by Jon Mayor
I’m a high life man. Have been since the time I was old enough to realize my dad was a high life man, coming home late after working all day, wheeling around the corner, almost taking out a mail box or two on his way, then swerving down our street, honking at the neighbors houses, singing along to Foreigner (IV I think) and pulling into the driveway, breaks screeching, lights left on. Coming into the house then, yelling “hey there . . . ho” and me and my sister running down the carpeted stairs and through the wood paneled living room to greet him, shake his hand, get our big wet sloppy beer kisses, and celebrate the end of another long hard working day by laughing and smiling and heading to the fridge with the man so he could continue what (he’d started at the bar earlier that day and) I now know as Miller time. Making a joke or two about something or other, then tapping into a(nother) hard earned cold one, taking it to the TV with his pistachio’s and a ham and cheddar sandwich and turning on M*A*S*H* or the news or was it M*A*S*H then the news, or did M*A*S*H play like every half an hour back to back back then and I’m just making the news thing up entirely?
Either way, I fucking loved that man. Loved him. Have no problems saying that, that I loved him, really truly and as much as a man could ever love another man I think. Sitting there staring at him, worshiping him almost, the sweat dripping down his face and painting his shirt sleeves, the beginning of a beard on his chin. Sideburns. Suntan. Crossing my legs the way he did, laughing at Hawkeye Pierce with his hand down his pants, sometimes even just digging into the pistachios myself like they were my own pistachios, and sharing a glance with him, a smile, him even handing his gold over to me periodically so I could have a sip. The champagne of beers he’d say and I’d swallow it down, proud of myself, and he’d take it back and finish it off, then muss up my hair and head to the fridge for another one, cigarette dangling from his lips by now, shirt sleeves rolled up and he’d crack it and throw the cap perfectly, always perfectly, in the trash can and he’d take another sip and hold it up high to absolutely no one in particular, would just sort of out of respect for the good ol’ American craftsmanship of the product contained therein, hold it up and pay a silent moment of tribute, then he’d drink it down again. The work that went into it, the ingredients, the time, the meaning, the history, drinking it how it was meant to be drank. By good ol’ American working men, sitting at home at night, smoking cigarettes, eating nuts and watching patriotic quality television, smart enough to savor the seconds of laying back, appreciating what they’ve taken from this world and sipping at the high life with their children. Things were pretty fucking good then I recall and have no problems telling you. Things were pretty fucking good.
I had stints, sure. I mean there is no doubt that my judgement has not been at times, spectacular. Where I have transgressed even and not upheld my end of living the life, but I learn the hard way. I touch the oven to make sure it’s hot, I try things before I condemn them and I also, though it’s hard for me to stomach this one, know the agony of North and Southeast microbrews, Belgian beer, other imports and even sadly light beers that I’ve sat with while out with young women. It doesn’t come up much anymore, but . . . I do.
My friends are high lifers also. All except for Danny that is, the black sheep, lone wolf Bud dove, who catches some obvious flack for his preference, though who in reality should catch a lot more flack but who could fuck up most every one of us mano y mano in a street fight, so who commendably stays American I’d like to point out and even arguably respectively drinks the Bud, which if I wasn’t a (high) lifer myself, which I fucking am for fucking life, obviously, as the name conveniently implies (lifer), then well I’d probably drink the Bud I think, too, though don’t tell my old man that . . . god rest his soul. And it’s not like I just hang out with these guys because they’re h lifers too, I’d like to make clear. I mean we’re not some superiority complex club who thinks we’re holier then thou or anything like that because of the beer we tend to drink. It’s not like I see a guy drinking high life and run over and like give him the secret handshake and ask him to all of a sudden build something or go bowling with me, it’s just the guys I happen to like, the guys I respect and buy into, that when push comes to shove I feel would without hesitation take a socket wrench to the back of someones head, or change a transmission, or bowl 195, 4 out of 5 when they had to, that they just happen, those guys, coincidentally, to drink the high life as well.
And not that it even matters really. I mean the years go on and we get wiser and grow into ourselves and come to terms with certain things, it’s a new millennium now and people are just people as far as I’m concerned and I sure ain’t one to judge or let things get in the way of more important stuff between people, so if they want to drink like imported stuff or microbrews for some reason, well it’s nothing to start fights over anymore. I’m done starting shit on account of stuff like that now anyway. Like if they drink Harp or Heineken or Coors, though, and not to start shit or imply that it even really matters really, which it doesn’t, I think I’ve made clear, or at least I have tried to make clear, but I still kind of feel sometimes, after a few too many high lifes I do… still kind of think and need to hold back the fact that between you and me here, that Harp’s for fucking foreigners, Heinekens for pussies. But who am I to say for sure. It’s just how I see it. And I just know what I know about this far from perfect world we live in, and don’t really claim to know much else at all about nothing in particular. I don’t claim to really know how to make it all better, or solve any problems, or even say the right things. I just mind my own business and stick to the Miller. I just pay my alimony on time and make sure my kids have clothes and work a full day how I was taught to, to come home and feel good about myself and reward myself with a cold one. Or two. Or three. Or however many I need to in the home I built (while drinking industrial amounts of the high life mind you) with a couple of grade-A pals and my own two god given hands. I just mind my own business. Let folks do as they please and kind of keep to my own otherwise.
