|Steve & the singing fish,|
a don't-miss duet.
Sometimes you just have to laugh, and if you’re really lucky, a singing fish will serendipitously appear to help you chortle at the curve balls life throws at you.
On the Friday before the homebrew party the store immediately got busy as soon as I unlocked the door—a couple of fellows from Chicago looking for Michigan beers, a steady stream of customers coming in for cigarette tobacco, pipe tobacco and cigars, a nice lady from Rockford with a long list of beer making equipment and ingredients, a constantly ringing phone. I helped the Chicago fellows with their selections, tended the till, ran back to the warehouse for a carboy, answered the phone (yes, you can still purchase a ticket to the home brew party, credit card number please) ran to the cooler for hops and yeast, and answered the phone again.
With the Chicago customers patiently waiting, I finished ringing up the Rockford’s lady’s purchases, ran her credit card, answered the phone (yes, you can get a ticket to the home brew party, credit card number please), then ran into the west wing for her sack of two row. When I hefted the fifty pound sack on my shoulder it split in two and an avalanche of grain cascaded to the floor. I stood stunned for a few seconds then gingerly hoisted another bag to my shoulder and carried it to her car.
|Now that's a mess|
|Liquid malt on the floor,|
a sticky situation.
Let me assure you that it’s not every day that a customer walks into the store with a singing fish. The weird morning had just gotten weirder. I watched in disbelief while he plugged the cord into an outlet and it was then I laughed. The song that the tail slapping, mouth moving bass was singing? “Don’t worry, be happy.”