The Beer Hawker on a Weeknight

The beer hawker 

called to me as I passed by

Near the baseball figures, bronzed heroes

Frozen, immortalized

Off of Camden Street, on a night that would rain ...

But in the flesh, the real man

The beer guy asked me

Did I want some beer?

- No thanks, I don't drink -

-Ok, buddy, I see...

But he was simply doing his job

He opens his mouth, he uses his voice

He pitches his drinks, and himself

We open our wallets, we provide him some cash

82 days, afternoons, nights per year, in the warmer seasons

And if lucky, the playoffs. 

But not here, not for years.

We depend on the regular season.

Most games go three hours 

But they, these vendors, show up an hour before

   

   you cannot sleep on the game

He is the beer man -

He checks your ID

You must be of age, he explains

To an audience of 50, or 100, or perhaps 200 to 300 people?

Fans, spectators

Customers, who drink

People purchase

The beer hawker succeeds on a Wednesday night

Despite the rain delay ...

And eventual cancellation of play 

Decided later, a full game

The hometown team wins

A young player hits for the cycle

The beer man may wait, till the eventual announcement of the close

At 11:25 pm. Perhaps he stayed to see, to raise his voice again:

"Beer man here!" he bellows, he intones, he lifts his cry.

Did he want to slay a few more suds? 

Was he on his way home, maybe walking to his apartment

Or driving to his home, going to bed for his next day regular job?

Or was he ensconced in the dry parts of the Yard, in the shadows of the bright lights?

Like me, with maybe a few hundred others remaining.

In this rather vast complex.

Hoping, dwelling, lingering

In the warm summer night drizzles

Would it be another chance for the beer man

To sell and collect,

Pop open the tall can for his clients, he offers that finger trick

And subtly invites a tip, extra change.

We stand, or more likely sit about the stadium

And watch the spectacle of the field, the rows, the benches, 

The levels, the stairs, the buildings, the signs, the night sky and

the city scape.

On a weeknight. 

In the metropolitan mass.

Under the giant luminescence

The rays and beams filling the open airs

Streaming into nooks and crannies

As the falling rain tries, too

The cash and credit flows, and made its way

while the salesman sleeps and prepares for when the team 

will travel and return.

He disappears after serving the masses

the ones with that thirst

that ID

that dream.

A game, lights, friends or alone, a peaceful atmosphere, drinks or treats

Not me, I say, I told him before it officially started.

He understood; the customer calls the shots.

But, I appreciate his ethic. Working, scraping

And then...

there is the hot lemonade man ...

Yes, hot, he says.