Author's introduction: I wrote this in my younger years. It's a fun book. Lame by fictional standards (for starters, there's too much narrative and undisguised philosophy instead of using characters and symbols to point to such things), but fun. I have come to the grim realization that I'll never have time to make it publishable, but it seems a shame to let it rot on my electronic shelf forever. Read or not. I take offense at neither criticism nor neglect. I will publish it here serially. I will try to remember to notify blog readers whenever I add text. 1. The Auction The proceeds from the auction were going to help Roy's ill friend and his family. They had health insurance, but no disability. Their savings had been used up weeks ago. Things were tough for the good couple and their four young children. Roy walked about the silent auction tables, looking at items, placing a few bids, but mostly observing the people. It was Saturday evening, just after 6:00. There were a lot of people. But things didn’t look good. They didn't smell good. Some crowds hum, others hoot. This one hung. The silent auction was showing it. Fine homemade blanket. Minimum bid: $50.00. Last bid: $55.00. Collector’s edition of a Ray Bradbury book. Opening bid: $75.00. Last bid: $82.00. Pair of 30-yardline tickets to the upcoming Notre Dame-Michigan game. Current bid: $60.00. Far too many items had no bids at all. Roy knew something about auctions. He knew the live auction that started in about ninety minutes would flounder if the silent auction didn’t get the spending blood percolating. Something had to be done. He turned to his nephew and nodded discretely. “What do you want me to get?” Patrick asked him. “There’s a good crowd, but lots of women. Get a light.” He paused and added, “And, of course, the forty.” Patrick swiftly shuffled through the crowd and vanished out the school gym door. Roy started making his rounds. “Stan! Ya old kneebender, how ya doing? Why don’t you spend some of that money you make from your illicit businesses?” “Hey there, Ruddy. What’s your number? 38? I don’t see many 38s on these sheets. Saving money for legal fees when the police catch up with your child molestin'?” “Hi Tommy boy. If you spent as much money here as you do in the local cat houses, we’d have a great auction going.” No one ever took offense. Roy knew the value of a smile and a laugh. After ten minutes, Roy saw Patrick, backing the Joy Junker toward the gym’s double doors. Few respectable men would drive the Joy Junker, but Roy was always careful not to consider himself respectable. He smiled every time he saw it: 1978 Lincoln Continental, orange exterior, cracked white leather seats, AM-FM radio, a big back seat that carried the Fun Box (a double faucet black jockey box) and CO2 tank, and the Utility Trunk where Roy kept a seemingly-endless array of gadgets and supplies: leather case containing twelve heavy glass mugs with the words “Beer is Good” printed in black gothic type across the front; sleeves of plastic tumblers; a huge cooler; an assortment of cases of beer; packs of wine coolers (“for the teetotalers"); a 450-watt portable CD/cassette/radio with Karaoke; a collection of CDs that Roy made himself; bags of potato chips and corn chips; about a dozen bottles of wine. After backing the Joy Junker to the gym doors, Patrick jumped out of the driver’s seat, his Threetwo outfit firmly in place, and got started. He played music outside while assembling the Fun Box. He then used The Beer Man De-Header device to pour immediately-drinkable beers from the keg—no excess foam, the beer served a perfect 34 degrees. The music barely reached inside the doors, but it was enough to pull a few men outside to see what it was. They gathered around the trunk of the Joy Junker, eager and wonder-eyed, getting their beers. Meanwhile, Roy disappeared into the front passenger seat to change into his uniform. After a couple of big swigs from a forty ounce bottle of Blatz, he was wearing the beginning traces of beer goggles, along with a grin and the Beer Boots—the invisible foot-transport system that gave him his distinct swagger. He took a few shots of Old Granddad. Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the car, laughing to himself. He was Beer Man. As he stood outside the gym doors, the almost-empty forty-ounce bottle in hand, he could see Threetwo had done his job well. The Hop Haze was spreading rapidly, the hall noise had increased a few decibels, the background music was sending beer rhythm into drinkers’ bones. He smiled and nodded at Threetwo, then bolted around the building to the front entrance. Threetwo moved the stereo to a spot just inside the gym doors, switched on a CD, then turned up the volume four notches. Elvis’s Vegas version of "CC Ryder" washed across the hall. Beer Man swaggered into the other side of the gym, walking sideways to the music, the empty forty in one hand, pointing fingers on the other. Threetwo met him halfway across the hall with a huge tumbler of beer. "I said ‘See, CC Ryder,’” Beer Man yelled, pointing, laughing to the crowd. A young man sulking in the corner jumped up and cried, "It’s Beer Man!" Everyone turned and watched, eager to catch a glimpse. They were met by dozens of cold beers, handed out frenziedly by Threetwo's sixteen hands. Beer Man kept singing and did the Beer Dance—a jig that combines Elvis moves with the White Man Overbite and a little Vertical Obscenity. As CC Ryder ended, some of the crowd returned to their conversations, some returned to the auction, a few talked with Beer Man, who walked among the crowd, shaking hands and asking people how they liked the beer. Music kept playing—some Jimmy Buffet, upbeat Springsteen and Seger, party favorites like “Rock and Roll (Part 2),” “Louie Louie,” and the (comparatively) obscure, “Do You Know What I Mean.” It played at what Beer Man called “Perfect Pitch”—loud enough to hear every note but low enough to carry on a conversation. After about thirty minutes, Beer Man met Threetwo near the middle of the fray. “How’s the auction going?” “Good,” Threetwo said. “The bidding is increasing. The auctioneer is optimistic that the live auction will be successful.” “Yeah, we’ll have to lower Perfect Pitch when the live auction starts,” Beer Man said. “I suppose so. That’ll be a first. I’ve never heard you lower Perfect Pitch. Usually it gets higher as a rescue battle continues.” “Well, this isn’t an ordinary battle,” Beer Man said, laughing. “I’ve always wondered about the Perfect Pitch,” Threetwo said. “If something’s perfect, it can’t have any potentiality because it’s fully actualized. If that’s the case, how can Perfect Pitch change?” Beer Man looked at him intently. “You’re strong enough to carry two kegs at a time, but also have a good mind. Now, if we could only get you a sense of humor.” He faked a punch to Threetwo’s groin. They laughed, then leapt back into battle. Threetwo, always the ladies' favorite, mingled with the fairer sex, offering wine coolers to the ones who didn’t want beer. Beer Man sought out the kindly but bashful folk, bringing them beer and good conversation. The silent auction continued. Beer Man saw a drunken young man earnestly explain to his wife that he needed the tickets to the ND/Michigan game. “Honey, I almost went to both schools and I love football.” He saw a giggling young woman place a one hundred dollar bid on the blanket, telling her husband that it’s for a good cause; her husband responded by outbidding her by twenty dollars. A man placed a two hundred dollar bid on the Ray Bradbury book; the last bid was $95.00. He looked at the shocked woman standing behind the table and said, “If I can spend two hundred bucks to play a nice golf course, I can afford two hundred dollars here.” Beer Man was pleased. He finished his third tumbler as he spoke with the ill man’s wife. She thanked him profusely, saying she only wished that Roy could have stuck around for all the fun. “He always loved to drink with my husband.” "I'm sure he and Roy will drink again some day soon. You take care of yourself. Tell Sam we're all pulling for him." He took her leave and vanished. 2. Chester the Journalist Chester drove through a nice neighborhood with the paper’s newest reporter. "This is one of the nicer areas in town," he said. "Filled mostly with young professionals who can't afford a huge house yet and older people who've been living here since the era of split-top beer cans." They drove for a few minutes, looking about. It was one of Chester's favorite assignments: take the new guy on a tour around the county to point out potential "hot spots" for stories, show points of historical interest, and generally give him or her a "feel" for the county as a whole. "Now this house up here is kind of interesting," Chester said, pointing to a ranch house that was average in almost every respect—off-white siding, gray-shingled roof, a nice lawn with some clover. It was a little smaller than the other houses, probably about 1,100 square feet total, but it had a big backyard. "A guy named Roy Tate lives there with his nephew, Patrick Dalroy. Dalroy's a handsome young man, strong as an ox, loves his Uncle Roy like a father and respects him even more. Dalroy works as a supervisor at the paper plant. No one really knows what Roy does. Some say he's independently wealthy, but his ordinary house indicates he's not. Some say he does computer work, but he's never confirmed it and he doesn't do work for anyone around here." "Is he a recluse?" the new reporter, Mike Brew, asked. Chester laughed, "Oh no, far from it. Roy is one of the kindest and out-going guys you'll meet in this town. He is interesting, though.” "What makes him interesting?" he asked. "Just the way he lives. In an age when houses are built with hedging designed to keep out the world, Roy’s is just the opposite." Chester had stopped the car across from Roy's house. Something about Roy had always intrigued Chester. A newspaperman with over thirty years experience, he had a hard nose for the dirty laundry but an even softer heart for the good stories. A well-read, he was a discerning judge of others. Except Roy. Something about Roy escaped him. "Look at his porch," he said to Mike, pointing. "There are two chairs out there." "So?" Mike asked. "He actually sits out there, all year round. He's usually reading, but anyone can walk by at any time and have a few words with him. He doesn't mind and actually seems to enjoy it, as long as the person doesn't make a nuisance of himself, I suppose. Sometimes he sits out there and drinks wine, doing nothing except listening to a ball game on the radio." "Lots of people sit on the front porch." "Really?" Chester responded, a little amused. "How many people have you seen on their porch in the past two weeks? Honestly." Mike thought for a moment, "I can't recall anyone in particular, but it seems I've seen them." "You probably haven't," Chester said. "It's the most natural thing in the world, but you don't see it any more." Mike sat there, musing. "Same for his radio," Chester continued. "Who listens to the radio when you can watch TV? Nobody," he paused, "except Roy. They say he doesn't even get cable TV." "So, he's one of those guys who thinks TV is bad?" "Oh no," Chester said, "he has a TV. He just doesn't have cable. I heard him tell a friend once that TV is one of the most-wonderful inventions in the world, 'a powerful thing,' he called it, then he said, 'And one ought to take powerful things in small doses.' I thought it was brilliant." "So what else makes him different?" Mike asked. "I didn't say he was different. I said he was interesting," Chester said. "Whatever," Mike said, shrugging with her hands. "There's a distinction. A different person can catch your attention, but he can't hold it. That's the whole point of freak shows: Look! But only for a few seconds. If you look longer, or actually get to know the freak, you'll see that he's not interesting at all or, if he is interesting, he's interesting for reasons wholly unrelated to his freak status. That's why pop culture has so many celebrities who don't let the media get close to them.” He paused, then added, “and if they do, they need PR managers to spin their lives: if the public got to know them, the public wouldn't be scandalized; they'd just be bored, which would be the biggest scandal of all. Unless, of course, you’re talking about Michael Jackson, but then you’re back to the freak show.” Mike nodded. "I see your point. So what makes Roy quote interesting unquote." Chester thought for a few moments. "I don't know exactly. There's his habit of sitting on the front porch, there's his incessant reading, there's the fact that he lives alone with his nephew. Never married. There's the fact that he has no visible means of support. I don't know. It all kinda adds up to a mystery, at least for me it does. But at the same time, he just seems so doggone ordinary. An ordinary mystery." He paused a second, then continued, "And when you meet the guy, he seems genuinely happy, and happiness, when you think about it, is probably the most interesting thing in the world.” "I've known lots of happy people,” Mike said. "I've known only a few," Chester said. "I've seen lots of people walk around with a glad hand, or be excited or bubbly, or pleased with this or that. But genuine joy; that's scarce. Always has been. "And it's especially interesting in Roy's case. I think he's had a hard life. They say he saw his parents killed when he was young." "Killed? You mean murdered?" "I guess so," Chester said. "No one really knows. Roy doesn't talk about it and his nephew won't talk about it. We've just heard a few rumors." "Like what?" "They were apparently killed by some fanatics, like the Charlie Manson family." "Wow," Mike said. "Was he there when it happened?" "The stories differ. Some say his parents were murdered immediately, with Roy standing there, just twelve years old or so. Some say his parents got wrapped up with the fanatics, like a cult, and left their home to live with them. Roy was sixteen and refused to go. He had to live by himself for awhile, and they were killed at the cult complex and never came back. Some say his parents were viciously attacked but not murdered. Some say it's all hogwash." "What do you think?" "I don't know, but I have little doubt that something happened."
Beer Man