Proposal – First job, at age 11, was running beers from our backyard to golfers. Our house abutted the local course. It was a fantastic gig – Dad buys the Bud Light, my brother and I get paid per beer – until some old ninny called the cops and busted the whole operation.
Proposal – My story took place in 1996 in Munich, Germany. I was able to drink super strong German beers and get myself lost in the city. It took a bottle of Jagermeister and a group of homeless German men to get me back on track. I then proceeded to get lost again in a train station. Somehow I made it back to my father’s flat where we proceeded to go back out to a bar and drink until the wee hours of the morning.
I was oblivious that a life was balanced in my palms. Dehydrated, disoriented, reeling from catching a thorned bouquet, I drank hungrily from what I thought was simply a decorative bridal flower vase – greedily, unknowingly gulping the life-source away from the slick orange scales of a terrified goldfish.
It seemed callous to let my friend go to prison alone, so I assaulted the arresting officer until he agreed to bring me along as well. The heroin stained prostitutes, who had already gotten the cell’s good seats, lent us toilet paper and sage wisdom as we waited for freedom.
Before my older brother’s wedding, our elderly father decided to take his four sons’ out drinking. The night of debauchery included sleeping on a hedgerow, meeting German’s in a hotel Jacuzzi at 3 am and wondering how the wet spot got in the middle of the carpet.
Each year we would rent a U-Haul; pack it with few sofas, bushels of crabs and a few kegs. We’d go to the Florida/Georgia game and tailgate. We sold wristbands at $10 a pop for a beer and a plate of crabs. It helped us pay rent all year.
The 18 pack Miller Lite Tall-Boys lived under my bed at my parents’ house for seven years; from when I purchased them for a party, while my parents were away, till I moved back home from NYC a week ago. Officially ending the era of the beer under my bed.