26 march 2025, @mariannewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2687: I own the patent

Image by Franz P. Sauerteig from Pixabay

“I am a little tired of you and this little child's beverage you have put out, Robert.”

“I'm sure you are, Astor, since you did not account for the fact that since children can drink soda, I have more customers, and so I am outselling you as of this Monday.”

Ten-year-old Andrew Ludlow was standing outside on the porch, shaking his head as the phone conversation inside between his grandfather and a Ludlow cousin went on.

“I don't know why our uppity cousins do this,” he said to his friend eleven-year-old Velma Trent. “They look down on the workety branches of the family, but since we actually do work, we are way smarter than them in the real world.”

“Envy plus pride plus not keeping up is a bad combo,” Velma said, “but a popular one.”

Andrew sighed.

“But by this time people should be tired,” he said. “So, the Ludlow Winery has been around since like forever, and although of course I don't drink I do research – it's supposed to be good but you have to have that uppity money to afford a bottle. So, they make a lot per bottle, but they can't sell that many of them. Meanwhile, you remember when our families were making and bottling the Ludlow Bubbly – it's not cheap but super good and we couldn't keep up, and now we have dedicated bottling in two countries and two states and it's still barely enough. So, our cousins can sell one bottle of wine for $200 in the time it takes us to sell 42 for $5 – and that's what's been happening.”

“That must burn, though,” Velma said. “You've been selling uppity drunk juice for centuries, and your cousin selling carbonated juice from Fruitland beats you in revenue in less than six months.”

“Yeah, but Papa is right,” Andrew said. “Our soda has way more customers. Extra burn too because Papa added folks to ownership that his cousins wouldn't have. They are still using the pre-1865 rules about stuff.”

“And that also cuts down their customers,” Velma said. “My grandfather is a billionaire, but our family has self-respect. We're not buying from anyone we know is still acting a fool on the pre-1865 rules, and we're not alone.”

“And so, the thing is, Cousin Astor is mad because the Ludlow way of doing things is being shown up – and of all the people to do it, it is the workety baby son of Edwin Ludlow, who was always grubbing around building stuff for the poors of Lofton County – read, anyone who hasn't had a plantation since whenever.”

“Your great-grandfather is the only man who might even be considered for the name of the county if the Loftons got tired, because of the work he did in here in the 20th century,” Velma said. “I mean, maybe the Slocums, but then we gotta talk about what's under Slocum Slide. Edwin Ludlow is kinda important, way more important than a bottle of wine.”

“Yeah, but, my uppity cousins think they basically are running the whole family,” Andrew said, “or at least they thought they were until Monday. Great Papa was no threat to them – he just hit 'em with the Gottagobye like Grayson would had and went on and did what he wanted to do. Papa is wrecking them, and didn't even mean to do it. He was just trying to use what he knew he had to keep us fed, and then figured y'all could eat too, and then the Duboises, the Gonzalezes, the Miyamotos, and soon, the workers and veterans that want to buy it with your grandfather's help.”

“But see, the worketys and the poors getting together is dangerous to the uppity ones,” Velma said. “That's basically a peaceful revolution, spreading the prosperity around and proving the uppity people are no better than anyone else, and they don't want to live just as people. They want to play Greek gods, and we're messing up the divinity.”

“Look, you gotta have it before we can mess it up, and God is not out here envious of Robert Edward Ludlow Sr.,” Andrew said as he shook his head, “and also not about to get His whole life messed up because He can't mess with Robert Edward Ludlow Sr.”

“You know,” Velma said, “my grandfather is a whole billionaire, and even he knows that he needs to get this deal just right for all of us because your grandfather does not play about y'all any more than he plays about us.”

“Yeah, but, see, adults playing make believe go so much further than we do,” Andrew said. “I just daydream about getting to the top of the Blue Ridge and these folks are all trying to sit on the throne of God. I mean, you can die hiking the Blue Ridge if you are not ready, but you sure all going to have a hard fall trying to get up to where these people are trying to go.”

“Sounds like the fall is happening right now for your Cousin Astor,” Velma said as Andrew's grandfather, that same Robert Edward Ludlow Sr., had started his laughing his cousin to scorn, beginning from his basso profondo bottom and going right on up into his middle high range and back down even further. “Sounds like the bottomless pit is opening to me!”

“Lord, help – he's in his vocal fry,” Andrew said as he sat down on his porch. “We checked Papa on his past-the-pretty vocal bottom … and he's laughing into it … he's going off the piano on Cousin Astor!”

“Wait, what – wait – hey, Dad,” Velma said as she went over to her house for a minute. “What would be the first note off the regular piano at the bottom – G sharp 0? Yes? Thanks. So, yeah, Andrew, that would be a G sharp 0, and there's plenty more down there.”

Eleven-year-old Eleanor came out of the Ludlow house and sat down on the porch, shaking her head.

“Cousin Astor said that he was going to steal our recipe, start bottling it, and wreck it,” she said. “And why? Why would you say something like that to Papa, who already knows you are coming! All he said was, 'I dare you, Astor – I own the patent, and since you weren't paying attention, I also took my father's copy of the Ludlow winemaking process and patented that since nobody had before. I own the Ludlow Winery's proprietary process, Astor, that you need to stay in business. So, you were going to do what, now?”

“Oh, no,” Velma said as she sat down on the porch with her friends.

“What even was that last note?” Andrew said.

“George was in there recording it because he said when he has nightmares he's just going to put that on that on and frighten the nightmares away,” Eleanor said, “but he's not going to need that because all the nightmares are going to Cousin Astor's house.”

“Listen,” Velma said, “if that man doesn't get saved, all he's going to be hearing in his memory is that laugh, and then leveling down to weeping and gnashing of teeth. You try to play God, and the best you get is the rest of your life, hearing that over and over and over in your broken ego and scarred memory.”

“I need to get all my uppity relatives' phone numbers!” Andrew said. “I need to tell them to stop daydreaming before they call over here, because if you are not actually God Almighty, you do not mess with Robert Edward Ludlow Sr.! Ain't nobody even going to be able to go to Cousin Astor's funeral after all this, because of Covid!”

“But we weren't going anyway,” Eleanor said. “Nobody likes him!”

“Well, yeah,” Andrew said, “that whole branch of the family is no fun, but, it's the principle of the thing! Somebody somewhere loves them, maybe!"