Had Enough
by Roadwalker
Growing up in the early 80’s, drinking alcoholic beverages was still encouraged for young people. The beer ads had the Miller Lite gang. Television and films showed the effect of drinking being happiness. And young adolescent I was, I wanted that happiness.
All of this was before the summer of 1983. Before then, drunkenness was the goal. And it was not achievable taking micro-sips from the rum bottle that Tom’s dad kept in their kitchen cupboard. So that’s when Big John stepped in.
Big John dressed in military fatigues. In the peacenik years before the cold war ended, most of us were the no-nukes type with fears drummed into us by The Day After. But Big John was tough. He wore his hair smartly cropped and knew how to cut down trees with a bow saw. He carried a container of chewing tobacco to school. Big John liked the outdoors and got us all into camping. So our first outing was up in the Lone Pine Canyon. Big John brought beer.
That night we sat by the creek. John casually cracked his can and began to slurp. I opened mine and watched my friends do the same. This was the big moment. I took a big sip.
This warm beer that had been on sale was the worst stuff I had ever tasted. I didn’t care. Big John had told us it was an acquired taste. But I slowed way down and didn’t end up finishing the can that night. John tossed his can and scooped up another. Karl was the youngest of us. He let out a good belch.
The evening wore on. We had nothing to eat. Guys kept getting up and pissing in the creek. I waited for that euphoria that was supposed to accompany my beer. Then I decided to watch John for it. John set his can down and burped quietly.
I saw him squint and tilt his head back. I realized that this was it. I would see the coolness. Here would come that wisdom and wit that everyone had when they were drinking. I fixed my attention and Big John spoke.
“I remember…” He drawled. “When my mom used to wipe my ass.”
I said nothing. Karl and Tom were stumbling around in the bushes.
“She’d say, ‘bend over!’” John continued.
I got up and walked away. The last thing I heard him say was: “My old man would tell me to wipe my own ass.”
Tom and Karl weren’t satisfied with the beer buzz. They tried to get stoned by wrapping some ferns up in notebook paper and smoking it like a cigarette. They nearly coughed their lungs out.
That fall, a really nice girl was killed by a drunk driver. The story made statewide news. She had gone to my church. She had never done anything bad. She was seventeen. Big John smelled like beer at her funeral.