Working at the Ale Star
Posted: Sun Jul 30, 2006 7:26 pm
With a little bit of effort, Narú found a place to live: a modest if not cramped room above a potter’s shop. The bed was big enough, with an adequately-stuffed straw mattress, and it seemed to be free of fleas. Marko, the potter, even threw in the wool blanket and unglazed chamber pot at no extra charge.
Narú was pleased, despite the spartan nature of his lodgings, since the room would cost him only twenty-five bishani per month. The potter initially wanted twice that much (plus a ten bishani deposit), but when Narú told him that he had been hired to work security at the Ale Star, Marko gave it some thought, and after looking Narú over with critical, narrowed eyes. Figuring that the quiet, muscular man would be able to look after the place during the early morning hours when thieves and vandals were most active—the hours between when the bars let out and the sun came up—he decided to give the hirsute stranger a break.
Narú paid the potter the ten bishani deposit, dropped his half-empty knapsack on the bed, and locked the door behind him. He stood at the top of the stairs (the room was accessed not through the potter’s shop but via a set of stairs in the alley behind the building) and looked out on the town. Wolf-father and Wolf-mother, he whispered under his breath, please give me your strength and your help as I start a new life in the world of men.
Narú went to a clothier’s shop and bought two pair of trousers (black and tan) and two cotton shirts (white and blue, his favorite color) each with generous lace-up collars to accommodate his thick neck. The tailor had to alter the trousers (letting out some seams and such) to fit Narú’s muscular frame, and the proprietor offered to take his measurements in case he wanted to have some pieces custom-made (“You know, for later, when you’ve made a few bishani at the Star,” the man said to him). After buying the new clothes, he didn’t have enough money for new boots, so he went to a shoe-shine man and had his sturdy old black boots shined up. He wanted to look good for his first day on the job at the Ale Star.
Around sunset, he made his way back to the Ale Star, only a few bishani left in his pouch to jingle along with the key to his boarding room. Under his belt he had the strip of leather Rosetti had given him, his passport to free drinks at the Star. He stood at the door and took a deep breath, trying to dismiss the twittering of his nerves, then stepped inside the Ale Star.
He went straight to the bar and, seeing the round-faced barkeep standing behind it, flashed the leather pass and smiled.
“I’ll have a pint of strong dark ale, mate,” he said. “So, what can I do to help? Mister Rosetti says I’m your new assistant bartender.”
Narú was pleased, despite the spartan nature of his lodgings, since the room would cost him only twenty-five bishani per month. The potter initially wanted twice that much (plus a ten bishani deposit), but when Narú told him that he had been hired to work security at the Ale Star, Marko gave it some thought, and after looking Narú over with critical, narrowed eyes. Figuring that the quiet, muscular man would be able to look after the place during the early morning hours when thieves and vandals were most active—the hours between when the bars let out and the sun came up—he decided to give the hirsute stranger a break.
Narú paid the potter the ten bishani deposit, dropped his half-empty knapsack on the bed, and locked the door behind him. He stood at the top of the stairs (the room was accessed not through the potter’s shop but via a set of stairs in the alley behind the building) and looked out on the town. Wolf-father and Wolf-mother, he whispered under his breath, please give me your strength and your help as I start a new life in the world of men.
Narú went to a clothier’s shop and bought two pair of trousers (black and tan) and two cotton shirts (white and blue, his favorite color) each with generous lace-up collars to accommodate his thick neck. The tailor had to alter the trousers (letting out some seams and such) to fit Narú’s muscular frame, and the proprietor offered to take his measurements in case he wanted to have some pieces custom-made (“You know, for later, when you’ve made a few bishani at the Star,” the man said to him). After buying the new clothes, he didn’t have enough money for new boots, so he went to a shoe-shine man and had his sturdy old black boots shined up. He wanted to look good for his first day on the job at the Ale Star.
Around sunset, he made his way back to the Ale Star, only a few bishani left in his pouch to jingle along with the key to his boarding room. Under his belt he had the strip of leather Rosetti had given him, his passport to free drinks at the Star. He stood at the door and took a deep breath, trying to dismiss the twittering of his nerves, then stepped inside the Ale Star.
He went straight to the bar and, seeing the round-faced barkeep standing behind it, flashed the leather pass and smiled.
“I’ll have a pint of strong dark ale, mate,” he said. “So, what can I do to help? Mister Rosetti says I’m your new assistant bartender.”