Alcohol 101

People with whom I have been acquainted for some time know that I used to tipple.  To be perfectly forthright, I imbibed to a grand degree.  I would proffer that my experience in the discipline of alcohol consumption would qualify me an expert on the subject.  Well, at least it would if I could remember the details more clearly.

I do not wish to leave you with the impression that I am an alcoholic.  I can take the nectar or leave it.  I have never been a daily drinker and the only times I would drink alone were on solo camping trips… and then mostly to ease the pain in my knees resultant from a day’s hiking activity.  I eventually learned that not hiking at all is a more efficient way to deal with that problem.

Though I find the flavor of some alcoholic beverages quite appealing, I never really crave them.  However, when I was younger and sturdier and devil may care, given an atmosphere readily improved by social lubricant, I would make the most of the opportunity and tope until I was the funniest guy in the room; quite possibly the world.  No one else’s opinion was considered or even solicited.

It all started about the time I first went to college.  I was a commuter student living at my parent’s house.  (I did not drink outside of family circles while in high school and then just the occasional beer with the uncles… I guess that’s part of the avuncular job description.)  My first real experience with bacchanalian excess came as the result of a woman.  Who’d have guessed?  I do not recall her name; she was a lightsome, willowy, dark haired beauty that worked at the A&W Root Beer restaurant that I frequented.  Actually, I had worked at that same store the semester before, but now had matriculated to a job on the loading dock at May Co.  (Make a note to remind me to write about some of my adventures in the retail trade.)  But I digress.  Subject objet de amour and I were trading notes on beer consumption one day (Yeah, I was winging it.) and she made the unhappy mistake of uttering the phrase, “If you buy a case, I’ll drink it!”  My personal motto of “let no challenge go unanswered” was never better put to service.  With all the smoothness of eighty-grit sand paper, I maneuvered this lass into a date for the following weekend; my parents, you see, were out of town on vacation leaving me the convenience of an empty house. 

There was a problem, however.  I was a mere child of nineteen.  Where was I to get a case of beer?  There was only one acquaintance I thought mean enough to willingly join a criminal conspiracy aimed at the fraudulent use of his driver’s license to provide a minor with beer.  He was a cook at this very same A&W.  He had been there years before I started, remained years after I left and feel sure would be there still if the restaurant hadn’t been converted into a suite of real estate offices.  I do not recall his name, probably because his ridiculous visage resembled that of an orangutan.  He was no taller that five feet, had the build of a (lightweight) wrestler; always leaning forward at the waist, arms swinging to and fro across the front of his body as he walked. He had copious coarse, wavy, rust-colored hair that he pulled back into a pony tail.  He was a surly know-it-all (as opposed to someone you may know as a friendly know-it-all, just sayin’); I really had no use for him… except that he was twenty-one years old.

So as the much anticipated weekend approached, I ambled into the A&W one evening (knowing monkey boy would be working the closing shift) and in passing conversation circled around to my need of libation; this of course without divulging the details of the plan. I reckoned there would be no reason to implicate someone he might know.  To my delight, perhaps astonishment, he indicated a willingness to abet my debauchery.  So off to a nearby 7-11 we drove.  Although I had an accomplice with valid beer-buying credentials, this particular neighborhood purveyor of convenience had a reputation of being willing to democratize the distribution of government controlled beverages.  They didn’t even ask to see the little primate’s ID!  So I boldly carried my case of ill-gotten Coors (I thought it an appropriate brand, as my parents were visiting family members in Colorado) to my Pontiac and stashed it in the trunk.  The clerks paid no attention that we had arrived in separate cars and I was carrying away the purchase my accomplice had paid for.

Now in all fairness to the employees of the 7-11, they looked as if they were probably selling much more contraband under the counter than over, if you know what I mean.  This was the Seventies and these clowns could have stepped in for Cheech and Chong.

So on the appointed Saturday, at the appointed time, I arrived at the A&W to pick up my “date”.  She was not there.  Rusty was there.  And the way he was grinning as he told me that what’s-her-name had gone home sick several hours ago suggested that he knew the story and was somewhat amused by my misfortune.  Ah well, now I had a case of beer in the fridge on a Saturday night and no one to drink with.

Over the next week, as I was ruminating on what to do with a case of beer, I decided to throw a party for my co-workers at May Co.  But the numbers didn’t quite work out so I determined to secure another case of brew.  Remembering the ease with which the 7-11 staff had surrendered the Coors, I figured I could pull this off without conspiratorial assistance.  After all, they were willing to vend to a higher ape.  I was a six-foot tall, two-hundred pound Neanderthal.  And upon reflection, I believe they would have sold anything to anyone with the arm strength to carry it through the door.  The transaction went smoothly.  And to add a bit of class to the soiree, I mixed it up a bit by selecting Budweiser.  When entertaining the masses, one must equip for a variety of tastes.

No, this is not one of those stories with a calamitous outcome.  The party went smoothly.  I was able to get everyone out of my parents’ house without material damage.  I do not recall how many twelve ounce beers I consumed.  But I do remember the puking.  And so, the ogre and the fairy lived happily ever after… and beer was crossed off the menu.

Coming soon!  “How I Learned to Love Tequila”