Chapter 1
(American Wild Ale Sour)
“This science stuff is too much for me,” a guy’s voice behind me said. “I’m just here for the tasting. My wife got me this tour, but I can’t really keep up with all the nerdy business.”
I turned around to see a bald guy in a red t-shirt talking to his buddy next to him. I tried my hardest not to scoff at what he was saying, because we were literally on a tour of a freaking brewery. And as it turned out, there was a whole lot more to beer than just taking a nice sip on a hot day.
Man, I loved a good craft beer, just like any other red-blooded, twenty-seven-year-old man, of course. And the Wheatum Brewery in Portland was one of the fastest rising purveyors of the golden nectar around. I’d managed to sneak a day off from the organic deli where I worked by telling them that I was doing culinary research, which wasn’t completely untrue. But my dream of becoming Tyler King, top craft beer brewer on the West coast, was seeming more and more distant when I looked at how much money went into a place like this.
I turned to my right and caught my reflection in one of the giant metal tanks. It was slightly distorted, but I could recognize myself in the copper glint. There was the same curly, sandy hair and freckles that were always in my mirror at home. I sighed when I caught sight of the brown shirt I’d bought a couple of weeks ago from a very talented saleswoman who had assured me the color would bring out my hazel eyes. But as I stared at my reflection, I realized that I just looked like the most boring person in the room.
“Does anyone know how many varieties of craft beer there are coming out of Wheatum at the moment?” the tour guide trilled as he turned around.
Our guide was wearing a black polo shirt with a giant ‘W’ embroidered in light pink on the front that made him look like a cheap superhero. I’d tried not to snicker when I’d seen him for the first time, and I was once again glad as hell that I didn’t have to wear a uniform to work. I mean, I had to wear an apron, but that wasn’t so bad. At least I got to surround myself with the best French cheese and cured meat that Portland had to offer.
“Oh, I know!” someone behind me shouted and raised their hand. “Pick me, pick me!”
“Go on,” the tour guide said. “Tell me how many”
“Twenty-seven!” the person shouted.
“Wroooooong!” The tour guide sang, and he cracked his head back and laughed. “Anyone else?”
The group looked at each other and shrugged. It mostly seemed like guys who just wanted to do the tasting like the ones behind me, a few tourists, and an exceptionally pretty blonde girl who batted her eyelashes at me.
Hell yeah. I had to admit, I did have a bit of a charm with the older ladies when it came to the deli, but I’d never thought much of my looks outside of that. A place like an organic deli obviously got loads of bored housewives, many of whose husbands were frequently out of town, which meant that on top of the usual meat slicing, I had also developed pretty good listening and advice giving skills.
“Tell us how many?” someone from the back of the group asked as the tour guide led us past many more giant vats of beer.
“Twenty-six!” he responded. “Ha!”
Twenty-six, twenty-seven, what difference did it make? The important thing was that some of the varieties that came out of here were the bomb, and I could already taste them. There was the citrus IPA, the sandalwood wheat, and even a Portland flavored Porter that I would have married if it was a woman.
I’d actually done a decent job of replicating many of the flavors on my own time, but that was the problem. It was my own time and even that small batch required whatever portion of my paycheck didn’t go toward the rent and food. So how could I compete with a company that could produce twenty-odd flavors of beer? Nobody was looking to invest in me, and the bank wouldn’t give me a loan, so my dream of having a brewery of my own like this was on hiatus.
“Follow me onto the viewing deck,” the tour guide said with a smile.
The blonde swished her hair around and looked at me again. Man, I totally had to ask for her number before everyone else got drunk and started hitting on her.
But as we made our way up the stairs, I was once again struck by the scale of the operation. There were big copper tanks spread across the stadium-sized plant, and lots of people in white uniforms and gloves moved from vat to vat as they checked on the wheat, hops, and other ingredients.
Craft beer was my passion, but the financing situation was pretty dire. Maybe if I’d been this age at the boom of craft beer hipsterdom, indie sleaze and the early 2010s Brooklyn scene, I’d have found a way to start my own brewery. But the days of securing funding for a microbrewery were long over. Everyone wanted a piece of the cake, or a swig of the craft beer, and the market was so oversaturated that without connections or a trust fund, it was pretty much a pipe dream.
Still, I could continue to plug away at my concoctions. I’d long since passed my moonshine college days, and now I had a pretty good grasp on both historic and current brewing techniques. And hell, maybe if I couldn’t make my own brewery, I could at least explore my passion through things like visiting other brewhouses.
And of course, drinking beer.
Once we got to the top of the viewing deck, I couldn’t help but smile. The beer was brewing away underneath me, and a hot lady seemed to be tracking my every movement. It was definitely going to be a good day, and maybe even a good night.
“What’s in the Portland flavored beer?” someone at the back shouted, and the tour guide laughed and started pacing around.
“Oh, we can’t reveal that,” he said. “It’s a state secret. I could lose my job! I also don’t know, because I’m just a tour guide.”
“Do you have any other geographical beers?” I asked, and I felt the blonde’s gaze trace over my figure.
“Well, we were working on a New York brew,” he offered. “Taste of the city that never sleeps!”
“That sounds gross,” someone piped up from the group. “Manhattan is the last place I’d want to taste.”
“And you know what?” the tour guide said with a nervous laugh. “That actually seems to be cropping up a lot in the market research. But I’ll tell you something. Wheatum actually uses a lot of locally sourced ingredients, and we work with botanists too. Some of our flavorings come from trees!”
“Cool,” someone said, and I nodded in agreement.
I knew a lot of men who would agree that brewing beer was a kind of art. But I believed in a lot more than that. The delicate construction, the process of aging it over time… all of it fascinated me. And that was the best part about making something that people could consume, too. You weren’t just making something nice to hang on the wall. You were giving them an experience to remember.
Or, you know, not remember at all.
I noticed that the viewing platform actually led to a larger catwalk, like the ones that were used for lights in the theater. It was pretty damn impressive, and I couldn’t wait to see the beer underneath us.
“Now be careful,” the brew tour guide laughed. “Make sure to hold onto the metal railing. I don’t want any insurance companies sending us into bankruptcy!”
Seemed like an odd thing to admit out loud, but he had a point. The group formed a line as we followed the guide over the beer brewery underneath us.
“So, do you like beer?” the blonde giggled in my ear.
“Yes,” I replied as I turned to look at her. “I love it.”
“I don’t actually drink much,” she admitted. “I’m just visiting Portland and wanted to do something local.”
“Seems fair,” I shrugged. “But you’re missing out.”
“Well, maybe this is the beginning of a new chapter,” she laughed, and she leaned back on the railing as the tour guide paused again.
“Alright team,” he said. “What you see here underneath us is our famous orange blossom wild ale. We don’t actually use much orange blossom because it can be deadly in large quantities.”
“Seems kind of dangerous!” someone shouted back.
“Well, uhhh… alcohol is also poison if we’re going down that route,” the tour guide shot back. “But everything’s good in moderation.”
What a funny dude. He definitely seemed like it must’ve been his first day on the job or something, but it was still very endearing.
“Why is the tank open?” someone asked.
“Ah great question!” The guide replied. “In addition to our trademark yeast, this beer uses whatever wild yeasts fall in from the air.”
“Gross,” someone growled.
“Actually, it adds a rustic charm and ensures that no two batches are exactly the same,” I added. “Not many brewers do it like this anymore, but it’s really special. In Belgium they are called lambics, but in America they are usually sours.”
“Sounds like you know a thing or two about beer yourself,” the tour guide said with a smile.
I looked over again at the blonde, who stretched slightly so I could appreciate her plump breasts. Then I heard something metal ping, and the hairs on my chest stood on end.
For some reason, my eyes trailed over to the metal railing she was leaning over, and then it hit me.
I watched as a screw dropped in slow motion from the top bar and fell through the slotted metal floor. My eyes widened with fear as my body tried to catch up with what my mind knew, and I was scared it would be too late.
The bar was falling off the metal railing, and the hot girl was gonna plunge to the factory floor.
I reached out as I heard myself call out a warning to her.
“Wait!” I said. “Don’t fall!”
I pushed her to the floor, and just in the nick of time I heard her gasp as she stumbled away from the railing. But then the metal bar broke away from the catwalk and tumbled toward the beer below.
I actually sighed in relief, until I realized that I was still flying forwards.
It occurred to me that now I was going to be the victim of this shoddy catwalk.
“Shit!” I called out.
I could feel the eyes of not only the whole tour group but also every single factory worker on me as I flew off the metal platform and down toward a big, open vat of beer in the final stages of brewing.
Oh, man. This was going to be one to tell the grandchildren, if I got out of this alive. My last thoughts before hitting the surface of the beer were a vague montage of all my days at the deli, the smile of the hot blonde girl, and my dreams of a brewery.
I splashed down into the vat and could hear the plop.
The liquid was surprisingly warm, and I could feel the weight of my body drift down as the bubbles surrounded me and tickled my skin. I was shocked at just how deep these vats were, but then again, we’d been pretty damn high up.
This was insane. One second I’d been on top of the viewing platform, just a regular guy flirting with a hot blonde he met at a beer brewery. And now? I felt like Bugs Bunny. Flying into a vat of beer was not the way I wanted to go, but I wasn’t sure if I could find my way out.
I didn’t want to open my eyes because the brew was already stinging them, but I had to figure out which way was up. So I reluctantly blinked a few times as I could feel my lungs start to squeeze and gasp for air. The beer was murky and yellowish, but I could see light at the top of the vat.
Man, this thing was pretty fucking deep. I lifted my arms and started to flounder to the source of the light. For some reason the liquid around me felt less carbonated now, and I didn’t know if it was because I was running out of oxygen or because I’d gotten used to it.
But the light was getting brighter, and I knew that I was close to the top of the beer. Man, what a silly mishap. I couldn’t wait to get millions out of these guys, and then maybe I could finally start my own company.
I could begin to hear scuffling noises and muffled talking. Man, someone was going to lose their job today, and I was glad. Just as the sounds started to get louder and louder, I could see something emerge in the murk, and I figured out that it was a hand.
Perfect. I reached up and grabbed the hand of whatever worker had decided to brave it and fish me out. I latched on as the worker tugged me from the murky liquid, though I tried to kick a few times to help out. When I finally hit the air, I could feel myself being dragged onto some kind of wooden surface and heard myself gasping for air.
My sopping wet hair covered my face, but the feeling of being able to breathe again was so damn sweet. I took a few deep breaths and listened to the sounds of the city and the seagulls in the sky and then…
Wait. Seagulls?
Something was not right. I swept my hair out of my face and looked around, where I expected to find the brewery.
But there was no brewery in sight. Instead, I could see an old city with cobbled streets and a pebble beach. I was on a boat on a river that flowed through a town with thatched roofs and people bustling around with baskets and horses and carts.
No way. Where the hell was I?
“Took a nasty fall, huh?” an old gruff man’s voice laughed. “Or a particularly busy night?”
I blinked a few times and realized that I was now on a wooden fishing boat, and the man who’d saved me wasn’t a Wheatum employee but a fisherman. The old man was even wearing a white tunic, a leather jerkin, and a straw hat like someone in an old painting, and when I looked around, I even saw nets and fishing rods.
No fucking way. What was this? One moment I was in the brewery… and now I… was… in an Elder Scrolls game?
“Umm,” I fumbled over my words. “I… I…”
“What’s your name, young one?” the man asked, and his face lit up with a friendly glint in his blue eyes.
It was only a simple question, but I had absolutely no idea where the hell to begin.