Personal Essay (Revised)

Drinking Beer

“If you ever reach total enlightenment while drinking beer, I bet it makes beer shoot out your nose.”
--Deep Thought, Jack Handy

I grew up like most Americans, believing that beer had to be tasteless and bland. Busch Light was the beverage my dad relied on to make it through those difficult five day work weeks. It was also the socially appropriate filler for his can cozy in any situation where hard liquor just wouldn’t do; horseshoe games, family picnics, camping trips, Christmas at Grandma’s house. As far as I knew, beer was what adults drank when they wanted to stay sober enough to make it home without having to pull over and let the twelve year old drive. The few sips I was allowed from Dad’s can had me pretty much convinced that I would never drink anything so revolting.

That attitude lasted until I was about eighteen, when I discovered that being bad could be really fun. It was open season on alcohol. It didn’t really matter what the stuff tasted like; it wasn’t like I could stroll down to the local liquor store and pick up whatever I wanted. I was too young to be picky. Horrifically cheap beer was a staple of every party I attended. A twenty-four pack of cans was the usual. We moved up to bottles when we were feeling extravagant. A keg was an absolute godsend. If I didn’t have to pay some loser three dollars for a plastic glass, I kept an eye out for four scary guys on horses, because that kind of luck was rare enough to be a sure sign of the Apocalypse. If there was vodka around, I didn’t worry about the beer at all. I chose my drinks based on the proof, not the taste.

Upon reaching the legal drinking age, I became more selective. I gave up beer all together in favor of hard liquor. I had my own place, so I never had to go to the bar. I’d just invite my under-aged friends over and we’d mix revolting concoctions made up of random types of alcohol, pop, and juice. Schnapps, vodka, whiskey, paint thinner, battery acid; if it was flammable it wound up in a recipe at some point. If the resulting cocktail actually tasted good, we named it. If it didn’t, we drank it anyway.

All of that changed the day I had my first glass of real beer. My friends, who were finally twenty-one, decided to check out a club downtown. There were four taps in the bar. Three of them were the usual boring crap that fills the menu in every bar. I was seriously considering ordering a Vodka Redbull, but those tend to get really disgusting after the third or fourth drink. They’re only worth it when you want to get messed up in record time.

“Why don’t you get a Guinness,” my friend Theresa suggested, gesturing toward a sleek brown tap with a white tip, “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of growing hair on my chest. I’m a brunette. Half of my daily grooming involves battling annoying body hair. Why in the world would I want to add more? I tried the beer anyway.

To my surprise, it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. It was thick enough to chew, with a frothy head capable of giving a person a beer moustache. It was loaded with the one thing most popular beers lack, flavor. The idea that beer could actually taste good was an entirely unique concept to me. I found myself enjoying the beverage instead of the effect.

It was a new experience to drink without the intention of getting drunk. I found it relaxing to sit and sip a beer and talk instead of pounding down endless rounds of those weeks most popular shots. It was like being a little bit more of an adult without having to grow up all the way. I could hang out in bars, but I didn’t have to be the wasted chick dropping glasses and spilling drinks on people. Anything that involves a decrease in vomiting and hangovers must be a positive change, right?

I started listening to the guys at work talk about beer. I run a press for a printing company. It’s the kind of dirty job that is usually done by Budweiser swilling family men. We have our fair share of those, but we also have an abnormal number of microbrew enthusiasts. It was really interesting to hear them argue about the finer points of a particular blend. I discovered that beer snobs are just as bad as wine snobs. They study beer like some people study fine art. One debate stands out in my mind.

“I really like the Summit Oktoberfest this year,” Bill proclaimed. He brews his own beer and is considered something of an expert on the subject.

“It’s not as good as last year’s,” Frank asserted, relying on age and drinking experience to support his claim, “The previous brew had a hint of caramel that this year’s batch doesn’t.”

“But this season’s has a slight coffee undertone that I find enjoyable,” Bill disagreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes,” Frank nodded, stroking his beard in an echo of Jim’s intellectual pose, “I detected that as well. In fact, I think that’s what spoiled the batch.”

“I don’t know,” Allan interrupted, trying to look as intelligent as possible, “I think Killian’s Irish Red is the best ale I’ve ever had.”

“Sure Allan,” Bill replied, trying hard to choke back his amusement, “Killian’s makes some mighty fine ale.”

“Yes,” Allan continued, “My wife and I discovered it at a little pub in Maple Grove. It’s a delightful little ale.”

“Really,” Frank responded, his voice laced with thinly veiled sarcasm, “I’ll have to try it sometime.”

As Allan wandered back to his machine Bill burst out laughing. “Oh my God,” he gasped, breaking into fits of what can only be described as man giggles, “He thought Killian’s was an ale!”

“Everyone knows that Killian’s Irish Red is a lager!” Frank snickered.

If Allan wasn’t one of those dorks who thinks of himself as a super genius and always lets everyone know it, I would have felt worse about laughing along with the guys. I wasn’t sure exactly what the difference between ale and lager was either. I knew that there was no way I could ever hope to remember what a seasonal beer tasted like from one year to another. If I were actually one of the guys my ignorance would have been exposed long ago. Thankfully, men never expect women to know anything about the beer they drink. We get credit just for drinking something without the word light in the name.

I didn’t realize how much my taste in beer had changed until my stepfather, Mike, introduced our family to what is quite possibly the worst beer in the world. We were all up at the hunting shack for the Fourth of July weekend and he decided to pick us up a case of Northern. I guess the selection up there in Aitkin just isn’t as diverse as us city folk are accustomed to. My husband, Rob had the honor of cracking the first can.

“Bleech,” he gagged, “Yuck!”

I was a little upset. It’s not like Rob to be rude, especially when a member of my family has been nice enough to supply us with beer.

“It can’t be that bad,” I exclaimed, taking a sip of his freshly opened beer.

It was the worst thing I have ever tasted.

“Here,” I said, handing the can off to my brother, “Does this taste funny?”

He took a swig and turned an interesting shade of green.

“Give it to your uncle,” Mike suggested, “He’ll drink anything as long as it’s free.”
My uncle, who has a reputation for being the biggest tightwad ever to walk the earth, refused to drink more than half a can. It’s physically impossible for that man to pass up a bargain. Maybe if we’d taped a dollar bill to each can he would have been willing to drink it. As Rob said, “They must have named it Northern because drinking it is like sucking on one. “ It’s been three years and there are still a few cans of Northern sitting in my parent’s refrigerator waiting for someone to be desperate enough to drink them. Even my younger brother and sister, who are under-aged and desperate, won’t touch it. Apparently, they have better taste than I did at that age. I would have been swilling that fish slime like a trout drinks lake water.

Strange as it may seem, beer has made me a more responsible person. I never find myself in a situation where I’m incredibly inebriated and wondering how I’m going to get home. I never find myself arriving at my house wondering how the hell I made it that far. Creepy guys don’t try and pick me up in bars anymore. Life is a little calmer and a lot less melodramatic.

“You know,” my brother said one day, motioning to a few empty beer glasses scattered across a restaurant table, “It’s kind of nice that we can do this.”

“Do what?” I asked, finishing my last few sips of Newcastle.

“Well,” he explained, “it’s nice that we can get together as a family without everyone getting wasted. You know what this table would have looked like when Dad was younger.”

“Yeah,” I sighed, remembering tables littered with empty bottles, cigarette butts, and a few aunts and uncles passed out in pools of their own drool, “It is nice, isn’t it.”

***Names have been changed and stuff has been completely made up or rearranged to suit me.