The Big Bird and Steve Miller (Chapter 1)

// August 7th, 2003 // Tales

I reached blindly into the half open cooler behind me and Andy, instinctively knowing we hadn’t yet run out of beer. Fishing was thirsty business — we knew that. In a day of fishing, the beer supply was like the fish in the lake: if you didn’t get enough of them within a few hours, you got pissed off, packed up your shit and went home.

Stirring my hand through the cooler’s stew of water, melting ice and cans and bottles of beer, I was not up to settling for a cylinder of aluminum. Usually we’re both privy to drinking some of the finer vintages of brew: Sam Adams, Bass, Guinness. Most of said beers come primarily in bottles, which the cooler was frighteningly beginning to lack. I slowly but blindly sorted its contents.

Can. Can. Can. Something that resembles a wet, half-eaten calzone. Can. Ah, finally a brown diamond in the rough — a bottle. It took about three seconds from that moment to remember that Budweiser doesn’t only come in cans.

Now don’t go getting me wrong here — Budweiser’s a fine, well manufactured, carefully crafted beer, made with the finest hops and barley this planet has to offer.

BAAHAHAHAHA! Sorry.

Anyway, as a wise man once said to me, “the worst beer I ever had was just wonderful.” Actually I may have misled you there — it was my father-in-law who said that, and I forget where he heard it, but it’s still true nonetheless.

“Ugh,” I said aloud, flinging the cap off with my keychain-opener. “Looks like I pulled a loser this time.”

Andy just looked over and laughed. I took a swig of the Bud and winced a little. At least it was cold.

“Man, I remember when this was premium beer to me. When I thought shit like Guinness and Sam would gag a maggot and cans of Keystone sat in my fridge.”

I checked the bait on the end of my line, then made a cast into the deep spots of the nearby water.

“Bhah,” I muttered as I stared at the bottle in my hand. “I remember the last time I actually bought a case of Bud bottles. I think it was the drunkest I’ve ever been. Now that is a long story, man.”

Andy shrugged. “Not like we’ve got somewhere to be,” he said as he tugged on his line a little.

“Well,” I began, looking out at the water, “it was back maybe around 1992 or so.”

Just then, everything within my sight became wavy and shimmery, as I began to reach back deep within my memory to my college years. Then I realized it was just my eyes getting screwy with the sun reflecting on the water, so I shrugged it off and started to tell my story.

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