1. There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days

[gunwithoutmusic]

"Dark Chocolate Stout"

1,442 words. Approximate reading time: 7 minutes, 8 seconds.

I stood in the back of the liquor store, dragging my eyes over the cooler shelves underneath the sign that read “Imported Beers.” The cooler that I was most interested in was the one that held single cans and bottles. I didn’t need a six-pack; I wasn’t an alcoholic or anything. I was just expanding my tastes, and I had recently gotten a taste for good beer and wanted to be able to call myself an aficionado.

Beer was something of a new world for me. My first memories of beer were sneaking a can of my dad’s Budweiser when no one else was home and there were enough cans in the refrigerator to think that one wouldn’t be missed. My dad certainly drank enough cans in a night most nights that I didn’t think he’d notice one gone. That first sip of Budweiser turned me off of beer for several years, and my method of choice for getting wasted became cocktails.

My first “good beer” was a dark German beer. I had found a recipe for pork chops that called for the chops to be cooked in a gravy made from apples, onions, and dark beer. I only used half of the can for the chops, and finished the rest of the can while I was cooking them. I didn’t want it to go to waste, after all. After that, I made the decision that maybe all beer wasn’t bad, and that it might not be the worst thing in the world if I became a beer snob. I wanted to be a snob about something, and I couldn’t drink straight liquor, and wine all sort of tasted like cheese to me, so beer seemed like a good bet.

I had driven to the liquor store straight after work the next day. It had been a rough day on the job, but I wasn’t stopping because of that; I had already made plans to start my beer snobbery the night before. The place was mostly empty, but I suppose that’s almost a given since it was around 12:15 in the afternoon on a Wednesday. I hemmed and hawed over the selection before finally choosing a dark chocolate stout. I liked chocolate, so that was probably the best choice to start my foray into the world of good beer. I took the large can to the counter, where the cashier rung me up and placed the can into a small brown paper bag.

The rest of the drive home (only a few minutes) was fraught with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to try this new thing; I couldn’t wait to start this new hobby. That’s what I was excited about. It wasn’t the thought of getting drunk. After all, I had only bought one can of beer; that certainly wasn’t enough for me to get drunk. I wanted to just taste it, to savor it, to critique it like one might a fine wine or a well-brewed cup of coffee.

I pulled my car into the driveway, and walked up the steps to the front porch, pulling my keys out of my pocket and immediately dropping them on the ground. I cursed my clumsiness as I bent down to grab my keys. Once I had them in hand again, I impatiently inserted them into the lock and opened the front door.

No one else was home. Again, that was to be expected; I worked a very early morning shift, and my roommates typically didn’t arrive home from work for at least four or five hours after I did. I never loved waking up early, but I did enjoy the hours of solitude I had everyday, where I could spend time alone with my thoughts and do whatever I wanted to do without anyone judging me.

I glanced around the house that I shared with two other twenty-something creative types, thinking about the perfect place to begin my exploration with my dark chocolate stout. It certainly looked like the sort of place where someone might get sadly drunk by themselves in the middle of the afternoon, not that that was what I was doing. Piles of old books without shelves lined the walls. A hideous crocheted granny square blanket was tossed casually over the back of an equally hideous vintage loveseat upholstered with orange floral print fabric. A green vinyl-covered wingback chair loomed over everything else in the room, except maybe the large exposed brick pillar separating the living room from the dining room that was always decorated with gold tinsel from our first Christmas two years before.

Nowhere seemed like exactly the best place, so I turned around and carried my beer to the front porch. I sat on the concrete steps and let the sun warm my face as my eyes drifted from the dilapidated old house on the corner where people went to make drug deals to the brand new tiny mansion in the process of being built just two doors down. What a neighborhood. It was as good a spot as any to create a memory and start a new adventure, so I cracked open the can of dark chocolate stout and put the opening to my lips, taking my first swig.

The thing I loved about that beer was how almost creamy it was. It went down so smoothly and was a far cry from that first Budweiser. The taste of the chocolate malt balanced out the bitterness I had come to expect from beer, and I was surprised to find that my body didn’t shudder the way it normally did when I drank something strongly alcoholic. That beer was just so... easy. Finishing off the twenty-ounce can was no chore; it was basically a privilege.

I made mental notes about my beer experience so I’d have something to compare against whatever beer I chose on my way home from work the next day. After all, what sort of beer aficionado would I be if I just drank for the hell of it and didn’t actually learn the differences between all of the good beers I would be trying over the next several decades of my life? I rested the empty can on the porch next to me, and leaned back with eyes closed to better feel the early afternoon sun. I had to admit that the buzz I got from quickly drinking that whole can felt pretty nice, even if it wasn’t what I was doing this for. In that moment, on that sunny Florida afternoon, with the muggy air surrounding me and my head not quite swimming, it seemed like the problems from my work day had floated away from me. I was alone and peaceful, and for a few moments, everything was wonderful.

When I felt that I had savored those moments long enough, I picked up the beer can and stood up, returning inside to the house that was only lit by the sun in the windows, to the ugly crocheted blanket on the ugly couch, to the green vinyl chair and the large brick pillar, to the stacks of old books that hadn’t been read or dusted in years. I glanced at the clock, noting that it would still be a few hours before my solitude would come to an end, before the stillness of the air would be broken by the sounds of the electric organ being played in the back room, by voices discussing the most recent episode of Doctor Who, by the clanging of pots and pans as we prepared to rummage through our refrigerator in search of what we could make for dinner that night.

I casually crossed the living room and the dining room and moved into the kitchen, dropping my empty beer can in the trash. I turned, observing the almost fully-stocked liquor bar that I had been slowly building over the last few years, remnants of my decision to become a master cocktail maker, a spur of the moment decision that came after receiving a cocktail recipe booklet as a gift from a friend.

My head was still not quite swimming from the beer, but I could feel reality slowly closing in on me as I dragged my eyes over the shelves that held the vodka, gin, whiskey, and various mixers. I thought to myself that it certainly wouldn’t hurt to get some practice in, and pulled a martini glass and a shaker from the nearby china cabinet.

A few moments later, I sat again on the porch, cocktail in hand, and marveled once more at the incongruent houses that basked in the early afternoon sun.