Cannery Row (Cannery Row, #1)

by John Steinbeck

The waitress, a blonde beauty with just the hint of a goiter, smiled at him. “What’ll it be?” “Beer milk shake,” said Doc. “What?” Well here it was and what the hell. Might just as well get it over with now as some time later. The blonde asked, “Are you kidding?”

Beer milk shake

No one has studied the psychology of a dying party. It may be raging, howling, boiling, and then a fever sets in and a little silence and then quickly quickly it is gone, the guests go home or go to sleep or wander away to some other affair and they leave a dead body.

“I was glad when you hit me,” Mack went on. “I thought to myself—‘Maybe this will teach me. Maybe I’ll remember this.’ But, hell, I won’t remember nothin’. I won’t learn nothin’. Doc,”

Willard said, “What’d he do it for?” “He couldn’t get a job,” said Joey. “Nearly a year he couldn’t get a job. And you know a funny thing? The next morning a guy come around to give him a job.”