It’s Confirmed. I’m an E-word.
I had one more keg to deliver.
It was pre-Spring 2016, and I needed to dropoff a fresh keg of our Hectic IPA to Corner Social on 126th Street in Harlem. I knew Corner Social very well. It was my neighborhood spot since they opened four years earlier. As a drinker, I was a Corner Social black belt. Delivering a big heavy, 165 lbs, steel keg of beer to the basement was another story. Plus, I had double-parked the cube truck with no one riding shotgun, so was rushing to avoid a NYC ticket. I approached the new general manager, Raphael, who I didn’t know. He was more hardened and seasoned than the past couple managers. And I was later than I’d planned and promised. As a bonus for falling behind schedule, the bar and restaurant were more busy than I’d hoped, making everything tougher. (My alarm sounded at 4:15am that morning, and my daily tasks had already included driving to Harrisburg, PA and back.)
I approached Raphael to introduce myself and get specific instructions. He was generically nice, but absent was the ambient bugle call –like at the horse races- or Christmas morning smile I’d anticipated when I told him who I was. Sobeit. I swallowed the less then reaction and proceeded back to the truck, purposeful to not let my eyes wander, as I didn’t want to see anyone I knew. I was working. Doing must-dos for the company. My company. Real entrepreneur stuff.
Having the know-how and commitment was a good start, but I was short on what I’d call game day experience. My grandfather owned a small furniture moving company when I was growing up. Actually, my great-grandfather started it, Riley & Sons, when he came over from Barbados. So I drove trucks and lifted heavy stuff during high school, college, and a little after. Plus, as the byproduct of an “eclectic upbringing,” I’d had a job since the age of 11 and had worked many many many different jobs for at least a few days each. But this was different. More pressure. More damage if I screwed up.
Corner Social was the sixth delivery of that day. We were still self-distributing Harlem Blue then, and the compounding affect of the last five deliveries was taking a toll on my underdeveloped back and arm muscles. Dad bod. A mild shake matured in my arms as I slowly bumped-down the stairs with my two-wheeler. Steep and slippery, the steps were like a wrought-iron fire escape, leftover from the residential upper floors, doing double duty as the descending route from the sidewalk to the basement. Shallow and dinged-up from the deliveries before me, the perilous flight of steps had my mind dashing toward the worst. What if the keg slips? Slams into a door? Busting beer all over the floor? The embarrassment, and the costs. I couldn’t wait to reach the bottom. Plus, such an incident would certainly slow up my return of the rented cube truck which was inching closer to the deadline. As was the death claw of NYC rush hour traffic. Whew, safe landing.
Once inside, the too tight trek to the beer cooler meant navigating back to the front of the building. Twisting and turning for pin-point accuracy, while steering a big wheeled transporter built for loading docks and vast open warehouses. By now, I was comfortable setting up the keg, checking CO2 PSI, and repositioning the keg for the least blockage. That done, back upstairs I bound for confirmation and signature. A quick handshake with the bartender while witnessing the fresh pour, as well as the unwinding and re-winding of the corresponding taphandle. Done. Two fingers salute to Rafael from afar -as he was in deep convo with a server.
It was three days later that I heard from Raphael. Two days after I had sent him a check-in text message, with no reply. His email was simple. The subject line read, “I need more Harlem Blue.” The body of the message continued, “It’s selling like hot cakes…I ran out….I need it badly. Bring me 2 kegs.” I beamed like only a startup entrepreneur can. The pride. The recognition. I imagine it’s what it would feel like to have a perfect FICO score, or to be told by an ex that you were completely right and she was completely wrong. Vindicating. Validating. Kick-ass.
This is one of multiple reaffirming experiences that let me know I’m on the right path. Sometimes it’s once a week. Sometimes, ten little ones in a day. When you see the product of your passion, the results of your craft, evolve from bar napkin scribble, to a formal business plan, stiff-arming skeptical family members and friends, surviving dozens and dozens of setbacks, doubts and fear, to be eventually out-shone with rare discoveries of positivity, a core of supporters, and days-that-go-right, you finally arrive at a day where you pour your beers to a new person in the wild, . . . and they like it. They really like it. That nexus is what keeps us all going.
The daily battle is to have more good ones than bad. Smile. And have a good beer. Grinders, hustlers and dreamers, salute.
