Nothing To See Here – “Beer Can Bonanza”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

“You can’t be a real country unless you have a beer and an airline. It helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a beer." - Frank Zappa

 

Interacting on social media platforms is a timewaster that occupies much of humanity in nations like America, where internet access is common. For a creative writer, it is tempting to dip into that sea of content as a method to promote projects and arouse interest from potential readers. Yet membership can yield unintended harm with such benefits. Discussions of any issue may quickly devolve into childish squabbling. Idiocy is liberated by being practically anonymous. Episodes of road rage on the information superhighway explode guidelines set in place with good intentions.

 

Yet becoming free of this phenomenon, once ensnared, is a difficult task.

 

Recently, I checked daily posts on my Facebook account, hoping for interesting tidbits of cultural trivia from fellow contributors. Many who maintain a consistent presence, such as Terry & Tiffany DuFoe from Cult Radio A-Go-Go, or Deke Dickerson, the prolific author, musician, and world traveler, make every visit an interesting experience. But while dangling a toe in the virtual water, I saw something that was unrelated. An archival photograph of a cone-top beverage can. When I clicked on this image of a dented and rusty relic, what opened was a portal into another time and place.

 

I sat and stared at my computer monitor, wholly stunned by what came into view. The group had been named with a matter-of-fact denomination, ‘Beer Can Collectors of Facebook.’ Their masthead boasted a row of four vintage collectibles from domestic brewing history. Each name made me sit up straighter, and peer with a greater lust for fulfillment. Fitger’s; Prager Bohemian; Blatz; Goebel. All were leftover artifacts of a vintage era. The third one surviving now in name only.

 

In retirement, I had given up on hoarding such trinkets. The pursuit of playing brewery-roulette, with different brands and styles entering the household every week, was something I abandoned, long ago. Yet looking through their photos rekindled the foolish and impulsive appetites of my younger self. Some members offered portraits of their own offices, basements and garages as evidence that the tradition was still very much alive.

 

While scrolling, I became oddly thirsty. Though I had just finished my breakfast routine, and a pot of coffee, now my mouth salivated for the taste of a cool refreshment.

 

When my friend Janis called from her temporary residence at a nursing home in Ashtabula, I bubbled over with 1970’s enthusiasm. Temptation made me want to ignore making contact for long enough to sneak through the kitchen, to my refrigerator. But I maintained control, and answered politely.

 

“Heyy, you won’t believe this, but I found a group online with other middle-aged guys who still collect beer cans. Ain’t that a kick? I thought the habit went away with Jimmy Carter and the Oil Embargo, and all that Malaise-Era crap! You know, like the AMC Gremlin, or Ford Pinto, and walking your Pet Rock while listening to Disco music...”

 

My younger associate snickered and snorted with amusement.

 

“Ughhh! Face it, you’re an old dude, Rodbert! Really, really old! I bet you reek like a stale cigar!”

 

I was slightly offended. Though my longish hair and gray beard definitely reflected an age that had passed.

 

“I haven’t seen some of these cans and illuminated signs in 40 years or more! That was a bug I caught in my high school days. I would buy anything related to beer. My family believed that drinking was a sinful activity, something associated with thieves and prostitutes and rascals of all sorts. So, of course that kind of danger always seemed appealing...”

 

Janis laughed and wailed like a banshee.

 

“Yikes! You sound like my grandpa! He used to get drunk on Stroh’s and pester my grandma for a ride up to the corner store by Lake Erie! That man would knock ‘em down until he passed out and pissed his overalls! It made me giggle as a little kid!”

 

I sighed loudly and rubbed my eyes.

 

“I have a powerful thirst right now. Maybe it was a bad idea to keep scrolling on Facebook for so long...”

 

She cackled in my ear, and whistled.

 

“I sit here in our activity room, and listen to these crazy hags play Bingo. You sit at home and get sloshed on your man-pop. We’re a gawdamm pair of losers, Rodbert! Look at us! We suck!”

 

Her assessment made me chill. Yet I did not want to agree.

 

“Naw, I look at it another way. This is kinda cool, the members are sharing memories with their parents and uncles and older brothers. Maybe neighborhood characters that inspired them as kids. You know? I see lots of familiar cans in this group. Somebody has a Sonny Barger brew, he was a leader in the Hell’s Angels. Another participant owns dozens of cone-top cans, those have always been desirable. You still see them at flea markets and in antique shops. There are sports varieties, or some with funny photos and designs. Lots of cans with German names and references to brewing history. It’s part of our culture!”

 

My contrarian mate made rude noises like someone passing gas.

 

“HORSESHIT, MAN! NOBODY WOULD FOLLOW A PAGE LIKE THAT, EXCEPT FOR SOME FAT, OLD GUY WHO IS BORED OUT OF HIS SKULL! WHAT DID I JUST SAY? A LOSER! LOOOOOOSER!”

 

I reddened with embarrassment. She had hit a metaphorical bullseye.

 

“Umm... yes. That would be me!”

 

Suddenly, she felt a jab of remorse. I guessed that she must have pulled her pajama top over her face. The sound of her voice became strangely muffled.

 

“Sorry, bruh. Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your toes. Are you gonna cry?”

 

I slammed both hands on the desktop. This violent thump made my cell phone bounce sideways and land on the keyboard.

 

“That’s it! I’m going to the fridge. I can’t sit here any longer, with a dry throat and an empty stomach. I need a freaking drink!”

 

Janis howled and shook her head victoriously. My surrender had her cheering.

 

“THERE YOU GO, RODBERT! IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE!”