A Very Old Song of Law and Sense, of Love of Common, Pure and Simple

Beefcake gets the special treatment. Clothes. Dinner. Born somewhere in Britain, Beergill, as he is known to the Trumpet Boys, Pub girls and the like, has got two fingers on a glass of brown ale anticipating the snatch and wet downing, drowning his sorrows. Meatpie is the assertive sort knuckling the Beefcake scruff, snickering at all the crying and playing fool the special boy was up to. Beergill let out a soup of warm sentiment. The movies were full of this sweetness. Very handsome and vulnerable. Meatpie spit when he spoke, wording sabbath lyrics as smart as nineteen eighties BBC sitcoms plain in design, wordy from memory. The empty pint was slammed onto the table. That is how the story goes. A very pretty girl is all that is missing. The Trumpet Boys fill the soundscape with autumnal-wintry songs.

“Now heres to luck…” sang Meatpie into the face of Beergill, cupping his cheeks, snarling Beefcake’s lips. The two were boy’s boys the way institutional men could be before their testosterone veered off the schoolyard. Their way was to roughhouse and speak of sport, how men grapple in good competition. Beefcake’s prettiness never occurred to Meatpie other than to say he was a nice bit to have when talking to the wimmy tarts. The two played together until a pretty girl of a nonconformist sort might show. It was fun and the two were oblivious despite Beefcake’s pissing and moaning.

Floors above Pub, Sourpuss put out lines for the Industrial Sentiment, an American rag paying for romantic tales of steel and steam, of the brethren of the shakers, quakers and pilgrims alike. Her name was scrawled in stalls all over the Finger lakes to Buffalo up and down the Erie Canal. Steam. She was about to let off some. Going down, Sourpuss could make a game difficult for the boys in Pub. The Trumpet Boys blew a fanfare for the common girl.

Sourpuss’ sister was a talker. Incessant. She talked through movies and in bedrooms where no one else was there but her conversations, constitutional for her mind, carried through the house to be heard as a comforting drone. That is how she heard the trumpets play from her upstairs room and in the like missed bits out of her story like so many movies she could not follow because of her. In Pub she was a girl dropping into conversation the fact that she had lost her run. ” I’ve lost my run.” it was such an economical statement tinged with emotion, just enough to be topical, intriguing, revealing. Sourpuss demonstrated her new run, zipping about the bar in measured bursts. Pub girls inquired how she felt about her run. She was dismissive of its essence and spoke mainly of utility to her good neighbors. Beefcake inserted himself, interjecting, “But your run is everything. It gets you where you go. It can save your life!” Sourpuss noticed the pretty boy for the first time, just before Meatpie shoved his mug in the way. “Ah, an American. Nice, eh Beergilly boy?”

Hellish, devilish made a haze of the air. The washed up robbers and press gangsters huddled around sweet Sourpuss. Meatpie started in with his sabbath hill sermons, “Beloved, there is now set before us life and good, death and evil…”, ripping from Winthrop all the saint’s power to separate the woman from Beefcake with subtle tricks of the heart. Tensions were palpable, increasing and multiplying. Beefcake and Sourpuss played out the montage of sex appeal and witty exchange throughout the night, fought some and laid out this much to say, “…Tis the gift…”‘ The Trumpet Boys played along.


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