The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer Page 2
Chapter 2
The Alchemist
As the descending sun met the treetops of nearby Tranquil Forest Park, Jack Whiskey pumped regular unleaded into his dilapidated Honda hatchback. The year was 2011, but nobody passing by looked twice at a man dressed in stockings, doublet, and powdered wig pumping gas into a busted old Accord. The population of Eden was eight-thousand-something, but would swell to city-like proportions during the summer months, when the annual onslaught of tourists descended on the town in the manner of plundering, pillaging marauders.
And all this to “take in a bit of history.”
Just what this phrase meant—and exactly why people chose to visit the sweltering, mosquito-infested hell that was summertime anywhere within sixty miles of Virginia’s Great Dismal Swamp—was quite beyond Jack, Eden's one and only reenactor alchemist. He had been told that it had something to do with “enjoying living history,” and “stimulating the mind outside the classroom,” and “having an engaging, hands-on learning experience,” but he still didn’t get it.
He paid for his gas with the last of his cash, walked to his ramshackle rust-bucket, and drove to his one-bedroom townhome in the Village of Eden Apartments. On the way, he decided to forgo changing out of his archaic work uniform and walk the few blocks over to his favorite watering hole to beg (he was far from too proud) for a drink. Sir Arthur would be there, sipping Scotch like the gentleman he was and smoking like the burning building he was not, and was always good to buy a poor old friend a beer.
Jack parked the car, jumped out, and sauntered out into the moonlight now hovering in a nimbus over Eden.
The first thing Jack noticed when he emerged into the smoke-wreathed Olde Eden Taphouse was the new bartender. She was a pure, unblemished goddess with raven hair, alabaster skin, ice-blue eyes, and, as many a wise man of Eden had noted, “an ass that just won't quit.” This Saturday evening she wore a black Olde Eden Brewery-logo emblazoned tank-top and white khaki shorts. She cast a glorious light throughout the Land of the Dead that was the Taphouse, lighting the shadowy recesses behind the bar with a luminosity far too brilliant for this dive.
The Taphouse was a wooden shack attached to the hip of the much larger Olde Eden Brewery. A line of retired tapheads of Olde Eden beers no longer in production lined the olden walls; there were hundreds of them, and the display was consistently added to as each seasonal brew was retired. Worn mahogany tables and chairs clustered about the homely pub, leaving an uneven aisle through which it was sometimes possible to navigate over to the bar.
“How goes the alchemy, Jack?” came a familiar chipper voice. “A lost art, in my opinion. It’s a wonder more don’t practice it these days.” Arthur Boyle, beekeeper, had resided in Eden, Virginia, U.S. of A., for decades now, but his robust British accent had not receded in the slightest. Everybody called him Sir Arthur because he was English and a faultless gentleman. He could not be seen through a haze of curling blue pipe smoke.
“Art, you’ll be the first to know when I discover the Philosopher’s Stone. And when the accolades come raining down on me and I become the richest man in the world, why, I'll let you stand next to me—nay, kneel before me—and bask in the radiance of my presence. Perhaps I'll allow you the privilege of feeding me grapes and anointing my feet with expensive oil. Yes. Perhaps. But until then”—Jack deposited himself on the barstool next to the beekeeper—“can you spot me a beer or six?”
The London-esque fog parted like an ephemeral sea, and Sir Arthur's smiling face appeared, his hawkish nose leading the charge through the miasma. He had dark hair flecked with gray and an intense gaze that penetrated your soul and read your innermost thoughts and fears.
“But of course, my good man! But instead of that beer, you should broaden your Bacchic horizons with a finger of this Scotch whisky. 'Tis a far superior product to beer, and I assure you that it complies fully with the standards set forth in the Scotch whisky order of 1990 (UK).”
“No, thanks. Beer me.”
Sir Arthur gave Jack a critical eye, then shrugged. “You don’t know what you’re missing, my morose friend. But it's your decision, of course.”
“No, you don't know what you're missing. Olde Eden beer is the best beer on the eastern seaboard, maybe in the entire country.” Jack ordered a pint of Olde Eden Sticky-Icky Stout from the hot new bartender, who smiled at him a little bit, he thought. Or was he delusional? After all, what interest could a goddess like that have in an “alchemist” with a dead-end job and a wreck of an automobile? Why, none whatsoever, of course. If she had smiled, she was just being polite, like she was polite to all customers, working those tips.
Wishing he hadn’t thought about it so hard, Jack drained half the pint of Sticky-Icky in a single quaff and—
Hey, wait a second.
He turned to the beekeeper, whose eyes seemed to be delving into the workings of his mind like two tiny psychological X-ray machines. “How did you know I was down, Art?”
Sir Arthur took a deep breath and began to speak in a plodding tone, as might a professor giving a lecture to a dimwitted class. “Why, it's really quite simple, if you think about it. The bags under your eyes have grown increasingly darker over the last few days, and you have said little on those evenings we have partaken of one another's respective delightful presences. You haven't washed your eighteenth-century work uniform there in—let's see here—five days, and you have worn said uniform up to the Taphouse every night this week, whereas in times past you would often freshen up at least a touch before a 'night on the town.' Oh, and the scraggly, unkempt growth that has sprouted like some gruesome weed upon your face has not been trimmed in ten days.”
After a silent moment, Jack said, “Damn, Art. You got it all right on.”
Sir Arthur's eyes went guarded. He took a long pull of his pipe, exhaled, and said through the cloud once again fortifying itself about his person: “Lucky guess, perhaps. But might I ask what ails you?”
Jack sighed. “Recently I just don't feel myself, is all. Like I don't belong. Like something vital's missing in my life, but I couldn't tell you what it might be.”
Sir Arthur smiled, but not at Jack's reply. He had just observed his good friend Mirbodi Madhaha enter the Taphouse—a rare occurrence, indeed.
“Master! Master Mirbodi!” called the beekeeper over the growing conversational din.
The Head Monk in Charge of New Shaolin Monastery caught sight of the Englishman and an ear-splitting smile spread across his face. The venerable monk glided over to the bar, effortlessly dodging tables and wobbly patrons, his staff tap-tap-tapping on the hardwood floor, his legs not appearing to move underneath his person, hidden somewhere beneath his voluminous patchwork robes.
“My friend!” said Master Mirbodi. “I no see you long time. Where you be, huh? Separating queen bee only—ha ha—so much work, you know.”
The monk clasped his hands together and bowed to Sir Arthur—who stood up and did likewise—then sat down on the barstool next to Jack. The hot new bartender walked up and smiled a dazzling smile, all luscious lips and perfect white teeth, and Master Mirbodi ordered a hot green tea.
This oddball Taphouse order perplexed the hot new bartender for a moment, but she soon recovered with: “No problem, sir. Hot green tea, coming right up.”
When the tea arrived, Master Mirbodi rested his staff on the bar and took a satisfied sip. Then he peered at Jack. “Hey, you alchemist. Any luck with Elixir of Life thing yet?”
Jack Whiskey smiled at the question (which he got all the damned time). “No, no luck yet, Master. But you must understand, it's all about the effect of the thing. I get dressed up in colonial garb and smear a little paint on my uniform while the tourists pile into the laboratory for the hourly spectacle. I do a little intro bit about alchemists in colonial America, blah blah blah. I add ingredients to the cauldron, it bubbles and gurgles and spews green smoke. I cackle and limp around the room, pulling at my hair and dragging my 'bum' leg and acting like a crazy
asshole, muttering things like 'Finally, the Elixir of Life is mine!' and 'Now I shall live forever, like the gods!' The show ends in a grandiose fake explosion, and I sidle out the hidden back door in the hubbub, blasted to oblivion for my Eternal Life-seeking ways. Your one and only Eden alchemist dies a horrible death by chemical fire eight times during a single shift of work. That's forty deaths a week. For the last ten years. More, when I work Saturdays. I'm not even gonna try and add it all up.” He took a sip of beer and grinned at the Zen master. “But when I do discover the Elixir of Life, you’ll be the first to know.”
Master Mirbodi laughed. “Excellent! You let Art here know first, though. I over one hundred years old, and you see me? In perfect shape. Never feel better. You wanna be like this and you got eighty-five dollars each month, you can enroll in kung-fu class. Happen every Monday evening at New Shaolin Dojo. But I no go easy on you because you drinking buddy!”
Under much pressure from the Zen master and the beekeeper, Jack agreed to terms—sixty bucks on Monday (payday!) and green tea for the remainder of the evening (with the tea on Sir Arthur’s tab)—and swore up, down, and around to attend the next meeting of the Future Kung-fu Masters of America. Maybe learning some kung-fu would help him drop the feeling of dissociation recently plaguing him. He wondered whether Master Mirbodi instructed the class or was just some kind of overseer. A one hundred year old man, no matter what kind of shape he was in, couldn’t really teach a weekly kung-fu class, could he?
He brushed away this last thought and ordered up a pint of Olde Eden Helter Swelter Summer Ale. As he did so, his eyes met the entrancing eyes of the hot new bartender, and because of this brief but encouraging glance and the beer now easily flowing down his throat, he forgot about kung-fu for the rest of the evening.
“Well, that gonna do it for me, Art,” said Master Mirbodi, and finished off green tea number nineteen. “I see you at Market tomorrow.”
“Will do. As always, Master, it has been a pleasure.”
The Zen master floated from his barstool and bowed to the beekeeper. He then grabbed his staff, thanked the hot new bartender, tipped her generously, and reminded Jack to attend kung-fu class on Monday evening. And then Master Mirbodi disappeared into the mist, on his way back to New Shaolin Monastery to wreak mindful havoc among the many cringing novices therein.
“Whoa, I zoned out for a minute there,” said Jack, smiling at the hot new bartender. “Aura of the Zen master, I guess. So what's your name?”
“My name is Stephone.”
“Stephanie, huh? A true classic. Oldie but a goodie, I'd say. I'm Jack Whiskey.”
“Actually, my name is Stephone.”
“Er, okay. Stephanie, right?”
“Sorry, wrong again. It's Stephone.”
“Uh . . . am I not hearing you right? Stephanie?”
The bartender sighed, but then rallied with a pretty smile. “It’s spelled with an o - n - e instead of an a - n - i - e. The difference in pronunciation is subtle, but it is noticeable if you’re listening for it.”
“Okay, I’ve got it now. Stephone. It’s quite a unique name.”
“Sure is. But my friends call me Steph. You can call me Steph, if you like.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Stephone. Er, Steph, that is.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack Whiskey.” A customer a few barstools down waved in their direction. “And now I’ve got to get back to work. But I’ll talk to you later, all right?”
“Sure, sure. I’ll be here for a while, so maybe—”
But Stephone had turned away to pour a pint of Olde Eden Bacchic Brown Ale and was no longer listening to the blabbering alchemist.
Jack decided he was going to get Steph's number tonight, wait two or three days, then give her a call. He turned to Sir Arthur, who was yet again surveying him up and down.
“What is it, man? You know, you've got some real penetrating eyes there, Art. Bore straight into a man's brain like a cerebral corkscrew, they do.”
Sir Arthur smiled in a fatherly manner. “Why don’t you just ask her out now? There’s no sense in getting her number and calling her after a couple of days. After all, you’ll just see her up here at the Taphouse tomorrow night, or the night after that, or the night after that, or the night after that.”
“You know, I hadn't thought about that.”
“Yes, and from what I have deduced from but a few seconds of clear-headed observation . . . let's just say that if you did ask her out, she would say ‘yes.' So why not just go for it?”
“Yeah, all right. I’ll catch her before we leave.”
“Oh. Right. When you’re drunk as a skunk and can’t speak straight,” managed Sir Arthur between uncharacteristic giggles. “Good thinking, that.”
“Fine, then. I’ll do it now.” That specific sort of courage brought on only by inebriation arose within Jack's heart and spread, following the path laid out beforehand by the alcohol, through his being. He took a deep breath, beckoned as if in need of a refill, and asked Stephone—not Stephanie, mind you—out to dinner on Tuesday night.
And just as Sir Arthur had predicted, she said “yes.”