Read by Emile Clarke
I got a job at this craft beer bar. They stocked over fifty different beers, of all types. Porter, Pale Ale, IPA, Stout, Bitter, Belgian stuff. The boss was intense in the interview. I thought it would just be the regular conversation; you’ve worked in a bar before yes? When can you start? Great. See you Monday. But this guy, he started telling me about how a revolution was happening in beer. How it was changing, how taste was king and we should all get on board the beer bus towards flavour utopia.
The first few weeks were good. I didn’t drop any glasses or get too many orders wrong. The customers loved drinking and talking about beer. I tasted all the beers we stocked. Some were tastier than others, but I couldn’t quite see what the fuss was about. I could repeat the necessary facts, but I just couldn’t taste what they tasted.
Three months later, the boss asked me to come to this other place near by. He said that he didn’t think I quite understood how amazing beer was. How much it could change my life. I needed to keep the job, so I went. I could pretend. I could talk the talk. Hops, malt, barley, yeast. I knew what went into beer.
The bar looked normal from the outside, big frosted windows, dark window panelling, double doors, benches to sit on outside. Inside, a dimly lit pub, empty, save for a pretty, blonde barmaid. I smiled at her, but before I could say anything, she said, “Downstairs love. That’s where you should be.”
She pointed at a set of stairs to the right of the bar. Then she rubbed her hand on her face, fondling an imaginary beard.
A sign reading ‘Single Hop Festival’ hovered ungainly above the door.
Walking down the first couple of steps I could feel the heat of a hundred drunk bodies radiating from behind the wall. I felt tentative, wondering if I was about to walk into a world I didn’t think I actually wanted to be part of. A subculture of yeast infections, farmyard shits and beer bellies wasn’t entirely attractive. I was too thin, my skin was too smooth. I had a beard, though. I paused, caught in two minds.
Suddenly, a unified, barbaric howl flew out of the basement followed by a resonant silence. I turned back and walked up the stairs. The atavistic noise was too much, too intimidating. The barmaid appeared at the top of the stairs, Silently she put her hands on my shoulders and swivelled me back round.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” she whispered in my ear and gave me a gentle shove.
I stumbled down the steps. The door at the bottom was black, the handle wooden. I glanced up at the barmaid, she gave me an exaggerated double thumbs up. Entering the back of the room, all I could see was a throbbing mass of burly bodies straight ahead. The room was painted dark grey, with sporadic black columns throughout and burgundy curtains randomly covering the left hand wall. It was narrow, maybe six regular men abreast. The ceiling was low with a string of light bulbs running a line down the middle. Beer pump clips were stuck all over the right hand wall. I weaved through the forest of bellies and beards swiftly. I wanted to see what mysterious force had these hop-crazed omega-males transfixed. Men were locked arm in arm, excitedly throwing arms over each other’s shoulders. The floor was sticky with ale, the walls lined with middle-aged sweat.
As I got nearer the front, a clang of metal upon metal rang out through the room. Everyone cheered in unison and raised their pint glasses. I managed to wedge myself into a space just four men back from the front. A man with a camera, a CAMRA badge and a white bib covering a paisley shirt, passed me an oak brown pint and slapped me hard on the back. I raised my glass, and my eyes to the front.
At the front was a rack. On the rack were ten barrels of beer, nine of them with taps in. In front of the rack was a wooden bar. My boss appeared and climbed up a short ladder to the barrel in the middle, the only barrel without a tap in it.
He picked up a wooden mallet and held it aloft. “Gentlemen!” he cried, “And lady,” he added nodding to a buxom woman sitting on a stool to the far left of the bar. “The Kernel Warrior Single Hop Pale Ale is ready!”
A booming cheer sprang forth from the well of ale loving mouths. I felt the energy in the room seep into my body. My chest swelled, my hands started to heat up. Without thinking, I raised my fist and downed my pint. Real ale spilled down my chin and onto my shirt. The man next to me put a strong arm around my shoulder and squeezed me. He passed me another beer and a bib, winking. Aromas of tropical fruits, grass and spice penetrated every possible sensory receptor. I squeezed the man back, feeling an unexpected rush of camaraderie.
“We have drunk many fine beers today,” my boss continued, “we have supped the finest ales from around this blessed country.”
He paused and surveyed the room. The basement hummed with tension.
“We are fortunate we are allowed to gather together as one, in this basement to appreciate the hop, to appreciate the real. Do we appreciate the hop?”
“Yes!” the crowd cried.
My boss fixed his unblinking gaze on me.
“We have drunk with relish. We have drunk together, exploring the world of our making. The people outside this room don’t understand us. They don’t see our world. They don’t get it. They won’t get it. Whose world is this?” he asked, continuing to stare directly at me.
“Our world!” they shouted.
“What is the greatest gift we have been given?”
“The hop!”
“What do we do?”
“Drink!”
“When do we do it?”
“Every day!”
“Who are we?”
“Hop Heads!”
“Tell me again. Who are we?”
I screamed, “Hop heads!” at the top of my voice along with everyone else. A smile unfurled across my boss’s face. The exhilarating thrill of shouting this cry of affirmation at once, all together, made my heart beat faster and pumped ale fuelled blood to my brain. I was light headed. I was lifted. I could feel the thud of my neck pulse. I could feel the pulses all over my body throb in synchrony. My forehead started to moisten.
My boss paused, raised his hand and waited for the congregation to simmer down.
“That is what we are gentlemen,” he continued, “We are hop-heads. We are... hop... heads. Hop. Heads.”
We latched onto his chant, “Hop. Heads. Hop. Heads.”
A steady four/four beat drove our chant forward. Speeding up gently, getting faster and faster, “Hop-heads, hop-heads.”
And faster, “HopHeads, HopHeads.”
And faster, “HopHeadsHopHeadsHopHeadsHopHeads.”
We slapped each other on the back, clinked pints, squeezed arms, pushed heads against one another. We pumped fists to the rhythm of our voices.
My boss screamed at the top of his voice, “Do you want to drink, our last beer? Do you want to drink the current conqueror of the ale kingdom? Do you want to drink the finest, throat-bending, single hop beer ever brewed? Do you want to drink ... the Kernel Warrior?”
“Yes!” we all screamed back, hoisting our glasses aloft.
My boss cupped his hand around his ear.
“I said, ‘DO YOU WANT TO DRINK THE KERNEL WARRIOR!?’”
“YES!” we screamed back even harder.
“Then gentlemen, I want you to stamp your feet. I want you on your hands and knees, banging this boozey floor with your fists. I want you to show me you want it.”
We dropped to all fours. We pounded the wet, sticky concrete deck. Ale splattered back off the floor onto our bibs, onto our beards.
I wanted to drink the Kernel Warrior. I wanted the citrus scents to attack my nostrils with such force that I choked on my own pleasure. I wanted the hops to burn their taste into my tongue forever, making sure I never forgot it. I wanted the alcohol to blaze a torrent of happiness to my brain.
I stood up with along with everyone else. We all held hands, in the unified wish to sup the nectar from the Warrior barrel.
My boss picked up a tap and placed it in front of the barrel. He let his mallet hover over the tap and looked back.
“Tap it!” we all cried, stamping our feet.
He pulled the mallet back and with a big swing, jammed the tap into the barrel. Letting go of the tap, he shut his eyes, spread his arms wide and invited us forward. An almighty roar erupted from every single man and we all surged instinctively towards the barrel. Men pushed and shoved their way to the front, glasses held high above their hopheads. The promise of the first pint made everyone stronger. Caught off guard, I was jostled further back, away from the bar.
Just a second before a huge man barged in front of me, I saw the tap start to shake itself loose. I looked at my boss on the ladder, but his eyes were still closed. I turned to the man on my right but he was charging forward, head down. I looked around to see if anyone could see what I was seeing. The whole room was still colliding, still groping towards the ale; too captivated, too spellbound to notice what was about to happen.
I shouted out, “She’s going to blow!”
The crowd replied, “Warrior!” thinking I was praising the barrel.
I tried to scramble my way back to the front and grab the tap before it was too late. I climbed onto the shoulders of the man-giant in front of me. The man behind me pulled me down. He glared at me and pushed me to the ground. I got up again, jagging to the left. I clamoured past three men. I looked up at the tap, suddenly it was right in front of me. I could see bubbles of beer seeping out of the side. It was about to go off. I put my hands up in front of my face.
With a ferocious hiss, the tap flew straight at me, through my hands, hitting me right between the eyes.
I was knocked backwards onto the floor. Beer sprayed out of the barrel violently. Another primordial roar burst out of the crowd. Men trampled over me to get to the precious liquid. A man put his face right in front of the barrel, receiving the spray with his tongue splayed out, shaking his head either side and screaming like a voodoo priest. He was soon pulled away and knocked to the floor, replaced by another man who rubbed the frothing ale all over his naked torso. He was pushed off by a man who tried to bear-hug the barrel like it was the elixir of life.
A boot crashed into my face, obscuring my vision. A man fell down onto me, knocking the wind out of my chest. I rolled over and vomited. Another man tripped over, his belly crunched into my knee. My hearing started to muffle. I tried to move the man off me but he was motionless, his eyes rolled back into his head. Dampened sounds of screaming and yelling swirled around me as yet another man fell into my head. I had just a moment to ingest the acrid smell of his armpits before I began to get dizzy, faint and woozy.
The last thing I heard was my boss shriek, “The Warrior has spoken! The Warrior has spoken!” before the dark basement became darker and darker until there was just darkness.
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Hop Heads by Kit Caless was read by Emile Clarke at the Liars' League Hired & Fired event on Tuesday 13th March 2012, at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London.
Kit Caless was raised in a tiny village outside the cathedral city of Canterbury. He is the editor of the forthcoming anthology, Acquired for Development By ... (Influx Press, 31st March) – a collection of short stories and poetry set in Hackney, by authors who live in the borough.
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