Teenage Drinking Problem

 

This story is excerpted from a chapter in the yet-to-be-completed book I'm writing about my childhood. I'm not sure this goofy little memory nugget is going to make the final cut, so I figured I'd at least let it out of its cage to roam around in the blogosphere.

by Patrick Best

"Here's to alcohol: the cause of, and answer to, all of life's problems." -Matt Groening

My friend TJ and I rode our bicycles down to the Phillips 76 station off Highway 231 that was less than a quarter mile from his house. We wanted some beer for a camping trip we had planned for that evening, and we figured we could easily find a trucker or ex-con down there who'd be willing to help us out. We were 15, but we'd been drinking at least a few times a month for a couple of years.

We didn’t want the store’s only employee to see us creeping around and get suspicious, so we put our kickstands down on the side of the cinder block building and sat on the curb near the entrance to the putrid restrooms. We had to hold our noses and breathe out of our mouths to deal with the stench, but it was the only place we could be out of sight from the cashier and still have a good view of the customers in the parking lot and at the pumps.  

We’d only been there for about five minutes when I saw a woman walking toward the front door to pay for the gas she’d just pumped.

“I bet she’ll do it,” I said as I nodded in the direction of a tall, thin woman in a short blue jean skirt, white tube top and red high heels. She had bleach blonde hair, really skinny legs and the leathery jaundiced-looking skin of one who’s smoked too many cigarettes, drank too much brown liquor and spent way too many hours in a lawn chair covered with baby oil and south Alabama sunshine. She looked like the kind of gal who spent a lot of time in bars where George Jones and Conway Twitty songs dominated the playlist on the jukebox. She was smoking one of those long, thin Virginia Slims cigarettes that I always thought made the women who held them look wealthy and mysterious. She dressed like she lived in a trailer park and her car was 1970-something blue Chevy Nova with a dent in the back quarter panel, but her long, fancy cancer stick still made me think of Joan Collins, Linda Evans and John Forsythe from “Dynasty”.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. My cheeks were hot and my palms were sweating. “Would you mind doing us a favor?”

“Ma’am?!” she shouted and placed a hand on one of her nearly non-existent denim-covered hips. I noticed that her fingernail polish almost matched the color of her heels. Almost. “Just how OLD do you think I am?!”

“I’m sorry. You don’t look old at all.” My heart was racing and my eyes were as big and round as the Frisbee TJ and I had been tossing around an hour before. “My momma makes me say ma’am to anyone who’s older than me.”

“Riiiiiight,” she said sarcastically. “I asked you a question. How OLD do I look to you?” She expected an answer.

“I… I really don’t know, ma’am. I mean… shit.” She looked several years older than my mother, but she was dressed like a teenager.

“Come on. I want to see how close you get,” she said, insistently.

“No older than 36…” I searched her eyes for a reaction. She looked to be in her early 40s, so I figured I was giving her a compliment without going so low that she’d know I was full of it. “I’m going to say you’re 35…”

She didn’t react. She just stared at me. No, glared.

“I think you’re 23 or 24,” TJ said in the syrupy sweet tone of a very bad ass-kisser. 

“Thanks,” she said to him, flatly. “Now what’s this favor?” I could tell she wasn’t happy with either of the numbers we gave her.

“I was just wondering if you would be willing to buy us a six-pack of beer if I gave you the money. Busch Light.” My voice was shaky, and I thrust out a five and two ones toward her like she was holding me up at gunpoint and all I wanted to do was get away. “You can keep the change, too.”

She stared at me, then at TJ, and took a long drag off her cigarette. Her eyes narrowed, and she gave a smile that wasn’t the least bit friendly or cheerful. Smoke drifted out of her mouth and nose in thick twisting streams that looked like they were dancing as they disappeared above her head. She now reminded me of Cruella Deville from “101 Dalmatians”.

“You want ME to buy YOU beer?!” she said with a chuckle. “And I get to keep the change?”

“We’re going camping tonight and…” I managed to stutter.

“How old are YOU?” she said. “13?”

“15...” I said self-consciously. “16 next month.”

“I have a 16 year-old daughter,” she said. “But she looks a lot older than you two.”

“I’m already 16,” TJ lied. “What’s your daughter’s name? I might know her.”

“You don't know my daughter,” she said through tight lips that were covered with lipstick the color of an over-ripe watermelon. She snatched the money out of my hand and stuffed it into her big brown purse. She then turned and walked toward the front door of the store, leaving TJ and I standing outside confused and excited all at the same time.

“What the hell was that?” TJ asked. “Is she going to buy the beer, or what?”

“I think so,” I replied. “Even though she totally saw through your ‘you look 23 or 24’ bullshit.”

“Whatever, man. You’re lucky I was here to save your ass. She bought it hook, line and sinker.”

“Whatever, dude," I said, shaking my head.


“She probably wants me,” TJ said with a smile.

“Huh?! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

We moved around the corner of the store and peeked through one of the big windows that covered the front of the building. The woman walked to the cooler, grabbed a twelve-pack of Budweiser and carried it toward the counter.

“Check it out, Pat!” TJ said with excitement. “You see that?! She grabbed a twelve-pack!”

“She is totally hooking us up!” I yelled. "Maybe she does want a date with you."

“Hell yeah, she does. Because I am Kid… DYN-O-MITE!” TJ did his best JJ Evans impersonation, the character played by Jimmie Walker in the ghetto sitcom Good Times. He did it a lot. It was so bad that I couldn’t help but laugh every time.

“You’re an idiot,” I said and punched him in the shoulder.

We watched as the woman said something to the guy behind the counter and they both laughed. She reached over and patted his hairy forearm as he handed her back her change.

“Why do think she acted all pissed at us before she went in?” I asked as we watched her walk toward the door with the cardboard suitcase full of beer.

“I don’t know, man,” TJ said gleefully. “But she’s obviously not pissed now.”

When she came through the door she stared straight ahead like we were completely invisible to her, like the conversation we’d had just minutes before had never happened. Just as I was about to call out to her, she said, “Y’all wait around the corner of the store. I’ll drive around the side and meet you.” She strutted across the parking lot as cool as one of those hot chicks from ZZ Top’s “Legs” music video.

“Yes ma’am… I mean… okay,” I said as TJ and I quickly moved toward the side of the building and out of view of the cashier and the other customers who were pulling up to the store. We grabbed our bicycles and moved out a little toward the road that led to TJ’s neighborhood. We wanted to be ready to roll when she handed off the goods.

“Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s nineteen ninety-nine,” TJ sang. “Man, I love Prince. I don’t care what anyone says… Prince is the man!”

“Totally,” I agreed. “He’s a weird-looking little dude… but he’s totally the man.”

We watched from the side of store as she got into her beat up Chevy Nova, cranked it, put it into drive and sped down Hwy. 231 and out of sight. We stood there straddling our bikes without saying a word for at least 90 seconds.

“Damn,” TJ finally broke the silence. “Guess we’re not drinking beer tonight.”

“Nope. Guess not.”

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.