Sitting on the back porch at 9 a.m. contemplating the can of cold Coors I held in my left hand, I suddenly understood my grandpa and sometimes grandma’s allure at drinking a chilled one before the summer morning becomes an oppressive afternoon. I pulled the tab and let the pressure inside escape before taking a long drink.
As a man ten years less the same age as Grandpa at passing, I recall being in the kitchen, seated at the yellow linoleum-covered dinette table and matching chairs, wondering why they drank beer in the first place. Mom said they were alcoholics, and as I slurped a second slug from the pale yellow aluminum can, I wondered the same about myself.
“The world has gone bad on me,” I could not help but think. “Ain’t the same country either.”
After a third swallow, I poured a bit on the cement and let the dogs lap at it.
“Maybe they saw the shit coming down too,” I said to the two doe-eyed pooches, looking at me, wanting a touch more of my half-gone beverage. I obliged and swiftly downed the rest.
They had survived two world wars, the Great Depression, the Korean Conflict, and now Vietnam, and a major downturn in the nation’s economy and a rise in gas prices.
Alcoholic or not, the world had gone to shit for them as it and the United States have for me, and now we’re all just too fucking polite to pick up arms against the bastards driving us down. No, we are a stupid bunch, allowing ourselves to let the son-of-a-bitches promise us to death, one god-damned word at a time.
As I stand up, the Alexa continues to play the country music I grew up on. Meryl Haggard bemoans, “Are the good times all gone,” and I think “Yup.”
I grab a second beer from the refrigerator and return to my seat and the back deck, the hiss of the air escaping from beneath the pull tab like gentle music to my idle ears, and I think, “The yard work can wait.”
The Old Blog in the Desert 