tap.
"Morons," she grunted, pushing her way back through the clots of people between her and her table. "That's no fireman. Don't you dinks know a postal jacket when you see one?"
Norm and Paul leaned sideways, straining to get a clearer look.
"She's right," Norm said. "There's the postal eagle on the sleeve."
"It's weird," Paul said. "I never really saw a postman here off duty, apart from Cliff."
"Yeah..." Norm took a thoughtful swig of his beer. "Still, that was a pretty close call."
"You think, maybe, Gary is planning something?" Paul asked.
"I don't know," Norm said. "But I don't like it, just sitting here, waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Got a plan?"
"Just this," Norm said, and waved Woody over.
"Yes, Mr. Peterson?" Woody asked.
"Five beers here, Woody," Norm said, and gave Paul a shrug. "If something is gonna happen, might as well drink up while we can."
"Right," Paul said. "I'll have five beers too. Well...better make that two to start. No, three."
"Right away," Woody said, only to frown when the tap's nozzle fizzled loudly.
That's when Sam strode down the stairs from Melville's, carrying two folding metal chairs under each arm.
"There you go, Rebecca," he said, leaning them against the bannister. "This is all they had to spare."
"All they were willing to spare, you mean," Rebecca said irritably. "Look at this place! There are more people standing than sitting!"
"So, we're having a good day," Sam said. "What do you want from me?"
"Hey, Sam!" Woody called from the bar. "We need some fresh kegs hooked up over here!"
"I'm on it, Woody," Sam said, and smiled at Rebecca. "Sorry, hun, but duty calls. If you'll excuse me..."
The swap only took a few minutes, but the regulars were already getting antsy by the time Sam had finished.
"Here you go, Norm," Sam said, flipping and catching a frosted mug behind his back before smoothly sliding it under the tap. "One fresh beer coming right...up..."
"Sam..." Norm frowned. "I know it's St. Patrick's Day and everything, but purple beer? If you had to dye the stuff, shouldn't it be green?"
"Just wait a sec here, Norm. Let me try another," Sam said, grabbing a second mug.
"Blue!" Paul exclaimed.
"Eew, gross," Woody commented, peering at the blue beer over Sam's shoulder. "It looks like Windex. With bubbles."
Sam set his jaw and shook his head, trying the next two taps with similar results.
"Orange!" the regulars cried. "Red!"
"OK, I get it," Sam said, unable to hide his deep annoyance. "Yeah, very funny Gary! We're busier than we've ever been, and I'm stuck serving multi-colored beer..."
"Multi-flavored too," Norm said, sipping experimentally at the purple-tinted liquid. "This one's kinda...grapey. Hey, Paul. How much'll you give me to drink that blue one?"
"No, come on guys," Sam said, quickly moving the mugs out of reach. "I don't think you should be drinking this stuff until we know what Gary put in it."
"What makes you think it's Gary?" Al asked, still nursing a nearly full mug of untinted beer.
"Who else would it be?" Sam asked.
Al shrugged and took a deliberately long, slow sip of his beer.
Norm and Paul almost fell over the bar in their envy.
"And I'm telling you, he's not going to be here," Lilith's monotone voice pierced through the deafening chatter and live music. She and Frasier pushed and glared their way past the bar to stop at Norm's corner. "There, you see?" she said. "I was right."
"If you're looking for Cliffy, he's gone," Norm informed them, making sure Sam, Woody and Rebecca were busy with other customers before reaching over the bar to fill his old mug with some purple from the nearest tap.
Lilith and Frasier stared at the sudsy substance with identical looks of disgust.
"I may be woefully off base here," Frasier said. "And, please, correct me if I'm wrong... But, if one must consume artificially tinted beer on St. Patrick's Day, should that tint not be green?"
"Sam figures it's part of Gary's prank on us," Norm said once he'd drained the glass. "Ooh..." He winced, and burped a little. "Grape."
Lilith turned her head away, ostensibly in disgust, but Frasier could swear he saw her shoulders shake at least once in silent laughter.
"Yes, well..." Frasier said. "We came here tonight because we wanted to apologize. We both feel terrible about how we behaved. But, if Cliff's already left—"
"Oh, he didn't leave," Paul said, tentatively poking at the mug of blue-tinted beer, then licking his finger.
"What do you mean?" Lilith asked.
"He means, Cliff hasn't been in today," Norm told them. "He hasn't set foot in this bar since the night he had that breakdown. And he's sworn, before witnesses, that he'll never set foot in here again."
"Oh, Frasier, this is worse than we thought," Lilith said.
"I know," Frasier fretted. "So much of Cliff's identity was wrapped up in this bar. Why, his entire social world— What's that?" He tilted his head toward the door. "Did anyone hear that?"
"Frasier, honestly, who can hear anything over all this din," Lilith started, then frowned. "No, wait - there is something..."
"I think it's coming from the street," Frasier observed, trying (without much success) to edge toward the direction of the door.
Soon, other heads began to turn, then to rise. As the chatter and music slowly died down inside, the noises outside became clearer, louder.
"It sounds like voices," Rebecca said worriedly. "Raised voices."
"They're getting nearer," Sam said, moving to stick his head out the door. "Whatever this is, I think they're coming here."
"Sounds like a lot of people, Sam," Carla warned. "And, we're crammed in here like sardines as it is!"
"Let me just..." Sam climbed halfway up the stairs to the street, then halfway again before charging back down into the bar.
"It's Gary," he announced. "He's on his way, with about ten of his pals. And, I think Cliff's with them."
"Then, he really has gone to the dark side," Norm intoned, sadly shaking his head.
"OK, everyone, make room," Rebecca said, herding standing groups of patrons nearer to the walls as the door burst open and Gary's gang marched in, at least three of them holding a loudly protesting Cliff firmly by the arms.
"No, no, I told you guys, I'm not going back! I won't!" he cried, as the other men pushed and pulled and finally lifted him into the bar.
"Well played, Sam," Gary said, slapping his hands on the bar. "I gotta admit, you finally got me."
Sam shared a blank look with his friends, but shot a cocky smile at Gary.
"Oh yeah?" he hedged.
"This mailman of yours you sent in as a plant, pretending like you had some falling out," Gary said. "It took a while for me to catch on, but once I did..." He shook his head. "I gotta hand it to you guys. I didn't think you could do subtle. But this guy - he's like frickin' Kryptonite! Every time he opens his mouth, my business gets weaker and weaker." He glanced around the jam-packed bar. "Now, I can see where it went."
Gary set his jaw in frustration.
"So, here it is," he said. "We've come to surrender. We'll do whatever you want: kneel, grovel, sing with our pants around our legs! Just, please, take back the know-it-all!"
"Hey," Cliff protested, still struggling against his captors. "I don't have to take this! I'm an agent of the federal government! And, I know where you live, buddy-boy, so you better let go of me, right now!"
The men released him, and Cliff straightened his jacket with a huff.
"I don't need this," he mumbled into his collar as he headed for the door. "And I don't need any of you!"
"Cliff - wait!" Sam said, and moved out from behind the bar. "Just - just hold on a sec, there. Gary, I swear, I'd love to take credit for whatever's been going wrong at your bar, but I... I just can't." He looked up at Cliff, offering the stewing mailman a little smile. "Not when the whole thing was Cliff's idea!"
"What?" Cliff frowned suspiciously. "Sam, you know I never—"
"Now, now, don't be modest, pal," Sam said, jogging up to take Cliff by the shoulders and lead him back down to the bar. "Not when you've just, single-handedly pulled the greatest St. Patrick's Day fake-out in Cheers's recorded history. Isn't that right, guys?"
The Cheers regulars let out a cheer that was echoed by the crowd.
Cliff's hard expression began to soften.
"Yeah?"
"That's right," Sam said, draping his arm around Cliff's shoulders. "You know how long we've been longing to get one over on Gary. Well, it looks like you've finally done it, buddy. You're a hero!"
"Let's hear it for Cliffy," Norm said, raising a glass of purple high in the air. "Hip hip!"
"Hooray!" the rest of the bar cheered, all except for Gary and his friends.
"Hip hip," Norm prompted.
"Hooray!"
"Hip hip!"
"Hooray!"
As the cheers died down and the music and ordinary conversations started back up, the Cheers regulars gathered around Cliff, Frasier and Lilith offering competing apologies while the rest of them punched his shoulders and slapped him on the back. But, before Gary and his friends could slink away, Sam ran to the office for a camera so he could capture for posterity the image of his long-time rivals bowing and groveling on the floor.
"All right, all right, that's fair enough," Gary snapped churlishly, once the humiliating ritual was finally done with. "You won this round fair and square. But, seriously guys, that mailman of yours cost me enough business this week. Did you really have to spike our kegs with that multi-colored Kool-Aid crap too?"
Sam let that go as a parting shot, but as soon as Gary and his gang had gone, heads still hanging low, he turned to the others with his eyes wide.
"So, it's not just us," he said. "Gary's kegs have been spiked too."
"And, if he's not the one responsible..." Rebecca frowned.
"Then who is?" Carla demanded.
"Hey, you weenies," Al called over the bar, using the bulky, silver clicker to turn on the television in the back of the room. "Take a load of this!"
A news report was on, covering the story of what seemed to be a city-wide prank. Apparently, many bars in the central Boston area had tapped their kegs only to find them tinted with various flavored Kool-Aid powders.
"What's the good of this?" Norm demanded. "They still don't know who's responsible!"
Al laughed, and tilted his hat to a rakish angle.
"Did I ever tell you guys about my nephew?" he asked.
"What about him?" Paul asked, and several people groaned.
"He's got one of those companies, distributes, sells and refills beer kegs and the like," Al said. "Now, I may be an old man, but it wasn't too hard to figure out which kegs were going where...and dump some of that flavored drink powder into the empties about to be filled. Got on the news too."
He smirked, the rest of them staring as the old barfly started shuffling his way toward the door.
"Now that's a prank," he said, pulling on his coat. "See you around, you bunch of weenies.
As the door closed behind him, Sam shook his head in something like respect.
"Well," he said, and smiled at his friends. "Who knew?"
"Well, Sam," Cliff said, squeezing in to lean an elbow against the bar. "It's, eh, it's a little known fact that Kool-Aid actually—"
A roar of protest rose up from the crowd, and a shower of pretzels and beer nuts rained down on Cliff's head and shoudlers.
Cliff ducked his head, and Norm rather guilty dropped the rest of his handful of pretzels back into the bowl.
"Hey," he said. "Hey, Cliffy. You OK?"
Cliff wiped his eyes, straightened his shoulders, and smiled.
"Nahmy, I'm better than OK," he said. "I'm home!"
The End
Sorry for taking so very long to finish this, but I hope you enjoyed my story!
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