I knew I was headed for trouble when, instead of comparing prices as I scanned the beer selection in a restaurant, I started to compare the alcohol content of the offerings. I’d had a few instances of walking out the door after dining with a few drinks down my gullet, looking out at the parking lot, and not knowing at first–or at second, or third–which way I should go to find my car.
I didn’t want what may have been just a minor mental slip to turn into a real problem. New cars are expensive, and just try to find a dealer open at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night, when my wife and I usually settle up after eating at “early bird” hours.
So I went from IPAs (7-10% alcohol), to regular beer (5-6%), to light beers (4-5%). Finally, last night I hit rock bottom. I ordered an alcohol and gluten-free beer made from “quinoa.”
For the record, I never wore a mood ring, but for a time I did own a pair of “Earth Shoes.”
“Quinoa,” for those keeping score at home, is a trendy foodstuff whose principal nutritional value is the inscrutable pronunciation of its name. Say “quinn-OH-ah” at the health food store, as you were taught to sound things out in second grade phonics, and you will be corrected by a know-it-all sales person, who will helpfully tell you “It’s KEEN-waa,” loud enough for shoppers two aisles over in organic flashlight batteries to hear. He/she will say this with a Latin flourish that will recall The Cisco Kid’s jovial sidekick, Pancho.
I know a lot of people are into “gluten free” food for health reasons, but my mom taught me not to bring up politics at social events. If the glutens have been oppressed, it wasn’t my doing. And besides, once the glutens are free, where are we going to put them? We don’t have enough low-carb housing in America as it is.
But anyway, where was I. Right, trying to explain how I decided to cut back on alcohol because I would . . . forget things.
“I can’t go on like this,” I finally admitted to my wife.
“Like what?” she asked.
“I’ve hit rock bottom, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally pausing an episode of “Call the Midwife.” “How was I supposed to tell?”
“I ordered a non-alcoholic beer at dinner.”
“I wondered why it looked so funny.”
“Funny strange or funny ha-ha?”
“Strange. Cloudy. Ominous.”
“Not only that,” I said as I looked at the product description I found on the brewer’s website, “it’s ‘brewed thoughtfully in small batches, with an uncompromising focus on high-quality nutrition, ethically-sourced ingredients, and . . .'”
“Say no more,” she said. “I ‘get it.’ You shouldn’t be drinking beer with such a high self-improvement content.”
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“You might try talking to Susan.”
“She drinks Sierra Nevada IPA–from a can.”
“Right, but her first husband . . .”
“The guy Dan?”
“Right. He started a micro-brewery and like so many beer-bros, went off on a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde tangent.”
“Meaning what?”
“Putting blueberries in his IPAs. Breakfast-themed stout with coffee beans and Count Chocula cereal. Fermenting bourbon-infused excrement of Asian palm civets.”
“What’s a palm civet?”
“A small jungle cat native to Southeast Asia. With all that crazy crap he was using he finally went nuts and tried to invent a ‘negative’ beer.”
“You mean one that had less than zero alcohol by volume?”
“You made beer . . . from my poop?”
“Right. Wild stuff. It was like the sizes at Chico’s, which get ever smaller until they vanish into a black hole somewhere in the fitting rooms.”
“Wow.”
“Finally he broke down. The business failed, he lost everything he’d put into it. They divorced, but Susan stays in touch with him . . . for the kids.”
“Is he . . . okay now?”
“Not quite, but he’s getting there. It’s been a long road back.”
“How did he do it–drugs, therapy, electro-shock?”
“He went to Non-Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“It’s not something people talk about in polite circles. It’s a twelve-step program that teaches you that moderation is better than non-alcoholic fanaticism. Maybe you should try it.”
I looked down at the ground, and shook my head sadly. “But what if I do lose our car?”
“That’s why they put a beeper on the key fob,” she said as she leaned over and patted my knee. “Just press the lock function and your lights come on. Press it twice and your horn honks.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said. “You’re wonderful to be doing this for me, but . . .”
“But what?”
“What’s in it for you?”
“If you think I’m going to out myself as an alcoholic in this town by drinking white wine all night while you sip Diet 7-Up, you’re the crazy one.”