babble
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Redemption city:
I'm in southern Indiana right now.
Don't ask.
Anyway, I arrived somewhat late on Monday night, and after dealing with flight delays and flying for a good 8 or 9 hours, I wanted a beer. Just a beer. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, at 1 a.m. in southern Indiana, it is. Everyone I asked, from the clerk at the convenience store to the guy at the hotel front desk, all looked at me as if I'd grown an extra arm out of the side of my head.
(As an aside, how fucking convenient is a store that doesn't sell beer, anyway? I mean, at all. There was NO BEER in the convenience store. The hell is that about?)
So, Tuesday night, I was determined to have my after-work beer. I went to the front desk at the hotel and asked where the closest place to get beer was.
Again, I received puzzled, blank stares.
Finally, one of the staff recovered from their shock and chimed in that there was a liquor store called "Busy Bee" down the road, right after the KFC.
I love it when people give you directions by fast food landmark.
So, I headed on out to complete mission: get Kathleen an after-work beer. The area where I'm staying is sort of rural - lots of really small towns, chained together by Wal-Marts and tractor stores. As I drove down the road, I glanced around me at the sights. I passed a car wash whose marquee promised "Satisfaction guaranteed or your dirt back". A little further down the street, a hand-painted sign cautioned, "You have an expiration date. Trust Jesus."
It was a little disconcerting.
I arrived at the Busy Bee, which was a small, nondescript building in the middle of a parking lot. I walked in and headed for the beer coolers in the back of the store. Through the lone, tinny speaker in the corner, Eric Clapton told me that cocaine "don't lie". A lone customer stood in front of a frosted glass door, trying to make the difficult decision between Miller and Coors. He chose a twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee.
I knew I was in the right place.
I walked around the store, looking at the selection. Dozens upon dozens of bottles of premium spirits sat untouched on the dusty shelves. I turned the corner, and the shelves carrying Mad Dog and Thunderbird looked picked-over and sparse. I walked back to the cooler and saw an entire section filled with various flavors of Boone's Farm. On the radio, Van Halen insisted that "I might as well jump". I was instantly transported back to high school.
I chose a couple of large bottles of Asahi and brought them to the counter. The clerk rung up a leathery, nicotine-stained customer who was buying a bottle of Jim Beam, a pack of Winstons and a scratch-off lottery ticket.
The leathery customer spoke through his salt-and-pepper mustache, which was discolored to a yellowish-gray by tobacco smoke. "What kinda beer is that?" he drawled, looking at me sideways under his dusty Nascar cap.
The clerk answered for me. "I think it's Japanese," he said, giving me a look that said he knew I wasn't a local from my choice in alcohol. The grizzled customer mumbled something under his breath about "fur'ners" and left.
The clerk rang me up and I headed back to the hotel, passing three tractor dealerships and a discount Bible outlet. Safely ensconced in my chain-hotel haven, I enjoyed my fur'n beer and wondered where my next adventure would take me.
To be honest, I wouldn't mind if it was southern Indiana. At least I know where to find beer here.
babbled by Kat @ 8:39:00 PM |
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