Ray wears a T-shirt that says Beer Is The Reason I Get Up Each Afternoon. That’s because Ray makes the beer at Mcneil’s Brewery. Ray enjoys the beer he makes at his brewery. So much that he long ago hired other folks to actually brew the beer — so he can better concentrate on enjoyment.
The man is a drunkard. But not a fool.
Ray is divorced with grown children. He takes milk thistle for his liver and rides his ten speed bicycle to stay trim. Ray plays cello — sometimes with a jazz band. Sometimes with a symphony. An admirably fair employer; On my first day working for him, years ago, he said “Mike E: I don’t mind if you drink on the job. As a matter of fact I encourage it!” He fired me, of course, but only after I didn’t show up to work for 3 weeks.
One time Ray’s daughter suggested that he had drank more than plenty already. Ray was very, very drunk that day. But — as evidenced by his prodigious swigs from a fresh-poured 4-pint ale pitcher — he disagreed.
Ray thought in fact he had yet to drink quite nearly enough.
An age-old struggle ensued: between a drunk and the daughter who wanted him to hang his beer-pitcher up & call it an afternoon.
Going for the daughter was the fact that he didn’t have far to go: Ray built himself an apartment right upstairs from his bar. Going for the drunk was the fact that he is far too large for his daughter to carry.
“Dad.” Said daughter. “It’s time to go home.”
Drunk said “But I am home!!”
“No dad.” Daughter corrected him. “All the way home.”
“Close enough!” Drunk slurred.
“Not for me.” Daughter insisted.
“Yeah — but who the hell are you?” The drunk asked.
She answered. “I’m your daughter.”
“No you’re not!”
“Am so.”
“Prove it!”
“No.”
“Well but.” Ray looked bewildered for a long moment. Until he remembered. “You don’t have to prove anything to me! Do you?”
“Nope.”
“Because you’re my daughter.”
“Exactly.”
He put down the pitcher. Dejected. The drunk knew he was beat.
“I have to go home now.” Said he.
“You have to go home now.” Said she.
Everyone in the crowd who gathered to watch nodded their heads in agreement.
Ray threw his head down and wrapped his arms in a giant bear hug around the bar. Like a protester fearlessly hugs — and often chains their self to — a soon to be felled redwood tree.
“I’m not going.” He defiantly cried. “You can’t make me!!”
His daughter reached toward him. Ray gripped the bar with all his might. But her hands passed straight over him. Ray gritted his teeth for the Showdown that never came. He assumed his daughter would forcibly ply him loose from the bar. Instead she skillfully un-plied his mind.
She grabbed the half-full beer pitcher. Ray opened his eyes. She raised the pitcher up in front of her own eyes, slowly. Ray followed the beer pitcher droopingly, first with his eyes, then he raised his head from the bar, stood wobbly, stared hypnotically deep into the beer. And held his hands out to Receive it.
She stepped back. Ray stepped forward. Beer steps back. Ray step forward. Beer step. Ray step. Beer go Ray go. Beer go up stairs.
Ray go up stairs!
The crowd goes wild.
Beer is the reason.
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