Drinking Beer With My Dad

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

During my first summer of independence working at The Brook & Bridle I grew accustomed to drinking beer. On one of the weekends I visited home, it was a scorcher, I walked up to the fridge and helped myself to a cold one. I was fifteen. My mom and dad shot looks at each other.

“What’s this?” My dad didn’t know what, but had to say something and say it with authority.

“I’m getting a beer. Isn’t that ok?”

“Don’t you think you’re a little young to be helping yourself?”

“Dad. I’ve been drinking beer all summer.”

Whether he liked it or not he knew it was true. “Well, ok, just go easy.”

I nodded agreement. At this point I didn’t think anything was wrong or unusual with my parents getting drunk every night. What was going on in their heads at this moment was anyone’s guess. If it was denial, then it would only be in keeping they not question their son’s drinking.

That afternoon, it was just getting hotter, my dad was loitering in the kitchen and drinking a beer. “Dad, could I have a sip of your beer?”

“Sure.” He handed me the bottle. It was cold and covered with condensation and about three quarters full. I took it and downed it. He stood there forlorn, his whole body drooped. He grinned. “But… that… was my beer.” This was the first time I’d ever heard my father the stoic actually honest to God, whine.

I let out a great sigh of satisfaction and set the empty bottle on the counter. “Yeah… not… any more. It was good. Guess you’ll have to get another one. Thanks, by the way.”

The next day, again blistering hot my dad was standing in the kitchen having a beer. “Hey dad, could I have a si…?”

He glared at me. “Look. You can have one sip. Do you understand what a sip is?” I nodded and he reluctantly pushed the beer in my direction across the counter top. I downed it. “… You little son of a bitch!” He was smiling. Mom was not in the room.

“Ahhh… that hit the spot, thanks.” I licked my chops and walked away.

The next time I went home for a visit and my dad was taking a beer out of the fridge, I hovered. He scowled. “From now on Chester, you get your own damn beer. And pretty soon you can start paying for it!” He said. Then he handed me the beer and got another one for himself.

A few summers later I was eighteen, the drinking age at the time in New Hampshire. I had a job at a camera shop in our home town Concord, and my dad and I commuted together to the lake in Wolfeboro. We would alternate cars and driving. This particular day my dad would come from his office at the airport and pick me up at the shop which was on Main Street. Neither of our cars had AC and it was a wickedly hot afternoon.

Just down the street from where I worked Diversi’s, a small variety store sold beer. On my afternoon break I walked there and bought myself a quart bottle of Budweiser and had the clerk put it in a brown paper bag. Back at the shop I put it in the fridge where we stored film. End of the day, dad pulled up in his little BRG Austin Marina and off we went.

“Whatcha got in the sack?”

“Oh. Sumpthin.”

“Just sumpthin?”

“Yup.” There was no more discussion on the subject. We made our way out of town and once on the infamous shortcut and into sparsely populated farm land I pulled my Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and flipped out the bottle opener. I peeled back the bag a little bit.

“Pa-fhisttt-t!” My dad, with his hands full of gear shift and steering wheel, glanced over as we careened around a corner. Driving fast was why we took the shortcut.

“What is in that sack, Mister?”

“A quart of Budweiser.”

“And you’re gonna drink it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Could I have a sip of your beer?” It was 93 degrees and humid. He was beside himself, the poor guy was drooling.

“Um, dad, I’d love to share this beer with you, but you know it’s against the law to drink and drive.” This hit him like a punch to the mid section.

“Oh! You wait until we get to the lake, and I’ll tell your mother how you treat your dear old dad! Then you’ll know the meaning of trouble.”

Grinning, smug, pleased, I drank the beer. “Mmmm… sure does hit the spot. Cold…”

He sat there, the pilot at the helm, simmering. “Every dog has it’s day my boy.”

The next time it was my turn to drive I showed up at the airport at the usual hour. It was sweltering and for some reason dad was late getting out of the office. I sat there in the sun, windows open, sweating. He came out, aviator shades on, holding his jacket draped over one shoulder and carrying his brown leather flight case in the other hand. There is something infinitely cool about pilots, masters of those great winged machines. He got in the car and we exchanged greetings, nothing out of the ordinary. Off we went.

On the infamous short cut I was giving it hell and he dug into his flight case.

“Pa-fhisttt-t!”

If ever the man sat back, relaxed and enjoyed having himself a cold one, it was then.

Gordon Bunker