I was sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s 1983 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am when I had my first sip of beer. The car was black with gold trim and had a t-top (kinda like this). It also had a gold firebird emblazoned on the hood, but I’m not sure I didn’t just invent that part. The year was 1984. I was six.
It was the grossest thing I had ever tasted, next to that time I snuck into the living on Christmas morning to see what Santa had brought me before everyone was awake. Sipping a Coke I found sitting on the floor, I discovered it had been used as an ashtray the night before and I swallowed a cigarette butt. How could ANYBODY think this lukewarm bubbly crap was worth drinking, much less consuming the number of cans that lined the backseat floorboard? When I grew up, I was going to stick to bottles of Coca-Cola (sans cigarette butts) and a lifetime supply of Zero Bars.
Summer heat in the south has always been oppressive, and where I grew up in S. Arkansas it was especially so. August is historically the worst with temperatures rising into the triple digits and the humidity somehow hovering around 99%. It’s like walking around with a soaking wet hot blanket covering your body. Nothing like standing still and sweating at the same time to work up a thirst! The windows were down and the two pieces of the top were off. This was typically how my Dad picked me up from school. The car was loud, and I loved it when I could occasionally convince him to peel out when the lights turned green.
I sat in the front passenger seat holding that half-empty can, staring at the heatwaves as they danced over the golden icon on the hood, and thinking about what the kids at school would say when/if told them I’d had a sip of beer. We were on the other side of the tracks in a predominately African American neighborhood known locally as, “The Thunder Zone.” The name was derived from the sounds of gunfire that could be heard in the evenings. Later in my teen years, I remember (white kids) daring each other to drive through the neighborhood late at night, after curfew. It was a good way to sneak back into town and not get pulled over by the cops. Rumor had it that you could buy anything your heart desired at this little bar called The Bucket of Blood, (no I’m not kidding) but that was all during the mid-nineties and the Gang War: Bangin’ in Little Rock era. In the 80s it was a little tamer, or so my Dad told me later.
One of the kids I went to school with was playing in an abandoned lot next door. I didn’t know his name, and I doubt he knew mine. I had a couple of black friends, but they were pretty few and far between. I played sports and occasionally hung out at the Boys & Girls Club which was much more integrated than our local schools. Maybe we had played basketball or baseball together before. Today he just stared at me like he was worried about something. I was in a place I wasn’t supposed to be and we both knew it.
The notion that a six-year-old white kid would only have a couple of friends that are not of the same race feels ridiculous and foreign today, but in that era, it was commonplace. Self-segregation happened in the lunchroom and sometimes even on the playground. Even as late as college, I remember going into the cafeteria and seeing all the kids separated into groups by race.
In my freshman year of college, I became decent friends with a guy in one of my classes. We used to talk a lot of college football. Earlier in the day, we had gotten into an argument about the likely outcome of the game between Arkansas and LSU. Arkansas was having a predictably shitty season, and LSU was the overall favorite. However, the Hogs were known for dashing dreams around bowl selection time. He was from Louisiana, so obviously we were at odds.
I walked into the lunchroom on campus and saw him sitting with friends. Now, perhaps hollering, “Yo, punk!” over a dozen tables filled with black and brown folks wasn’t the smartest move, but we were friends. I explained that to the very tall gentleman that took issue with my use of the pejorative term. My buddy, who was black, helped me settle the issue. We laughed about it later (LSU won), but in the moment … I’ll admit I puckered up a bit. Also, the tall guy, whose name I have forgotten over time, was an Arkansas fan. So, it all worked out.
Back in my Dad’s car, as I sat sweating into my gray Razorback t-shirt staring at this kid I kinda halfway knew, I thought it’d be pretty badass to take a swig. It felt like a real, “It’s cool man, I got this,” kinda move. I lifted the can to my lips and swung my head back letting the liquid pour down my throat, just like Dad did it. I used to think this was why drinking and driving was illegal. How can you drive if you’ve leaned your head back so far that you can’t see the road? Obviously, the logic is flawed because why would it be okay to drink anything else but not a beer? However, to a six-year-old, it made perfect sense.
For the record, warm beer is not only undrinkable due to its temperature and likely skunkiness, but also the increased amount of bubbles. I can’t prove that warm beer has more bubbles, I just know it’s true. However, in an attempt to find evidence that it is so, I ran across my favorite Quora answer of all time. After attempting to answer the question, Ashley O’Brien (I know … had to be an Irish name) ended with the following:
… this is all guess work, but it’s inspired guess work, say a big thankyou to New Zealand's Tuatara Pale Ale, 5.8 percent. Twelve of those babies and I'm hammered.
The beer ran down my throat, bounced off of my belly, shot straight back up, and came out of my nose. It burned and I choked back tears as I coughed up the piss warm crap. It went everywhere. I was covered in beer.
I looked up at the kid that had been playing in the yard. I just knew he’d be laughing his head off at me. No. He stood there watching me convulse. He shook his head from side to side and started bouncing his ball again, occasionally taking a shot at the basket. Obviously, he was not impressed.
Now I was in trouble. I was covered in beer and had to think of something fast because Dad wouldn’t be gone that much longer. He told me he’d be back in less than five minutes and it had surely been that long already. Luckily I had already formulated a plan. Does anyone else do this? Since I was a kid when I decide I’m going to break some rule that seems arbitrary or just ripe for taking advantage of, I create all the excuses and fixes ahead of time if things go sideways. I had already formulated a plan for how to handle the situation before attempting to drink the swill.
I turned the can upside down and poured it into the floorboard of the passenger seat of the Firebird. I know, I know this doesn’t seem like a solution, but I had permission. See, all I had to do was tell Dad that a cop pulled up while he was inside and I poured the can into the floorboard, just like he had told me to do. How’d it get all over my shirt, chest, and face? I panicked when I dropped the can. See. Simple.
I’d guess I sat there preparing my story in my head repeatedly for at least another fifteen minutes. It was a long time. Long enough for me to think about going inside, but frankly that did scare me a little bit. When he came out and hopped in the car he didn’t even notice the mess. The engine roared as he turned the ignition and pulled back out onto the road to head to my grandparent’s house. He drove slowly, carefully.
I waited for him to bring up the spilled beer, but instead, he reached in the backseat and fished through the empties until he found an unopened can. He cracked it open, leaned his head back, and poured a third of the can down his throat. I asked him nicely if he wouldn’t mind just sipping it, cause I didn’t want him to get in trouble for drinking and driving.