The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer Page 6
Chapter 6
The Adventures of Charly Dodgers
Charly Dodgers was scheduled to die. Today, Sunday, at 1:00 EST, sharp. Unaware of his impending demise, he wandered blissfully through the Colonial Eden Farmers’ Market.
The time was 12:51, a mere nine minutes until Charly dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of the Farmers' Market, ruining not just his own day but everybody else's, because the Market would shut down for the rest of the afternoon after the unfortunate incident.
At 12:52, Charly paused at the Olde Eden Flower Shoppe's stall to have a quick sniff of the blooms. Half a minute later he plodded along, thinking that stopping and smelling the roses just wasn’t the same anymore, since he couldn't smell anymore.
From 12:54 to 12:55 he lallygagged by the Eden Art Gallery's tent to look at some interesting-looking modern artwork that turned out, upon closer examination, to be not so interesting.
Just after 12:55 he stopped at the beekeeper’s tent and bought a jar of the “best honey within a thousand miles” for a lady-friend he was in the process of wooing (she was a young one, only fifty-nine). It was 12:57 when he walked back into the bustling Market.
The Clock that brings about the end of all clocks hit two minutes till doom when Charly Dodgers limped by the Olde Eden Brewery tent and heard: “Free beer here! Free samples of our newest brew! One per customer, if you please, sir. I’m sorry, ma'am, but there are no exceptions. We have other brews for sale over there, sir. No, ma'am, this particular batch you’re drinking now will not be available for public purchase until Wednesday morning.”
Well, you only live once, thought Charly. He shuffled into the tent past the grinning bouncer, who didn’t bother to card him.
“And you, sir, how about you? You haven’t had one yet, and trust me, it’s to die for,” jabbered the man at the counter. He handed out cheap plastic cups filled with beer to the eager crowd while his nose twitched as though long overdue for a sneeze. “Or to live for, rather, for the taste will have you soaring in the clouds with Eagle . . . I mean, with the eagles, of course.”
“What the hell is it?” asked Charly, fifty-eight seconds left in this world.
“It’s free beer, sir,” said the man, who boasted comically long and lean ears. He called back to the man pouring the beer: “One for the walking dead here, compadre!”
“Caw-caw-caw-ming right up, mate,” said the other man, whose pointed, protruding nose reminded Fergie of a bird's beak.
Charly made clear he was not impressed with a phlegmy snort. He reached the serving table with forty-three seconds left to live. “What kinda beer is it? It must not be very good, 'cause if it was really as good as you say, you’d definitely be chargin' for it.”
The ice-cold beer was delivered into Big Ears's hands by Bird Nose. “It’s the Olde Eden Brewery’s newest effort, sir,” said Big Ears, offering the plastic cup to Fergie. “A summer brew called Hoppy Heaven Ale. The best beer you’ve ever tasted, and will ever taste.”
“I doubt that,” said Charly, and harrumphed. “Do you know how old I am, young man?”
“Not a clue. Maybe a hundred, but I doubt it. At that age most human beings aren’t . . . [twitch, twitch] . . . upright anymore.”
“I’m seventy-five years old, and I’m gonna live till I’m a hundred,” boasted Charly, sixteen seconds before he was no more. “I get a physical every year to renew my pilot's license, and me own granpappy lived till he was a hunnerd and nine.” He stared with rheumy eyes at the beer in Big Ears's hand. With nine seconds left till the bitter end, he grabbed it and gave it a sniff.
Wow, he could actually smell it, and it smelled really good.
“Go ahead, old man,” said Big Ears. “I guarantee you'll like it.”
Four seconds until his life departed his body, Charly shrugged (three seconds), thought (two seconds) Shoot, why the hell not?, and (one half-second) tossed a slug of Hoppy Heaven Ale down his throat . . . and Charly Dodgers, that lucky old fool, did not die as scheduled.
Charly finished off the rest of his beer in a minute or two. He then remarked to Big Ears how good the Hoppy Heaven Ale was and inquired if he would make an exception on the one-drink cutoff for a senior citizen. When he was rebuffed by Big Ears and given an evil look by Bird Nose, Charly shrugged and slow-stepped his way out of the beer tent—and spent the rest of the afternoon feeling better than he had in ages.