Buying Beer

[Martin Hash]

The primordial imperative of males turning forty to live on a boat and date younger women did not pass up my brother, Marshall. He had invited the guys to the island marina for a barbecue on his 55-foot sailboat he shares with his 23-year old girlfriend, Liza. The weather was beautiful, the river was calm. Ryan and I showed up early.

You could walk from the boat to the only store on the island, a "Safeway Marketplace," so before everyone arrived, Marshall went there for some party supplies: brie, foccia bread, a 48-pack of chicken wings, beer. At the cash register, the checker methodically scanned Marshall's few items. When she got to the beer, she asked, "can I see your ID?"

Balding, gray-haired Marshall stared straight into the checker's eyes while he was getting out his Driver's license.

"Not you," said the checker brusquely, "Your friend." She indicated Liza.

"I left my wallet on the boat," said Liza.

"Well, then you can't have the beer," the checker announced.

"She's not buying the beer," explained Marshall, perplexed. "I am."

"I'm sorry. I can't sell you alcohol if you are accompanied by a minor," insisted the checker.

"This is ridiculous," responded Marshall, angrily. "What kind of moron thought this up?" He handed the beer over to Ryan in the next aisle. "Ryan, buy this for me."

Ryan put the six-pack on the conveyor belt with his Cheetos.

The checker's eyes popped open. She hastened around her bagging platform to get to the other checkout line and grabbed the beer from among Ryan's goods.

"I know she's with him too," announced the checker smugly.

Ryan and Marshall were aghast, leaving the store empty-handed.

Back at the boat Marshall told me the story and asked if I would go back to the store and buy the beer. Unbelieving, I trudged from the boat over to Safeway, grabbed a six-pack, and made sure to get in the queue of the sanctimonious checker. She didn't ask for my ID, so to break the ice, I casually said, "I'm with those people you wouldn't sell beer to."

Abruptly, she looked at me, eyes half-lidded.

"They're right outside that door," I needled her.

The checker's chin set. She stood perfectly still, staring at me. I stared back. Then, abruptly, she walked away.

I stood there feeling victorious for a few minutes, but that turned to irritation when the checker didn't come back. "Hey!" I yelled, "What's happening here?"

I stood there for another couple minutes before the store manager came to check me out. "So what's the deal?" I asked him.

"She quit," he answered simply.

Nobody even drank the beer.