Homonyms: Don’t Serve Alcohol To Miners

Just have to kick this out whilst the cell popping epiphany strikes. I recall the moment that my father had an occupation and that I, too, would one day have an occupation (when I was about four-years-old).

The adults were talking, some grown up business—now I speculate they were discussing the news. Apparently, there was some problem with adult establishments serving alcohol to miners. I listened and tried to understand why miners were being singled out and prohibited from service. The whole alcohol thing was a blur. I knew it had something to do with the beer in my father’s hand and the rye and coke ladled out to my excited and irritable relatives. Booze flowed, but the adults seemed to have lots of fun drinking it. What they drank seemed like a strange innocuous concoction, but apparently miners could have no part of it, and my father and uncles heartily agreed.

Who were these delinquent people, the miners. Loggers could drink, and firemen, too. My uncle was a truck driver and so was my father. My other uncle was a banker and he drank. Maybe miners were such horrible people that they had to work underground. So horrible, that alcohol was off limits. Beware of miners, I thought.

“Where do miners come from?” I asked.

“Oh, we were all minors,” my uncle answered, “even your mom and dad.”

Ohmygosh. This was winding realization. My father—my mother—miners? Paradigm shattered, I needed no more information. Already miners were imaginary gypsies in my mind, or storybook pirates, outlaws. Now my family was of their ilk. I could not imagine my mother banned to hard labor underground—breaking the law if she sipped wine. She liked to wear floral dresses and aprons. She hovered around the kitchen, and seemed remarkably lighthearted.

“You’ll be a minor, too,” my uncle informed.

A pall overcame me and I could not swallow. My career path was pre-destined. My fate was mired to join a ragged band of non-alcoholic mole people. I didn’t want to be a miner. I didn’t want to be forced to do anything. I wanted to make my own way in life. How cruel a society to shovel a budding mind and healthy exuberance into a life of labor deep in a dank tunnel? I wanted to be of the sky.

I resolved with much determination to never be a miner. I would find my own footsteps, somewhere among the jungles or the mountain crags. Within two days, I explained the situation to my best friend Johnny Skadeski. We packed meager provisions and ran away from home.

 

© 2011 Gaboo. Read more Gaboo on Now.readthisplease.com, click his tag. Editor would like to state that this tale is not intended to reflect the valiant people who work and volunteer to gather resources for our society.

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