Goin' on a Beer Hunt

My father isn't like other fathers. In retrospect, no two fathers are alike. What I'm trying to say delicately is he strives to be unique and is an overachiever. I could fill up a book on his idiosyncrasies, and maybe someday I will. But for this story, I'll just give you the short bio.

Jim Ethridge, my father (though to this day he claims he's not just because I wasn't born a boy) has the most off-beat sense of humor I've ever been exposed to. He's country, but I wouldn't call him a Red Neck. Though he might grin with pride if I did. His work ethic serves as a role model for me. Even when I want to be a slacker, I think Dad would go to work. Dad still tries to be scary intimidating, but he's softened in his 72 years, so it doesn't quite have the same effect. I rarely pee myself a little when I visit now, unless it's from laughter. God, family, his dog and the farm are his top priorities. Definitely not in that order though. Nikki, the dog, is at least second and might even be edging out the number one spot.

While he shuffled the dominoes last week, I asked Dad what he wanted for Father's Day. It was merely a formality as I've gotten him the same thing since I turned twenty-one. . . a variety of flavors of Boones Farm wine, but always with Strawberry Hill. I realize it sounds like a cheap gift, but that's what he wants. It's not like he's a booze hound, Dad just enjoys a taste of fine wine every so often while he works in the barn.

"Busch Light beer. Hey, it's my down. You downed last time. Shuffle 'em." He doesn't even look up to see what expression this change of tradition might have caused on my face. (By the way in case you aren't familiar with dominoes, here are a few terms so you can keep up: downing, shuffling, numbers divisible by five, Xs. And just for the record, I know it was my down, but I succumb to him. I'm distracted by the Busch Light answer,)

"You want beer?"

"Yeah, you gotta problem with that? On my last X." He likes to continually remind me when he's winning.

"No, if that's what you want. Busch Light, right?

"Well, you might get some Bud Light for when I have company. 10! I'm thirty-five from going out."

Needless to say, he won; which made me have to continue the tradition of saying, 'Mr. Jim is the best.' About two out of five times, I get to hear 'Missy Lea Audra is the best'. But I digress, dominoes isn't what this story is about; it's about my adventure getting the perfect Father's Day gift.

Today is Saturday, the day before Father's Day. I decide I better go purchase some cheap ass beer so my dad is reminded of my love for him. The thought crosses my mind to just pick it up on my way there tomorrow, but Oklahoma has funky alcohol laws. It seems to me not buying beer on Sundays used to be one; I'm not sure about now, but I don't feel like risking it.

I teach in the small town that I live in, so I didn't think I should go to the local gas station to buy two cases of beer. No doubt I would see a former student or parent; and while it isn't against the law, this is Oklahoma. . . the Bible Belt. It's just not a good idea to push those limits. Plus the last time I was at this gas station for a can of Campbell's soup, it cost $2.74! For one can! Who knows what beer the day before Father's Day would be.

Choctaw is a town about ten or fifteen minutes away. I really don't mind; I need to get out of the house anyway. Pulling into the only grocery store there, I double check that I have my license just in case they feel like id-ing a forty-five-year old. Doubtful, but with my luck it could happen.

I'm not that familiar with this grocery store, therefore it's not that surprising that I didn't see the beer the first time through each lovely aisle. The second time through, I convince myself it's one of those times when it's right in front of you, but you don't see it - like my razor in the shower this morning. Getting a tad frustrated, I notice a slightly older man in overalls coming my way.

"Excuse me, Sir. Do you happen to know where the beer is? I know I'm just not seeing it." I flash an endearing smile, and bat my baby blues. I'm not sure exactly why, it's not like I'm asking him to be the future father of my children or something.

"Don't drink." But he doesn't keep walking, so I think maybe he just is proud that he doesn't drink.

"Yeah, me either."

He raises an eyebrow. Why do I feel the sudden need to explain myself?

"Well, I mean in college, but that was a lifetime ago." He keeps staring at me; I start looking for nothing in my purse so I don't have to meet his gaze. "Okay, well sure, occasionally a tequila shot with friends or a rum and coke after mowing the lawn. This weather is tough, you know" The words literally won't stop pouring out of my mouth. "I'm not much of a beer drinker. This is for my dad anyway. You know, Father's Day is tomorrow! Are you a father? Happy Father's Day!" I don't think I'm even breathing at this point.

His eyebrows now are assisting his eyes in making a face of either judgment or amazement that someone can take so long to say nothing. "Been sober for sixteen years, four months, two weeks, and almost four days now."

Here I go again. "Wow! That's impressive. Not drinking. And being able to keep track like that. No way could I keep up with it after sixteen years." Why doesn't he interrupt me? Help a girl out.

Silence drifts between us like an unexpressed scream. He just stares at me. Eventually, I release a long sigh. "Well, I'm guessin' you don't know where the beer is; I'll keep looking. Thank you sooooo much. And, again, wow! Congrats on your celibacy. . . Oh God, I mean sobriety."

"I'll help you look." He halfway smiles but I'm not sure if it is a 'I pity you' smile or 'I kill people and skin them for fun' smile.

"Oh, that's fine. I'm good. Thanks again, though. Try to stay cool." I'm an idiot. I quickly guide my cart to the baby food aisle, because there is a small chance in hell I'm going to find beer there.

After one more drive through of the store, I give up and ask a cashier.

"We don't sell beer," she says while her breath lets me know she's recently returned from a cigarette break.

"What? You don't sell beer?" That can't be right; this is a grocery store.

"We are a family store." This time there is a bit of judgment behind those nicotine-stained teeth.

"That's convenient, because I'm getting it for my family." I don't wait to hear if she has a response, I head out the door thinking of Plan B.

"I’ll just go to a gas station. I refuse to go to Wal-Mart ! I will NOT go to Wal-Mart," I say aloud while starting the car.

A half mile later I pull in to a Conoco, but as quickly as I pull in, I put it in reverse. See, I have very few concrete-don't-stray-from rules in my life, but one of them is not entering a convenience store with bars on the doors. It's just like challenging Karma, and in my life Karma is the heavyweight champion.

It's not a big deal because there are several gas stations in Choctaw. I notice another one. Before I have a chance to smile, I notice the bars. Is this some kind of city ordinance? It's not like Choctaw is home to the Red Neck mafia. I will not be deterred. Continuing on, I find a convenience store with more bars, but this one has a liquor store right beside it with no bars!

Parking the car, I start to wonder if they sell Busch Light. I do a group text, because I KNOW my friends will know. No one answers. I put my big girl panties on and just go in.

I wasn't going to bother to search for something I wasn't even sure was there. "Excuse me, do you sell Busch Light or Bud Light?"

The guy behind the register laughs. I don't. "We only sell six point beer, but the gas station next door does, Doll."

I state the obvious. "It has bars on the doors."

I can tell he doesn't believe in Karma, so I give him a disingenuous thumbs up and leave.

I keep on trucking. This is for my dad after all! Five miles . . . ten miles. . . And then, there it is. Wal-Mart. But I don't back down, I stare straight at it letting that store know who is boss and growl, "I will not enter your doors. I'm in no mood to deal with you, Wal-Mart!"

I won that round, but am losing the quest for cheap beer. After an additional seven miles, I decide to compromise and just buy it in the town I live in. Who cares what people think? Right? It's only beer, not meth or something worth talking about. If you are buying that load of crap, you've never lived in a small town. But a daughter's gotta do what a daughter's gotta do.

Halfway back to town, I remember there is a small gas station on the way. I've never been in it, because it looks like it belongs in a ghost town. I've only noticed cars there a few times, and I used to drive that road daily. I'll check it out, but it really should have bars on the doors.

George Strait is singing to me as I get closer. George, you can sit in my chair anytime, good looking. Mmmmhmmm. I can see it now. Unbelievable that it is still standing, we do have some wind down here on the plains and a tornado or two. One car is parked or broken down beside it. Please don't let there be bars. Please don't let there be bars.

Yes! No bars on the door. I'm actually excited to be at the 'scary store' as my son and I refer to it. That's when Karma pulls a foot back and kicks me square in the ass. . . bars on the window. I wrestle with myself figuring out if that counts or not. The rule technically is no bars on the doors. I'm going for it. Dad, I love you this much! This makes up for not being a boy!

Immediately upon opening the door, I'm brutally aware that I'm not only in the minority of ethnicity, but gender as well. Don't misunderstand, I love all people. That's a lie; many people grace this earth that I simply don't like but it has nothing to do with their race or gender. I have to admit I am nervous though. I find myself wondering why I'm uncomfortable, but then the sane part of my brain speaks logic. Enough self-analyzing. Just get the beer.

It's not difficult to find the beer. The store is about the size of a shed. I see the Bud Light right away, but where is the Busch?

"Are you ever going to check out?" a rough voice yells.

I glance around. I'm the only one shopping. Three guys are standing by the door, but it's obvious they're regulars. I've never known gas station regulars, but whatever floats your boat. I decide just to ignore the odd question and look harder for Busch Light.

Two minutes later. "Are you ever going to check out?"

What the hell? Now, I'm more than a little nervous, and everyone (all five people) are staring at me.

Finally, the man at the register informs me that the old man just does that sometimes; it's best to ignore him. He looks at me like I should've known that. Oh, thank you, Jesus! I spy the Busch Light on the shelf. Forcing a grin, I walk the eight steps to the register with Bud and Busch by my side.

One of the gentlemen by the doors nods his head at me. I nod back. "You havin' a party, girl?"

"No, no. This is for my dad. Father's Day gift," I stumble over my words.

Again, I get the look the guy in the grocery store gave me. Am I the only one that buys beer for Father's Day?

I decide to attempt to joke. "You know, he's moving up from the Boones Farm. Gettin' wild in his old age." Thankfully, they sort of laugh.

I'm not sure why, but I glance again toward the men at the door. That's when I feel like vomiting or at the very least passing out. He has a gun in the waistband of his saggy jeans. Understand, it is legal in Oklahoma with a permit. My dad and one of my best friends packs a little heat where ever they go. But then again, they don't look like their permanent address might be a rehab center.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn my attention back to the cashier.

"Where he live?" A part of the English teacher in me dies a little bit.

"He live . .lives in Crescent." They probably think I'm having a seizure because my head is turning to look everywhere but directly at them.

"How old is he?"

"72." Why am I giving out information about my father?

With shaking hands, I pay for the beer and head for the unbarred doors. As I balance the two cases of beer, the gun-toting man opens the door for me.

"You be good, girl."

I squeak out a laugh. "Right on." Did I seriously just say 'right on'?

I pull into the driveway an hour and a half after I began this journey for two cases of cheap beer. I realize there is nothing left to do. I carry the beer in, set it on the table, take out a couple, and sit down at the computer to record the exploit for future generations.

Popping the tab of one of the cans, I say, "Here's to you, Dad. You're going to be short a couple of beers." For the first time in my life, beer tastes amazing.

Happy Father's Day, Old Man.


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