Two years before the nation's bicentennial celebration, I realized that some of the new faces beginning to show up at our house were Klansmen acquaintances of my dads. I recognized them from the Klan rallies my dad began dragging me off to during the warmer months. Those men, most of whom seemed more heterogeneous than I was accustomed, almost always had an attractive young lady on their arm when they came by in the evenings. They drove loud cars, or rode even louder motorcycles. My dad’s good friend Chunk, who was a portly six feet six inches tall, hence his nickname, rode a 1200cc chopped Harley Davidson motorcycle. It was very much like the one Peter Fonda’s ‘Captain America’ character rode in Easy Rider. For several years Chunk had been a regular at our house along with my dad’s other good friend, Porky. To this day I don’t know Chunk or Porky’s real names. My brother Darryl is convinced Porky is probably his real dad. I seriously doubt that but I’ve been surprised before when it comes to my wayward brother. A few times every week of that summer, my dad, Chunk and Porky would meet up after work to enjoy a cold beer together. My dad also began letting me tag along. This meant he’d come home from his day job working in maintenance, unzip his work boots and slip into some sneakers. He would then tell me to get in the car and we’d head back down the road to rendezvous with Chunk and Porky at Bud’s beer joint, which was a few miles away out on highway 29 past the King Cotton Drive-In.
By the time my dad and I got to the bar, his two buddies would already be there. Chunk’s chopper was always parked out front and Porky’s pristine, pearl white ‘69 Chevelle would be on prominent display. When we walked in, the two of them were always sitting on barstools at a high-top table, shootin’ the breeze. That was Chunk’s cue to go to the bar and order three Schlitz Tall Boys, one for each of them, and a Doctor Pepper for me. This happened like clockwork every time we’d go. Then one day towards the very end of July, Chunk went to the bar and got four Tall Boys and no Doctor Pepper. He came back to the high top, set the four beers in the center of the table and plucked off each pull-tab. My dad and his two buddies each grabbed the beer closest to them, leaving one remaining in the center of the table. I just stared at the can as beads of condensation began to form. Before I could ask, Chunk reached out with his hand and slid it in my direction just to make it clear whose beer it was.
What the hell. Here I was, a few days shy of my twelfth birthday, and I was about to partake in what would be a monumental right-of-passage for almost any young person: their first adult beverage. I studied that frosty can of ale and then looked at my dad, but he wasn’t paying me any attention. I looked at Chunk and then Porky, but they didn’t seem too interested in me either. So I grabbed the can, put it to my lips and gave it a good, long swig. I honestly don’t remember what it tasted like and couldn't have cared less. I also didn’t try to keep pace with any of them, but I did manage to finish over half of it. They never said a word to me, never patted me on the back and didn't provide any fanfare whatsoever in regards to my sudden inclusion into their beer-drinking world. By the time they were ready to go, I sort of understood what all the fuss was about. When I stepped off the bar stool to leave with my dad, I had to take a moment to collect myself and regain my balance, which caused Porky to chuckle. At that moment I really didn’t mind him or anyone else having a laugh at my expense. It felt good to be one of the guys.
I was quickly realizing that summer was all about my inclusion into my dad’s world. It was time to step up and earn my stripes, go on a snipe hunt, pay my dues and pull my own weight. My first beer was a test. I know that now. It was a test to see if I was ready for whatever was about to happen next, and to see if I could keep a secret without being asked. I must have passed because my biggest challenge was looming in a few weeks.
© 2023 Joseph Phillip Lister Sr.
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