Title borrowed from NinjaGW and written in response to Chuck Windig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2015/09/25/flash-fiction-challenge-now-choose-your-title/
“Oh wow, it looks just like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory!” The large woman in leopard print says.
People don’t realize that I hear that every day, and that it makes me cringe each time. Still, I plaster the smile across my face and pretend like I don’t want to dump the person in a vat of boiling hops. I realize that the brewery is, indeed, quite impressive when you first walk in. The 400 barrel tanks are striking enough, but when you round the corner and find yourself in front of the 800-barrel whopper, it’s difficult not to be impressed – that’s over 24,000 gallons of beer, after all. The glycol pipes are brightly colored overhead, and signs with a whimsical font point out the kettles, whirlpools, and centrifuges. The bottling line moves swiftly and workers in white coveralls warn people not to touch anything. So, yeah, I see why people think this is Wonka-esque.
All the same, I’d rather they didn’t feel the need to say it. When you’ve been a tour guide as long as I have, every repetitive question and loathsome witticism becomes intolerable. The newer guides do not understand my bile; they are just so pleased with themselves that they work at a brewery. You’d think they were given the keys to heaven’s gates rather than the keys to the storage room. And the free case of beer they get for their troubles – you’d think that was liquid gold. They don’t realize that after a few years, every tourist’s face is the same, every question they ask is stupid, and every beer tastes the identical.
Don’t get me wrong, I love beer. That’s what drives people to work at a brewery, after all. Perhaps I’ve just become too accustomed to everything. Or perhaps I’m just like Willy Wonka, himself - antisocial and controlling, with a general sense of repugnance for whomever steps into the brewery. And like Wonka, I can pretend to be perfectly charming and provide people with a great tour experience even while I’m plotting their death in my head.
Today, however, the routine is a bit more difficult than usual. Typically, I have a few beers before, during, and after each tour to help with my misanthropy. It’s just not working very well today. I’m sure the woman in the leopard print saw me wince when she uttered the clever line I’ve heard so many times before. And I said “stop touching that!” a little too angrily at the old man who was merely resting his arm on the hop bin. It was all I could do to hold on until the end of the last Saturday tour.
I began to usher the tourists out of the brew house when something caught my eye. Behind one of the newer tanks sat a six-pack of beer. Most beer bottles are brown or green, but these are blue – a very odd color choice. I wanted to go inspect the odd items further, but I had to answer questions, give out beer samples, and help out in the retail area before we closed for the day.
With everyone now gone, I take the opportunity to check out the mystery brew in the beer house. It’s still there! Now, it’s my job to know all the beers the brewery makes. And it’s my job to be on top of the new brews that aren’t even on the shelves yet, but I have never seen this beer. The label is done in a sort of Art Deco fashion, which looks quite striking upon the blue glass of the bottle. The beer is simply titled: “The World After.” There is no indication if it’s a lager or ale; no indication whatsoever of the style, the IBUs, the ABV – simply nothing to tell me what it is.
I know that if I drink this beer, I might be out of a job. I can’t take it with me, and if I drink it right here, right now, I could get caught. I pull the bottle opener key chain out of my pocket and turn it over a few times. Does this job even matter to me anymore? Sure, no one wants to be jobless and penniless, but why hold onto something that just makes me more and more miserable with each passing day? I almost pop the bottle top, but stop.
“This is fucking stupid,” I say out loud to no one. “Why risk a job for a sip of mystery beer?”
I walk away shaking my head at how ridiculous I am, but I can’t open the brew house door. There’s another exit on the far side, past all the bottling and kegging rooms, but those would be locked from the outside by this time. How the hell did I get locked in here? It really pisses me off, actually, to think that my coworkers and boss think so little of me that they wouldn’t even notice that I hadn’t left the premises yet. They all have their heads stuck up their asses, but they should at least notice I didn’t clock out with them. Christ, my Nissan is still parked in the lot! Perhaps it’s my fault. If I bothered to say hello or good-bye to anyone, they might be more aware of my presence, or lack thereof. But what’s the use?
I could pull an alarm or something, but I really don’t want to bring that kind of attention to myself. I could use one of the phones to call my boss, but I don’t know her phone number – Hell, I don’t know anyone’s phone number. Well, when fate wants something to happen, it happens, and I’m getting the feeling that fate wants me to try this damn beer.
As I re-approach the six-pack, it seems to have changed a bit, but I can’t put my finger on the exact alteration. Taking the bottle opener back out of my pocket, I do not hesitate this time. Pop. Cap is off. The aroma is reminiscent of Belgian yeast, but not quite. It is floral and grassy at the same time – probably from dry-hopping. I take a sip.
I don’t know what happened, but I find myself waking up in the brew house, just as the door is being unlocked.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” My boss asks me.
“I really don’t know, Kathy. I took a sip of this beer and I seemed to have passed out,” I say, trying to work the honesty angle.
“What beer?”
“Right here!” I say pointing to the six-pack.
“Look, we have two choices, here. I can fire you right now, or you can go home and take some vacation days and give me some time to get over this little prank of yours.”
“What prank? I told you what happened!”
“Look, Jenny, everyone has noticed how taciturn you’ve become. When you first started here, you were my best tour guide – so enthusiastic. But now look at you. You’re passing out in the beer house and you’re stealing beer.”
I couldn’t really argue with her. She was right.
“Any way I can take the beer home with me? I know that’s way too much to ask, but…”
“What beer, Jenny?”
“The World After…right there…” I say, pointing to where it still sat.
“Are you on drugs or something?”
“No! You don’t see it?”
“Jenn, just get your shit and go home. I’ll call you in a few days.”
Kathy left and I stood there, trying to figure out what happened. The six-pack is clearly there. I walk over and pick up the bottle that only has one swig missing from it. I put it to my lips and let the odd elixir work its way down my throat. This time, I don’t pass out. The first sip might have been the inoculation, and now I can handle it.
Kathy re-enters the brew house.
“I told you to go. What the hell are you still doing in here?”
“Look, boss, you need to shut the hell up.”
“Come again?”
I begin to see things differently. It is as if The World After beer is really showing me a world after this one. I see myself wasting years and years doing a job I hate, and I see myself putting up with the stupid ideas and opinions of people who should just shut the hell up. I see myself growing old and dying alone. I see the whole futility of these games we play – how we pretend work is important and money means something. Death is the end of futility. I now see that I do, indeed, have two choices, but they are not the choices put forth by Kathy. I have the same two choices everyone else does: I can play along this empty game until death, or I shuffle the cards completely and live more deliberately.
Kathy is staring at me, waiting for me to apologize or excuse myself.
“Listen here, girly,” Kathy says to me. “I am this close to canning your ass. Just give me one more reason.”
“Sorry, Kathy. I don’t know what’s come over me. You’re right – I just need to take a few days off and get my head straight.”
“That sounds fine. We may still need to talk about this when you get back, though. I swear that if you weren’t one of my most reliable, long-standing employees, your ass would be out on the street by now.”
I take the six-pack with me as I leave. Kathy can’t see it anyway, so I won’t get in further trouble by absconding with it. I polish it off over the next several days and then return to work, ready to perform my tour guide duties.
The beer showed me what could have been. It showed me every alternate reality and every consequence from myriad choices. The beer showed me that the world after is really no different than the world here. I have chosen this job, this personality, this winner-less game. I wanted that first sip because I craved something new and had a fledgling thought that enlightenment dwelled there.
“Oh, it looks just like Willy Wonka in here!” The fat lady in the zebra print exclaims.
I smile.
She doesn’t know it yet, but zebra lady will be killed with a broken beer bottle later today. The blood will pour over those black and white stripes and it will look just like a beast killing another beast in the wild. I will transcend.
“Oh wow, it looks just like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory!” The large woman in leopard print says.
People don’t realize that I hear that every day, and that it makes me cringe each time. Still, I plaster the smile across my face and pretend like I don’t want to dump the person in a vat of boiling hops. I realize that the brewery is, indeed, quite impressive when you first walk in. The 400 barrel tanks are striking enough, but when you round the corner and find yourself in front of the 800-barrel whopper, it’s difficult not to be impressed – that’s over 24,000 gallons of beer, after all. The glycol pipes are brightly colored overhead, and signs with a whimsical font point out the kettles, whirlpools, and centrifuges. The bottling line moves swiftly and workers in white coveralls warn people not to touch anything. So, yeah, I see why people think this is Wonka-esque.
All the same, I’d rather they didn’t feel the need to say it. When you’ve been a tour guide as long as I have, every repetitive question and loathsome witticism becomes intolerable. The newer guides do not understand my bile; they are just so pleased with themselves that they work at a brewery. You’d think they were given the keys to heaven’s gates rather than the keys to the storage room. And the free case of beer they get for their troubles – you’d think that was liquid gold. They don’t realize that after a few years, every tourist’s face is the same, every question they ask is stupid, and every beer tastes the identical.
Don’t get me wrong, I love beer. That’s what drives people to work at a brewery, after all. Perhaps I’ve just become too accustomed to everything. Or perhaps I’m just like Willy Wonka, himself - antisocial and controlling, with a general sense of repugnance for whomever steps into the brewery. And like Wonka, I can pretend to be perfectly charming and provide people with a great tour experience even while I’m plotting their death in my head.
Today, however, the routine is a bit more difficult than usual. Typically, I have a few beers before, during, and after each tour to help with my misanthropy. It’s just not working very well today. I’m sure the woman in the leopard print saw me wince when she uttered the clever line I’ve heard so many times before. And I said “stop touching that!” a little too angrily at the old man who was merely resting his arm on the hop bin. It was all I could do to hold on until the end of the last Saturday tour.
I began to usher the tourists out of the brew house when something caught my eye. Behind one of the newer tanks sat a six-pack of beer. Most beer bottles are brown or green, but these are blue – a very odd color choice. I wanted to go inspect the odd items further, but I had to answer questions, give out beer samples, and help out in the retail area before we closed for the day.
With everyone now gone, I take the opportunity to check out the mystery brew in the beer house. It’s still there! Now, it’s my job to know all the beers the brewery makes. And it’s my job to be on top of the new brews that aren’t even on the shelves yet, but I have never seen this beer. The label is done in a sort of Art Deco fashion, which looks quite striking upon the blue glass of the bottle. The beer is simply titled: “The World After.” There is no indication if it’s a lager or ale; no indication whatsoever of the style, the IBUs, the ABV – simply nothing to tell me what it is.
I know that if I drink this beer, I might be out of a job. I can’t take it with me, and if I drink it right here, right now, I could get caught. I pull the bottle opener key chain out of my pocket and turn it over a few times. Does this job even matter to me anymore? Sure, no one wants to be jobless and penniless, but why hold onto something that just makes me more and more miserable with each passing day? I almost pop the bottle top, but stop.
“This is fucking stupid,” I say out loud to no one. “Why risk a job for a sip of mystery beer?”
I walk away shaking my head at how ridiculous I am, but I can’t open the brew house door. There’s another exit on the far side, past all the bottling and kegging rooms, but those would be locked from the outside by this time. How the hell did I get locked in here? It really pisses me off, actually, to think that my coworkers and boss think so little of me that they wouldn’t even notice that I hadn’t left the premises yet. They all have their heads stuck up their asses, but they should at least notice I didn’t clock out with them. Christ, my Nissan is still parked in the lot! Perhaps it’s my fault. If I bothered to say hello or good-bye to anyone, they might be more aware of my presence, or lack thereof. But what’s the use?
I could pull an alarm or something, but I really don’t want to bring that kind of attention to myself. I could use one of the phones to call my boss, but I don’t know her phone number – Hell, I don’t know anyone’s phone number. Well, when fate wants something to happen, it happens, and I’m getting the feeling that fate wants me to try this damn beer.
As I re-approach the six-pack, it seems to have changed a bit, but I can’t put my finger on the exact alteration. Taking the bottle opener back out of my pocket, I do not hesitate this time. Pop. Cap is off. The aroma is reminiscent of Belgian yeast, but not quite. It is floral and grassy at the same time – probably from dry-hopping. I take a sip.
I don’t know what happened, but I find myself waking up in the brew house, just as the door is being unlocked.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” My boss asks me.
“I really don’t know, Kathy. I took a sip of this beer and I seemed to have passed out,” I say, trying to work the honesty angle.
“What beer?”
“Right here!” I say pointing to the six-pack.
“Look, we have two choices, here. I can fire you right now, or you can go home and take some vacation days and give me some time to get over this little prank of yours.”
“What prank? I told you what happened!”
“Look, Jenny, everyone has noticed how taciturn you’ve become. When you first started here, you were my best tour guide – so enthusiastic. But now look at you. You’re passing out in the beer house and you’re stealing beer.”
I couldn’t really argue with her. She was right.
“Any way I can take the beer home with me? I know that’s way too much to ask, but…”
“What beer, Jenny?”
“The World After…right there…” I say, pointing to where it still sat.
“Are you on drugs or something?”
“No! You don’t see it?”
“Jenn, just get your shit and go home. I’ll call you in a few days.”
Kathy left and I stood there, trying to figure out what happened. The six-pack is clearly there. I walk over and pick up the bottle that only has one swig missing from it. I put it to my lips and let the odd elixir work its way down my throat. This time, I don’t pass out. The first sip might have been the inoculation, and now I can handle it.
Kathy re-enters the brew house.
“I told you to go. What the hell are you still doing in here?”
“Look, boss, you need to shut the hell up.”
“Come again?”
I begin to see things differently. It is as if The World After beer is really showing me a world after this one. I see myself wasting years and years doing a job I hate, and I see myself putting up with the stupid ideas and opinions of people who should just shut the hell up. I see myself growing old and dying alone. I see the whole futility of these games we play – how we pretend work is important and money means something. Death is the end of futility. I now see that I do, indeed, have two choices, but they are not the choices put forth by Kathy. I have the same two choices everyone else does: I can play along this empty game until death, or I shuffle the cards completely and live more deliberately.
Kathy is staring at me, waiting for me to apologize or excuse myself.
“Listen here, girly,” Kathy says to me. “I am this close to canning your ass. Just give me one more reason.”
“Sorry, Kathy. I don’t know what’s come over me. You’re right – I just need to take a few days off and get my head straight.”
“That sounds fine. We may still need to talk about this when you get back, though. I swear that if you weren’t one of my most reliable, long-standing employees, your ass would be out on the street by now.”
I take the six-pack with me as I leave. Kathy can’t see it anyway, so I won’t get in further trouble by absconding with it. I polish it off over the next several days and then return to work, ready to perform my tour guide duties.
The beer showed me what could have been. It showed me every alternate reality and every consequence from myriad choices. The beer showed me that the world after is really no different than the world here. I have chosen this job, this personality, this winner-less game. I wanted that first sip because I craved something new and had a fledgling thought that enlightenment dwelled there.
“Oh, it looks just like Willy Wonka in here!” The fat lady in the zebra print exclaims.
I smile.
She doesn’t know it yet, but zebra lady will be killed with a broken beer bottle later today. The blood will pour over those black and white stripes and it will look just like a beast killing another beast in the wild. I will transcend.