Beer With Me

My friend in another country pays exorbitant prices for any alcohol, and so I usually bring a bottle of wine or a six-pack when I cross the bridge.  Within the Province of Ontario, citizens have to go to a special store to purchase beer and liquor, and have a limited allowance regarding how much they can cross the border with.  Currently, we here in the States may bring up to 24 twelve ounce cans, 40 ounces of liquor, or 1.5 liters of wine without paying import taxes, so I am often the rumrunning American with a Buffalonian accent which they better stop making fun of, or no more Stella Artois.  Flattened a's are not for Canadian amusement, eh?  Don't even get me started on curling.

In the aisle of the supermarket mercado, a tower of cardboard six packs wavered as the weighted carts loaded with various tubers and styrofoam packed chicken trundled past.  I was there, looking for a requested brand, reading labels, amazed at the newer variations of brew; everything was crammed together, compounded by the manner of setting out random piles of grocery items on the diagonal.  The Tower of Summer Shandy being one.

I am not much of a beer drinker, don't care for carbonation or the bitterness; therefore shopping for a certain brand involves contemplation and reading of labels.  It ain't like the old days, when Buffalo had 39 breweries with names like Schmidt's, Simon Pure, and Iroquois; now there are Pliny the Younger, Double Dead Guy Ale, and Hell Hath No Fury Ale.  Takes some education in language arts to get through the roster.

Because of the diagonal set-ups of merchandise, because I turned to get out of the way of a juggernaut shopper, the purse on my shoulder neatly launched the top case off the beer tower and after the tinkle of glass came the hiss of disseminating fizz, with a lovely, clear aroma of lemon.  Flavored beer ran yellow down the aisle, and I went to get help.  They were very nice and made the "Are you kidding?" face when I offered to pay for the disaster.  Only slightly embarrassed, for who on earth stacks a tower of single six packs five feet high and then expects stability?  Make a pyramid, for gosh sakes.  Physics, people.

Today I was given a mission to find a new release, a creamy ale called Orange Blossom; the first three stores were sold out; the fourth displayed eight single bottles with nothing in a pre-constructed pack, so I grabbed them and headed out as we were on the way to Toronto for a Keaton film.  At the cashier, I noticed each single bottle was ringing up at $4.99 which meant escalation of pricing into the stratosphere, for here in Buffalo, five time eight equals forty.  Forty dollars for eight bottles?  I don't pay forty dollars for almost anything that doesn't have electrical circuits, and this was before tax and deposit were added on.  Uh, say, are these really $4.99 a bottle?

The cherub-faced young man wasn't sure, couldn't find it listed, and so called a front manager.  She came over and said, "We can't sell you these."  What?

Because the bottles were just in my cart without a surrounding cardboard box, I was not allowed to purchase them.  "What do you want to do with these?" she asked.  What?

Not being a beer buyer, the brain ran through the list of recall concerning if there was a magic about this, what did the manager mean, is there a secret code for entering beer world?  Did I knock something over in this store?  Were they mad at me?

Apparently, I took the bottles from a shelf where the cognoscenti select individual brands to put in a origami type cardboard box with a handle.  Then you can buy it, but only six, not eight except if I filled another divided box with four other beer species.  She finally understood that I wanted to buy all the beer, which apparently was not obvious even though it was in the cart.  Maybe I wanted to give the beer a ride around the aisles prior to lining it up on the cashier's conveyor belt, where it could further enjoy a little ride and experience a temporary Beer Freedom before being replaced on the shelf.  Oh, you want to buy it?  Yes?  She disappeared for ten minutes to find a box that would make it legal, discussed it with the head of Beer who said there wasn't anymore to be had since it was new to the market, and everyone in line behind me was white-knuckling their shopping carts.

I told the young man to cancel me out and continue with the other customers until the manager reappeared.  Why I needed a box is a mystery, for the bottles would be covered by the reusable shopping bag, thus preventing the impropriety of a wild beer out in the open.  But, you must have a box.  She came back with a flimsy, brown, organically correct compostable beer carton, printed with soy ink.

It wasn't strong enough to hold anything on its own, and had to be bolstered by additional support; yet it was now right, and she calmed down.  The young cashier was unnecessarily apologetic, it certainly would have gone smoother if there were large signs with available cartons in a friendly rack, but both he and I learned something about purchasing beer in this grocery.  A box makes the price go down to $9.90 a six pack.  40 ounce bottles, however, need no cardboard wrapping and can just be plopped in a bag; this makes no sense, and as with most rules, remains a mystery as to conceivability.  

Toronto was lovely, so unique, busy, thriving, expensive as hell, but so is everything in Canada.  A fifteen dollar hamburger is not unusual, but Canadian beef does have a wonderful flavor.  Flavour.  I wanted to stay in the realm of silent film, with the pub across the way carouseling around a Sunday jazz trio.  Next week, it's the Arctic Monkeys.  Don't ask me, I just said yes, I'll go.  I'll go and learn something new with my knowledgeable friend.  I come from the era of the Turtles, Three Dog Night, and Iron Butterfly; Arctic Monkeys sound like fun.  An outdoor venue, here's hope it won't rain.  We should bring some beer.

Driving back to my city just at sunset, the drizzle performed the enchantment of a partial rainbow; it was a stout pillar of fire rising into the coming dusk as the last rim of orange sunlight folded into the horizon.  It was enjoyable to watch, eventually fading to a flamed wash in the sky, a ghost of light broken by raindrops into violets and blues bending at 40-degree angles; the oranges and reds are exposed at a 42-degree angle.

This morning, the young rabbit was out on the strip of scrap land between the parking lot and a higher street; this is where the woodchucks live, they shoot dirty looks at the intruder eating in their minute field.  The rabbit's back was to me, but he isn't skitterish at all, his delicate, shelled ears did turn back to listen.  I made kissy-bun-bun noises, turned to get in the car, and there he was.  He came up to the fence and sat on his hind legs, front paws up, looking at me.  Does he know that I'm the one who illicitly pushed carrots through the fence links during early spring, when ice still was?  He put his order in and I found a carrot for him later.  The morning sun had lit up the brown ruff at the back of his neck into warm rusts tipped with black and gold.

Tonight, there is a small breeze that causes the window chimes to sound intermittently, like a reticent memory; they remember briefly, then forget.  No stars are out, for the low clouds are bringing more scattered rain, making the evening seem even closer.  When you can look up to see the stars, you are looking into forever; under the blanket of clouds, you are in your own room.  Sleep well, traveller, sleep well, rabbit; get to bed for an early rise, sort out the dry grass lining the burrow, turn down blankets, slip into the soothing dark.  Close your eyes, think of things to be; all will be well.  Good night.