“Oh my god, oh my god, ohmygod!” she gushed. She was a mid-twenties bleach blonde, not exactly unpleasant to look at. Her body was well proportioned and her face pretty. “Jake Kingsley and Greg Oldfellow at my table! It’s really you!” She hesitated a moment. “Uh ... isn’t it?”
“Well,” Jake said lightly, “I’m really me,” He nodded toward Greg. “And he’s really him. The question is, are you really you?”
“Huh?” she asked, confused.
“Never mind,” Jake said. “We’re looking to score a couple of beers, hon. What do you got on tap?”
“Beer?” she asked, as if she had never heard of such a thing.
“Beer,” Jake confirmed. “You know? Fermented barley and hops?”
“Oh ... right!” she said, giggling nervously. “Beer. Yes, we have Coors, Coors Light, Budweiser, Bud Light, and Heineken on tap.”
“Hmmph,” Jake grunted, unenthused by the selection. “I guess I’ll have to go with the Heineken if that’s all you got.”
“Me as well,” said Greg with a shrug. He was not much of a beer drinker, as he considered it ‘common’ and did not really know one brew from another.
The waitress seemed to be getting herself under some sort of control. “We do have a local microbrew available,” she said, “but it’s only in a bottle.”
“A microbrew?” Jake asked. “What’s that?”
“It’s beer,” she said, “but it’s brewed locally, at a small brewery in Coos Bay that’s owned by a couple of brothers.”
“Brothers?” Jake asked. “You mean black guys, or literal brothers?”
“Uh ... literal brothers,” she said slowly. “There aren’t really many black people in Coos Bay.”
“I see,” Jake said. “Anyway, they make their own beer there? And sell it to you?”
“That’s right,” she said. “They only make a few thousand cases a year and sell it here in the bay area, either to the local bars and restaurants or to the people who drive out to their business. It’s a little pricey, naturally, but it is really good beer.”
“No kidding?” Jake said, becoming intrigued, but still a little dubious about trying a beer that ‘two brothers’ just whipped together in some basement somewhere.
“The alcohol content is quite a bit higher than in commercially produced beer,” the waitress said. “I should warn you about that if you’re driving.”
“How much higher?” Jake asked.
“It’s around seven and a half percent,” she said. “Budweiser and Coors are both around five percent.”
“You talked me into it,” Jake said. “I’ll have one.”
“Very good,” she said. “And you ... Mr. Oldfellow?”
“Sure, I’ll try one as well,” he said casually. “I trust you’ll bring me a glass to drink it out of?”
“Of course,” she said. “Two Lighthouse Ales, coming up.” She disappeared back into the building.
“Do you think she is going to tell everyone inside that we are out here?” Greg asked tiredly.
“Undoubtedly,” Jake said.
“Wonderful. We’ll be mobbed inside of a minute.”
“Perhaps,” Jake said with a shrug. “The life we choose, right?”
“I suppose.”
They did not get mobbed, however. The deck remained empty except for them. A few minutes later, the bleach blonde waitress returned with two frosty beer glasses and two bottles of ice-cold beer. Jake had been expecting home-style bottles with the little flip tops sealing them and a handwritten label, but the bottles were perfectly normal looking, with a professional label that primarily featured a picture of what Jake recognized as the Cape Arago lighthouse just outside of Coos Bay. He and Laura and Celia had, in fact, toured that very lighthouse only a month before.
“Here you go, gentlemen,” the waitress said with a smile as she set the bottles and the glasses down before them. She pulled a bottle opener from her apron and removed the caps from their bottles.
“Not twist-offs, huh?” Jake asked.
“No,” she said. “The Ravens—they’re the brothers who own Lighthouse brewery—use only pry-caps for their beer.”
“Now that’s class,” Greg said with a roll of the eyes.
“I know, right?” the waitress said, failing to pick up his sarcasm.
Jake chuckled a little. “I’m ready to give this hooch a try.” He picked up his bottle and began to pour, tilting the glass and the bottle to avoid producing too much of a head.
“Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” the waitress asked. “Do you want to see the food menu?”
“No, thank you,” Greg said. “We’re just going to have a beer or two and then head back to where we came from.”
“Okay,” she said, seemingly a little disappointed.
“There will, however,” Greg added, “be a considerable gratuity for you if you can see to it that we are undisturbed and unmolested by other patrons of the establishment for the duration of our patronage.”
“Huh?” she asked. That had sailed right over her head without even ruffling a hair.
“We’ll give you a big-ass tip if you keep the other customers away from us,” Jake translated.
“Oh,” she said brightly. “Of course, Mr. Kingsley! Enjoy the beer.”
“Hopefully,” Jake said as she retreated back inside.
Jake finished his pour and then set the glass back on the table. He then examined the beer bottle for a moment, reading the label. Sure enough, it said the brew had come from Lighthouse Brewing in Coos Bay, Oregon, established 1993. Jake wondered where the brewery actually was. Coos Bay was not a large town and he thought he had explored all of it, but he had never noticed a brewery before. In his mind, however, a brewery was a large, factory-sized building with large smokestacks and perhaps some railroad tracks and a warehouse nearby. That was what the Anheuser-Busch brewery in the San Francisco bay area looked like.
He set the bottle back down and then picked up the beer glass. The beer inside of it was a rich amber color, considerably darker than Bud or Coors or any regular beer. He sniffed it. The aroma was rich and pleasantly fragrant. A good sign. He put the glass to his lips and took a sip. The taste was incredible. It was, without a doubt, the best beer he had ever sampled.
“Oh my god,” he said, incredulous.
“That bad, huh?” Greg said sourly.
“No,” Jake said. “It’s great! Incredible even. This tastes like beer!”
“Beer that tastes like beer,” Greg said, starting his own pour now. “Who would have thought?”
“No,” Jake said, “you don’t understand. I mean it tastes like beer! Like beer is supposed to taste! This stuff is to beer what Jamaican Blue Mountain is to coffee!”
This was an analogy that Greg understood. Like Jake, he was a coffee snob and only drank the best. “Really?” he said, showing interest now.
“Try it,” Jake suggested. He then took a bigger drink, savoring every caress of his taste buds.
Greg tried it. He did seem to appreciate the flavor, but not quite on the same level as Jake. “It’s not terrible,” he said with a shrug. “A lot better than that swill you usually serve when the male bonding ritual requires beer.”
Jake laughed. “That’s why I stay friends with you, Greg,” he told him. “You’re such a pretentious snob, but you manage to pull it off in a manner that’s almost endearing.”
“Thank you,” Greg said stiffly. “ ... I think.”
They male bonded and drank their beers, talking of the golf course project and the progress being made on the two albums being recording. Greg was particularly interested in the projected numbers for the MD&P negotiations that would follow the completion of the mixing and mastering process.
“Jill and Paulie think we’ll be able to secure twenty-five percent from Aristocrat on this round,” Jake informed him. “And Celia told you about the ticket prices on the upcoming tour?”
“She did,” Greg said, nodding. “That should be quite profitable. It’s a shame we’ll be apart so long again, however.”