I can remember the best beer I ever drank…can you?
I have a love-hate kind of relationship with beer. Mentally I think, “I love beer,” in my best Brett Kavanaugh voice. Mentally I should think, “I love ‘good’ beer.” I’m not sure Justice Kavanaugh cares if it is good beer or not, just cold and in large quantities. I also understand ‘good’ beer is a subjective term and I might not know what a good beer is should it bite me on my ass. I’ve had many bad beers bite me on the ass too and any beer past three is a bad beer.
A video of a very young country “singer” triggered my thoughts. Thanks, so much for sending me that at five in the morning Leland. The young crooner was singing of “ice-cold root beer in long-necked bottles” and the thought of ice-cold beer took me down a pig trail to a hot summer on a loading dock or in my case an unloading dock. I was between year four and five of my teaching career and working summers to help make ends meet.
Ten-hour days, eight on Friday. Time and a half over forty unloading goods for a five and dime chain. Big boxy trailers that had made the long ocean voyage from China, offloaded on our left coast and stacked on flatbed railroad cars headed east. Off-loaded again in Greenville and hauled to me to be unloaded and broken down before being distributed all over the Southeast. I remember thinking of my Asian counterpart slaving away loading the trailer I was now unloading. He or she got the ball rolling as these goods would be loaded and unloaded at least one more time before they found their way to shelves near you.
I wondered why he had loaded so much dust and filth with the flimsy boxes I manhandled out the back of those trailers. Now I wonder what life-threatening timebombs are waiting to go off in my body from that filth and dust. Get back on the subject, please.
The subject was beer, the best beer I ever drank.
A six a.m. to four p.m. shift had ended and it was still hotter than forty kinds of hell. The day had been spent in an airless trailer pulling out corrugated boxes filled with who knows what and covered with who knows what. Every box I moved sent dust swirling in the airless trailer. Even on the dock, the mid-July sun and humidity was merciless, pounding me like a superheated hammer on the anvil that was my head.
Bone weary and headachy, I drug myself to my car. With no air conditioning, I dropped the top of the ’76 MG and headed home, fifteen miles away. I remember being dry as the Sahara and stopped at a country mercantile featuring peeling white paint and rusting Esso and ice-cold Pepsi signs. I could think of nothing better than an ice-cold Pepsi to relive the dryness in my parched head and made my way straight to the old waist-high blue cooler with Pepsi in red across a white field.
Opening it I found no Pepsis…or Coke. There were no soft drinks in this cooler. Instead, tall long-necked bottles of Miller High Life beckoned to me and I contemplated a change in beverage.
The woman behind the counter, a peroxide blond fireplug with too much makeup and carrying an extra fifty pounds in weight cautioned me, “That’s the coldest beer you’ll ever find as long as you keep the top closed. You’re lettin’ the cold out. You need to make up your mind.”
Sufficiently chastised, I made up my mind and was rewarded. As I removed a Champagne of Bottle Beer there was an audible crunch as the ice gave way. It was so cold it was stuck to the bottom of the cooler. Promptly I picked a second one and after paying the blond fireplug headed to my car.
Huge oak trees formed a canopy over a wide pull off and I decided to enjoy my heavenly elixir picnic style. I was rewarded with ice crystals in my first swallow…and the second. I drained that amber potation in seconds. I remember holding the still cold empty against my forehead, the condensation providing a cool bath.
After wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I twisted the top off the second and drained it almost as quickly. The beer went straight to my head and I was still a dozen miles from home.
I broke the law, but the law didn’t win. It was a different time and I was still young and stupid. This wouldn’t be the last time I drove impaired but maybe God does take care of drunks and fools. At this stage of my life, I was certainly equal parts of both.
It would be the last time I had a beer, two beers, so good. Believe me, I’ve searched high and low, and stopped at the little country mercantile enough times during the summer that remained to find out the blond fireplug was named Ramona. She was a nice lady with a boisterous laugh and a bawdy sense of humor.
Miller High Life, The Champagne of Bottle Beer. I do love a crisp pilsner so cold you have to snap it off the bottom of an ancient Pepsi cooler. I wonder…no…I’m sure it would be a wasted trip. I’m sure the general mercantile only exists in my mind…just like the best beer I ever had.
Further wanderings may be found at Don Miller’s author’s page by going to https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM