Thanks For The Beer

I'm usually a jeans and T-shirt guy. One night a few years ago, I made an exception. I sported some dapper duds for an upscale holiday party. A sweater and slacks. I excitedly arrived at the suburban desert home of this friend of a friend. This would be my first time at a soiree inside a mansion.

The ascot adorned host warmly embraced me and introduced me to some of his Dolce and Gabbana guests. Then he eagerly directed me to the sumptuous display of food and drink. That was OK with me. This Polish partygoer was ready for some good eats and ice-cold suds.

I approached the beverage area and was courteously greeted by a bartender with a smart appearance. I initially didn't hear what he said. Instead I was drawn to the sound of his elegant British accent. It was like being greeted by the butler from Downton Abbey. A dash of distinction for sure.

I politely requested a beer. It's then as if a Rube Goldberg series of events began with my breach of etiquette. The needle on the record player was harshly jerked across the vinyl record. Burl Ives' Holly Jolly Christmas came to an abrupt ending. The Grey Poupon stopped being passed. Tongues wagged.

My ears were met with, "I'm terribly sorry sir. I don't believe we have any…beer." He seemed uneasy to say the word. Beer. He even whispered it. Like it was strictly forbidden to speak aloud.

It made me want to say the word repeatedly. Just to watch him grimace. Beer. Beer. Beer.

My buddy nudged me. He nervously smiled and let me know that this is not that kind of party. All while gritting his teeth and suggesting I just get a martini, sidecar, or Rob Roy.

But I didn't want one of those. I wanted a beer. So I asked the mortified mixologist if he could please just check around for me. Any beer would be perfection.

The Rube chain wasn't done yet. More pearl-clutching from those within earshot of my cheekiness.

The bloke leaned over to the monkey-suited wine steward and made the inquiry for me. The snooty sommelier quickly crushed my hopes for any lagers, ales, or stouts. Just fine wine and top-shelf spirits I was informed.

Alright. It wasn't the end of the world. I could take a mixed drink. I only persisted because I could see how flummoxed the gentlemen became with my lunch-pail request. A little sadistic tomfoolery on my part to deck the halls.

But before I could ask for a Harvey Wallbanger; there arose such a clatter. It was some fella who had some of the things that to me really do matter. Two beers. Hello Donner and Blitzen. He heard me get rejected by the barkeep and wine merchant.

Turns out this guy was the cousin of the host. He was wise to the ways of the high society gala. Beer was not in demand at this fancy party. So he brought along two six-packs for a moment like that.

The bootlegger and I washed down some crisp delicious brews as we mingled with the multitude of attendees. We drank heartily from our longneck twist-off bottles. Compliments of our creative speakeasy.

But the most important part of that night was about giving thanks for who I am now. There was a time I would have tried to put on airs in the midst of all those fat-cats. To try and fit in as someone I was not. Not anymore.

Sure. I'm well educated and have an MPA. But I'd rather talk about an IPA. I am a blue-collar guy who enjoys a variety of refreshing chilled beers. I'm good with that.

I am very thankful this holiday season to finally be comfortable in life with just being me. Cheers to finding you and being content with you. Happy Thanksgiving and party on Plymouth Rockers!

This Mayflower Compact is brought to you by that guy of frothy fun. That guy with a mug of merriment is Ron Blake and he can be found with his riveting rosy stories at rblake5551@hotmail.com.