Cold Brewed 007 — Avani
For the tenth(+) anniversary release of Cold Brewed into print, we're re-releasing the scroller version here. This episode is about the women in Jett's life.
Hold up. Hold up. You know it’s the tenth(+) anniversary release of Cold Brewed into print, right? You know that Mark 9 and I are re-releasing the scroll version, right? Support the team if you can — order a print copy from your preferred bookstore:
Prefer another bookstore? Let me know in the comments. Or subscribe and I’ll send cash on to the actors and production team:
“What’s this? What’s this? There’s magic in the air?”
We tell the graphic novel Cold Brewed via photos. It’s an alternate history where coffee and not alcohol was banned during the prohibition years. Odd duck, sure: lots of coffee lingo. Video here for the making of Cold Brewed back in 2012, you’ll see our baby faces:
Without further ado, here’s the photonovel I made with Mark in my early twenties:
previously on Cold Brewed:
“Word is there’s a new brew in town,” Milker said.
Which of these new ladies had a big enough beard, big enough crew to run an Emerald City tamper?
Had to have come in from the city, but who was new?
Muffs?
Fine. Muffs didn’t have a big enough beard to be running this tamper anyways…
Bud?
“I’m bringing you in three days from now if you can’t dig up the Bearded Lady. Bringing you in for good.”
“If I find out, ain’t no way I’ll—“
“Make it two days from tomorrow morning,” Bud said, voice rising. “Then I tear your little shack apart and snatch any stash I find.”
Maybe Bud after all? If FDA bought a new roaster… the supply lines were already there…
Two days?
Surely that was enough time.
It was getting crowded in town. You’d figure with all the dead bodies that a bit of space would open up, but it ain’t so. Find a body, there the vultures gather. Free mocha on the bar and the milkers come out of the drains to clog up the flow...
007
“Jett?”
Always the interruptions. Every day: I just wanted to get home and soak the leg. Feels like the interruptions become your work, sweet voice or no, honey-and-vanilla voice or no: someone’s still butting in. Maybe I should let it be work?
“Jett?”
Nah.
“What?!” I snapped and turned.
Carmen.
“Sorry,” she said, “I’ll leave you alone.”
“No,” I said. They always say cute as a button and I never got that until I saw the buttons on that cardigan. “I’m a...” Didn’t know they came that cute. “Look it’s... well what do you need, Carmen?”
“I was… oh it’s nothing," she said. "I’ll ask you some other time…”
I sighed. “Look, it’s been a long day.”
She winced.
“But it’s good to see you and all, you know. What is it?”
“I just… well… there’s one of those new moving pictures on—a Humphrey Bogart." She let her toes mingle, one on another, scuffing lightly at the floor. "Didn’t know if you… y’know… wanted to… go.”
“When’s this?” I asked.
“Night after tomorra.”
Two days. Double-booking it left and right. “Sure,” I said. “Sounds great.”
“Great!” she said, “See you at seven?”
"Hows about the late show?" I asked. Needed some lead time just in case this tamper took my calendar right up to the hilt. If I lived that long. At the current pace…
"Eleven, then?"
“Sure,” I said.
“Have a great night, Jett.”
“Ditto,” I said
Needed to keep on top of the dittos. You don’t watch out, the dittos end up replacing the originals.
Like chicory.
Made my way back inside and found the bathroom, thank God...
...wherever he is. And whoever’s the patron saint of grinders and dosers.
First time they called me Murder Face, I'd just interrogated a serial roaster.
Guy killed off his victims and used...
well...
let's just say the small roasts he made tasted different every time.
Went to talk to the killer.
He hit me over and over again.
Face never broke.
He broke first, started crying, spilling his guts about the roasts.
Guess you could say I once made a killer cry with just my face.
Seems like a dumb thing to tell people about.
Dumber still when locals introduce me with that godawful nickname.
Point is, when I say my face hurt like murder...
I mean it hurts like the day me turning the other cheek made a killer cry. If you ever hear someone ask, “Face hurt? Cause it’s killing me,” please hit them for me. Hard. Preferably in a tender area.
Soaking always helps the hurt bleed out.
Bath at last.
Better.
Kinda.
Save the ice cold part. That’s the one reliable thing about the city’s hard water: the chill. Still get it when I bathe, and then again when I think about Avani. The cold water shocks you back to the world, reminds you that it’s real, that it happened. It’s resuscitation. Knocks the wind right into ya. Hot water for the softies that steep. Chilled for the cold brewed: those of us with some kind of past.
Being on the drip’s the worst.
“I like watching you steep,” she said behind me.
“Scarlett?” I asked. "I ain't steeping today. Water's too damn cold."
"Scarlett?" I asked again.
“Yes Mr. Cropper?”
“Ms. Harper, how’d you get in?”
“You told me to leave it open.”
Bullshit. I'd just locked that door. Then again, that's what I liked about her...
“Yeah," I said, "well… what’re you doing here?”
“Came to see—oh, Jett, you’re hurt.”
“Tried to break a two-by-four with my face," I said.
“Why on earth would you do that?” Scarlett asked.
“Gotta find out who’s been frothin’ the shots. Had to rough someone up.”
“With your face?” she asked.
“With my murder face. Takes tough teeth to soften the water around here. Ain’t enough grinders like—”
“Oh shut up. Needs ice,” she said.
“—Ow, easy, like me who’re willing to crawl down in there, down into the sewers and take a hit. Gotta be me, then. I just soaked it in cold water, I'm fine."
"Still needs ice," she said.
“This.”
“…needs sleep.”
“I could stay over.”
“You could,” I said, “but then I wouldn’t be working.”
“But—“
“G’night.”
Probably wanted to know how the case was going. Seemed to care about Wilson as much as me.
Then again, maybe she really just needed to wake up in a man's arms.
Someone to tell her everything's gonna be alright.
If that's what she wanted, she had the wrong grinder. Cared as much about Wilson, even if she didn’t mention it. Then again, maybe she really did need to wake up in a man’s arms, nestled in that abyss between my collar and shoulder. To someone who lies and says, “Everything’s gonna be alright.” If that’s what she wanted, she had the wrong grinder. Took awhile to find my cot.
But find it I did and then sleep took me.
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Hold up. Hold up. You know it’s the tenth(+) anniversary release of Cold Brewed into print, right? You know that Mark 9 and I are re-releasing the scroll version, right? Support the team if you can — order a print copy from your preferred bookstore:
Prefer another bookstore? Let me know in the comments. Or subscribe and I’ll send cash on to the actors and production team:
“What’s this? What’s this? There’s magic in the air?”
We tell the graphic novel Cold Brewed via photos. It’s an alternate history where coffee and not alcohol was banned during the prohibition years. Odd duck, sure: lots of coffee lingo. Video here for the making of Cold Brewed back in 2012, you’ll see our baby faces:
Without further ado, here’s the photonovel I made with Mark in my early twenties: