Michael McCollum - Beer Run

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2024-11-24 0 0 40.96KB 18 页 5.9玖币

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BEER RUN

Michael McCollum

What if you went out for a six-pack and never came back?

It was midwinter, one of those crystal clear nights where the almost freezing wind whips in off the desert

from the east and the moon bathes everything in a bright, pearly glow. Hal, my landlord, was off to a

science fiction convention back East and the UFO Spotters were using our place -- a dilapidated

rooming house in the old section of Tempe near the University -- for their monthly meeting. Being the

only roomer in residence (the others having taken off for parts unknown, it being semester break), I was

assigned the job of keeping them from tearing up the place and making sure the cops had no probable

cause for a drug bust.

They came drifting in about eight. By the time the formal meeting had started, there were fifty-odd

people scattered in the various nooks and crannies around the old house. And I mean fifty odd people!

In Hal's absence, Weasel Martin took over the meeting. Weasel is a short, bearded graduate student

whose most prominent feature is his nervous tic. He banged on a table with a wooden spoon to get their

attention and called the meeting to order.

I was in the kitchen dishing out taco chips and bean dip. Jane Dugway was helping me, as well as pulling

the pop-tops off two dozen cans of Coors. Somehow, they managed to disappear into the other room

as fast as she opened them.

I had first met Jane at school. Although I am an engineering major, the University is determined that I get

a well-rounded education. Therefore, in order to complete my eight hours of social studies required to

graduate, I took a course in Anthropology. Jane was a graduate student in Anthro and my discussion

group leader for one semester. She is not one of those lucky women blessed with the gift of beauty. Her

hair has a terminal case of the frizzies, and the coke bottle glasses do nothing to improve her image.

However, there is a mind behind that mannish face of hers that is as sharp as a razor blade.

We carried the taco chips and bean dip into the living room just as Weasel Martin called for old

business. PeeJay Schwarz got to his feet and began an excited narrative about an Alabama farmer who

claimed to have been to the moon on a flying saucer. Weasel ruled him out of order. PeeJay sat down

with a thump and a pout on his face.

After that, things settled down considerably. It might as well have been a meeting of the League of

Women Voters, with everything run in strict adherence to Robert's Rules of Order. I was fast losing

interest when Joel Peterson decided to get the evening's debate launched. Joel is a prissy sociology

major who wears bow ties with his blue denim shirts and dirty Levi's. He revels in being the club skeptic

and is especially skilled in sparking controversy.

"I don't believe in UFOs," he declared loudly. "Not as interstellar visitors, anyway."

There was a murmured undercurrent in the crowd -- something like you see in the movies just before the

lynching. Weasel Martin got red in the face and prepared to smite the unbeliever.

"Then you're dumber than you look," he said to Joel. There was a scattered round of applause and a

couple of muttered comments that that must be pretty dumb, considering his looks.

I had to give Joel credit. He stood his ground. "What makes you think UFOs aren't just a mammoth

hoax? Have you ever seen one?" It was a good attack. Although several members claimed to have

spotted UFOs, everyone knew that Weasel never had, and considered that fact a personal affront.

The wrangling went on for another half-hour before Weasel got fed up. "Okay, smart ass. If they aren't

visitors from other stars, what are they? And don't tell me swamp gas!"

There was a pregnant pause. Joel got a smug look on his face. His trap had been set, baited, and

sprung. "They're time travelers from the future, or maybe from a parallel universe," he said in triumph.

This was greeted by a chorus of Bronx cheers, boos, and catcalls. Weasel was about to launch his

counterattack when Sam Grohs pushed open the kitchen door and diverted everyone's attention.

"Hey, what happened to the beer?"

"Gone," I said.

"Gone? Hey man, I'm dying of thirst."

Then the general chorus began. "Beer run, beer run, we want a beer run!"

Weasel took time out from the debate to look around. He found someone's discarded cowboy hat and

passed it to the assembled congregation. "Okay, you turkeys. Ante up for a beer run."

While the hat made the rounds, Weasel gave us all the once over with his eyes. "Who'll make this run?"

he asked.

"Duncan MacElroy," someone in back piped up. "He's not doing anything."

The chant began again. "Send Duncan, send Duncan..."

I did not join in the chanting. I am Duncan and I did not want to go out into the cold to buy another case

of beer.

"How about it, MacElroy?" Weasel asked. ‘Want to make a run for us?"

I shrugged. "Why not? But I can't carry it all by myself."

"I'll go."

I turned around to see Jane Dugway get to her feet. I might have predicted it would be her. Jane is one

of the few people in the club who ever volunteer for anything.

"Okay, wait a sec while I get my coat," I said.

Jane waited for me on the sidewalk out front, bundled up in a fur coat with her black leather purse over

one shoulder.

"Got the money?" I asked.

She nodded. "Shall we take a car?"

I looked around. I could barely see my classic Jag through the cluster of parked cars that slopped over

from the driveway onto the front lawn. "I'm parked in," I said

"Me too. I guess we walk."

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Michael McCollum - Beer Run

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