Page 2 of Trusting You
The irony was that I had actually had some success. My beer was good. Really good. Binnacle got some recognition in the trades and had placed well in a few regional competitions. So the product was strong, and I had some interesting specialty beers. With some more revenue, I could expand our brewing capacity and open up new areas for growth. The problem was that the craft beer market was insanely oversaturated, especially in New England, and it was hard to break through. Binnacle was carried in a lot of local restaurants, and our cans were sold in liquor stores across New England, but we lacked the “hook” to really take it to the next level. And given how expensive the equipment and real estate was to brew beer, if I didn’t make it to the next level soon, the brewery would be toast.
It felt like we had been on the precipice of the next level for a while, and I just couldn’t figure out how to get us there. It was not enough to brew good beer, you also needed a huge distribution network and catchy marketing. You practically needed Banksy to design your cans and have millions of Instagram followers to pay your bills. I was working day and night trying to figure it out, but I could only do so much on my own.
Between brewing and selling and distributing and dealing with the taproom and everything else there wasn’t much time for business strategy. Maybe if we could get someone in to help, maybe a marketing person, that could take a few things off my plate. The irony was that I couldn’t really afford to pay anyone, but I couldn’t succeed in taking these additional steps without more help.
I took my Binnacle brewing hat off and ran my fingers through my, admittedly, very dirty hair. I thought about pouring myself a beer but settled on a half-eaten protein bar that I found lying on the desk. It looked fine, and I hadn’t had a real meal or showered in days, so my standards were pretty low. I decided to go in search of sustenance.
Unlocking the loading dock door, I looked up to see Trent, my oldest friend and loyal employee. He gave me a big grin and reached out for a fist bump. “I love the smell of hops in the morning,” he exclaimed with a spring in his step.
Trent was one of those amazing people that always had a smile on his round face. He’s an assistant brewer and cellerman, which meant he was responsible for cleaning and sanitizing the fermentation and conditioning tanks and transferring the beers from tank to tank. He kept all the machinery working at top capacity and had become an excellent brewer and our resident coffee guru. He was also my best friend, my sounding board, and one of the most loyal human beings on earth. The thought that he might lose his job, a job he loved, because I couldn’t get my shit together made me feel even worse.
I smiled at Trent. How could he be so chipper so early? He looked me up and down. “Rough night, Liam?” He winked at me and then his face fell, taking in my disheveled appearance. “I see. Someone hasn’t had their coffee yet. I’ll get started, boss.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Good man, Trent.” I needed to get some coffee and start thinking about how I was going to right this ship. Now, coffee was not just coffee. We were beer guys, which means we geeked out over the science of brewing and crafting beer. Same went for coffee. Because we brewed and canned in shifts 24/7, a lot of coffee was consumed. And because we were all science nerds at heart, we got extremely technical about the beans, roast, and grind of our coffee. We even had competitions to see who could make the best coffee. Trent was the reigning champion, which was just one of the reasons his schedule always seemed to match up with mine.
A bit later, Karl walked in rubbing his back. Karl was a retired brewmaster and chemist from Vermont who moved to Havenport with his wife a few years back to enjoy his retirement. He previously worked for a large national brand and ran an entire brewing and distribution plant. He was old and cranky, but he was an incredible mentor. His wife got sick of him hanging around the house and told him to get a hobby. Since the man couldn’t stay away from beer, he instead came here and convinced me to hire him. His wife was an amazing baker and always sent him in with delicious treats. It’s like she knew we needed to be bribed to keep him around. Today he was carrying two enormous trays of muffins. I secretly thanked her for thinking of me and grabbed two before heading back to my office.
“Karl,” shouted Trent, who was carrying two Yetis filled with strong black coffee across the brewing floor. “Can I get you some coffee, freshly made?”
Karl gave Trent a look. He liked to pretend to be annoyed by Trent’s boundless optimism, but I knew deep down he adored him. “Okay, kid. But skim milk for me. My wife says no more cream.”
“Roger that,” Trent said, handing me my mug. I rolled my eyes at him and headed to my desk to continue the workday that had started sometime around four a.m.
Today was one of those days where I had to take a minute and be proud of what I had built. After years of dreaming and saving and some serious catastrophes along the way, I had done it. I had achieved my dream. And it had thoroughly kicked my ass, but I had loved every single day. I just hoped I could keep things going. Because as stressed as I was, and as much as the pressure felt crushing sometimes, I was still proud and happy to be here every day. Working with my friends and making something amazing that people all over New England would enjoy was a privilege.
So it was more important than ever to come up with a plan and quick. Crunching the numbers with Callum, I knew I needed to increase revenue significantly in the next few months. The fastest way to do this would be to leverage what we already had, which was the taproom and event space. I just needed to find someone, a perfect unicorn employee who was creative and energetic and could help us increase revenue, to see the potential in this place. If things didn’t improve in the next few months, my dream would be over.
2
Cecelia
As I pulledinto the driveway flanked by blooming wildflowers, I couldn’t help but notice the chipped paint and wood rot on the garage. Once a great beauty, my mother’s house was slowly but surely falling into disrepair and losing its vibrancy and charm. Despite her wear and tear, she was a grand home and had been filled with a lot of love and adventure over the years.
The state of our family home used to make me sad. These days, it makes me feel validated. The old girl had been through some hard times and was showing her wear and tear.
My parents had bought it for pennies in the early eighties when Havenport was a dingy fishing town, before it underwent a massive revitalization into the commercial and tourist hub it was today. Over time, they lovingly fixed it up and made it their own. This house had seen generations of families, births and deaths and weddings and graduations, and still she stood, proud but a bit humbled by age. I could have learned a thing or two.
I was halfway through my cleansing breaths when my mother burst out the back door, a blur of flying scarves and jangling bracelets. “Cecelia! My love. Get over here and give me a hug.” Where I was quiet and thoughtful, my mom was loud and energetic, always moving at high speed to the next thing on her to-do list. Her waist-length raven hair was streaked with gray and woven into an intricate Game of Thrones style braid. Dangly amethyst earrings highlighted her long, graceful neck, and she was, of course, barefoot.
She embraced me with her skinny but deceptively strong arms, and I was engulfed by the smell of sandalwood. “You look gorgeous, honey. I am so thrilled you are here.” She squeezed me tighter and took a big breath. “I love you so much and I am so proud of you.”
I pulled back a bit, feeling smothered. “Mom, I do not look gorgeous. I have most of my earthly possessions in this car because my life has completely blown up. I am broken out, sleep-deprived, and have been eating nothing but Ramen for the last two weeks.” I did not add that I was so bloated my Toms barely fit on my feet right now and my hair hadn’t been washed in a few days. My mother’s unwavering love and support could get old at times, especially when I just wanted to wallow and eat ice cream. Having her tell me she was proud of me when I was not proud of myself was a bit of a blow.
My mother smoothed an unruly curl out of my face. I did not inherit her height, her build, her green eyes, or her zany energy, but I did get her wild hair. Our hair was thick and curly and resistant to any scientific advances in hair care. It grew quickly and in every direction, and I spent a small fortune to try and keep it under control.Thanks, genetics.
“Cecelia Marie Leary, I do not allow negative self-talk in my house. You are a gorgeous butterfly, and you just need to get a little break so you can spread your wings and fly. Now let’s get you unpacked. I’m hosting moonlight meditation tonight. You’re gonna love it.”
“Mom, I don’t think I’m up for meditating tonight. I just want to be alone.”
“Nonsense, Cecelia,” she says, crossing her arms and tapping her foot—oh my God, this woman cannot keep still—“you just got back and I want to spend time with you. I have to pop over to Lucy’s—she just had surgery and I made her some freezer meals today, vegan and gluten free, obviously—and then I have to stop by Burt’s and return the book he lent me and then we can make some dinner and meditate. It will be just like when you kids were little.” I forgot just how fast my mom speaks. My head was spinning. I just wanted to sleep and maybe watch some Bravo.
“Mom, I need to be alone right now and lick my wounds.”
My mom smiled at me and gave me a pitying look.Oh shit. Here it comes. “Darling, I love you. You are the light of my life and I think you are amazing.” She reached out to gently squeeze my cheek, and her eyes turned steely. “But if you think I’m going to let you wallow in despair under my roof then you are sorely mistaken.” With that, she bent down, grabbed a suitcase, a backpack, and a cloth shopping tote, and walked through the slider into the kitchen.
So I guess wallowing is off the table…
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