B Is for Beer

by Tom Robbins

  “No more nonsense about beer,” Gracie vowed.

  She meant what she said, but even as she downsized the sundae, she caught herself wondering what vinegar eels actually look like, and how they would react if one day a reincarnated Uncle Moe showed up in their midst.

  7

  For better or for worse, lots of kids these days have personal cell phones. Do you have a cell phone of your own? If so, is it one of those superphones, a genius phone that not only allows you to enjoy traditional audio telephone conversations, but sends text messages, takes photographs, checks e-mail, plays music, shows movies, tells time, protects you from vampires, wipes your bottom, and pumps up the tires on your bicycle?

  The cell phone that Gracie Perkel wanted for her birthday had several attractive features besides its bubblegum color, including one that would have permitted her to watch Uncle Moe live, to look at his gravy bowl face and headless woodpecker mustache while she conversed with him. As it was, however, when Gracie dialed her uncle late Monday afternoon it was on a landline in the den, an extension as far away from her mom as she could manage at the time, because she knew there was no way she could prevent herself from describing for Moe the little drama that unfolded during and after Sunday school the previous day. It had been just too…well, dramatic.

  Delighted that Karla Perkel had stood up to what he called “yet another obnoxious theological bully,” Uncle Moe suggested that people such as Gracie’s teacher are made smug by their absolute conviction that sooner or later they’ll be lounging night and day on a pile of puffy clouds up in Heaven. “Neither I nor anybody else has one pixel of verifiable evidence regarding what happens to us after death, but answer me this, my dear: supposing you die—and I hope you never do—would you, given the choice, rather come back to this life here on Earth as, say, a dolphin, or spend all of eternity as a cloud potato?”

  Although concepts such as eternity meant little or nothing to Gracie, and even death seemed remote to her—as it must to you, as well—she didn’t have to deliberate very long before arriving at a conclusion. “A dolphin would be funner, I think.”

  “I rest my case. Of course, you did mean to say ‘more fun,’ instead of ‘funner,’ but due to your tender age the grammar police won’t be writing you a ticket today. After your birthday, though, it could be a different story.”

  “Uncle Moe, are you really gonna pick me up in a limo-scene?”

  “Oops. Sorry, pumpkin, but I see by my crappy flea-market watch that it’s already six o’clock. Madeline will be arriving any minute.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Dr. Madeline Proust.”

  “Oh, your po-dock-a-mist.”

  “Exactly.”

  “She’s coming to your apartment to check on your hurt foot?”

  Uncle Moe chuckled. “Yes, I suppose she’ll have a peek at my footsie, but mainly she’s coming to bust a crust.”

  “Busta…?”

  “You know. Break bread. Share a meal. She dined with me last evening, as well.”

  “She must like your cooking.”

  He laughed again. “I think she does. I think she does. When we parted last night…umm, well, let me put it this way: Madeline has a way of kissing that could give a bald man a Mohawk.”

  Gracie squeaked a soft good-bye, and then just stood there holding the lifeless phone, puzzling once again over the mysterious customs of adults. What was the beautiful pok-a-dye-trist doctor doing kissing on Uncle Moe, who’s her patient and kind of unusual looking besides? It wasn’t merely their drinking habits that were weird, there seemed to be no end to adult strangeness. Would she be that goofy when she grew up? She remained standing there like that, lost in thought, until, from behind, she heard footsteps enter the darkened den.

  “Grace Olivia Perkel!”

  Uh-oh. When a parent suddenly hits you with your full birth-certificate handle—first name, middle name, and last—you know that what’s coming next is not likely to be pretty. Hasn’t that been your experience? It’s bad enough when they address you as “young man” or “young lady,” but when they serve up the whole enchilada (William Jefferson Clinton! Oprah Gail Winfrey! Thomas Eugene Robbins!, or, in this case, Grace Olivia Perkel! ) the odds are extremely high that you’re being strongly warned against the potential commission of some foul deed or other, if, indeed, you haven’t already crossed into the naughty zone.

  (Have you ever heard an agitated adult or older child exclaim, “Jesus H. Christ!”? It’s a vulgar oath, but it may be worth mentioning here that Uncle Moe—full name Morris Norris Babbano, by the way—has offered a ten-dollar reward to anybody who can tell him what the H stands for.)

  Mrs. Perkel switched on a lamp. In Seattle in October, the day is already so dark by six p.m. that the bats are out shopping for bug bargains and stars are striking wet matches in an attempt to mark a path through the gloom.

  “You were talking to Moe, weren’t you?”

  Gracie hurried to replace the receiver. “Yes, Mommy.”

  “May I be confident, young lady, that you didn’t share any private information with him? Such as my little meltdown after church yesterday?”

  So still was Gracie that she could hear her own heart banging. And banging. And banging.

  “Because, number one, I’m embarrassed by my outburst, and, number two, the whole mess got started by more of your beer talk, and you’ve promised me you’re keeping your mouth shut about beer from now on. So? Did you tell him or not?”

  Oh dear. Gracie didn’t want to fib. Fibs were wicked, slippery things. Fibbers start out as spiders and end up as flies. On the other hand, she was equally reluctant to give an honest answer. A truthful response would lead to nothing good. What could she do? Then she remembered something she’d heard from a kid at kindergarten: if you cross your fingers when you’re saying words that aren’t strictly true, it cancels out the fib; the angels, when they notice your crossed fingers, are tipped off that you don’t really mean to be lying, so they sort of wink and let you get away with it.

  Encouraged by that information, Gracie slipped her left arm behind her back and crossed her fingers there. “No, Mommy, I didn’t say nothing. We were just talking ’bout bald men getting Mohawk haircuts.”

  Mrs. Perkel rolled her eyes. “Good Lord! That sounds like something that fruitcake would be blabbing about. Give us a break, Moe. Okay, honey, go wash your grubby hands. Your daddy’s working late, so you and I are gonna eat our tuna casserole in here where I can watch the news.”

  Examining her face in the bathroom mirror, Gracie saw a liar staring back at her. Apparently, crossing your fingers doesn’t necessarily guarantee protection against a guilty conscience. In her defense, we might console her with the reminder that her fib, while definitely wrong, hadn’t really harmed anybody; that it was only a teeny white lie, not one of those huge, black-hearted wholesale lies like the ones important, powerful men are always telling; lies that can cost people money, their reputations, their freedom, or even their lives.

  Nevertheless, Gracie was convinced that she was paying the penalty for lying when, four days later, the very day of her birthday, the wings fell off of her dreams, and her bright and bouncy little life seemed to lie scattered in pieces, like a disco ball after an earthquake.

  8

  A disco ball after an earthquake? Let’s get serious, kids. Needless to say, that’s a ridiculous exaggeration. Yes, but as we’ve observed, Gracie Perkel did have a bit of a flair for drama, and that’s how she might well have described the dismal situation on her birthday—provided, of course, that she knew what a disco ball was. Do you? If not, your parents can tell you. That is, if your parents are cool. Or were cool, once upon a time. Back in the day. In the event your grandpa happens to be reading this book to you (everybody’s aware that you’re quite capable of reading it all by yourself, but let’s face it, grandparents are simply mad for reading aloud to their grandkids), there’s just no telling what response a question about disco balls mi
ght arouse in him.

  Anyway, the first thing to go wrong was the party. It had to be canceled. It’s no secret that every school in the country is a three-ring germ circus, and it seems there was an outbreak of stomach flu at Gracie’s kindergarten. The friends she’d invited were either home puking or had been grounded in order to prevent further exposure to the virus.

  Then there was the matter of the absent father. Gracie’s dad had to go to Tucson on urgent business. Mrs. Perkel rolled those big blue eyes of hers, eyes that her daughter had inherited, and remarked that he was probably playing “urgent golf” with a bunch of Arizona lawyers. Gracie was sure it was a business trip, though, because otherwise why would he have taken his secretary along?

  In any case, Mr. P. called to say that he’d ordered Gracie a puppy, but he’d lost the name of the pet store where they were to pick it up. “Next week, for sure,” he promised. It was Gracie’s turn to roll her eyes. So hard did she roll them that a couple of teardrops fell out and crawled down her cheeks like sow bugs from under a log.

  Following vanilla ice cream (she’d requested rocky road) and chocolate cake (why only five candles?), shared with her mommy’s girlfriend who lived next door, they spent most of the afternoon driving from mall to mall—the Northgate Mall, the Alderwood Mall, even up north to the Everett Mall—searching for one of those neon-pink cell phones for which Gracie had been pining. Alas, every store was sold out of them, and it was unclear when they would receive a new shipment.

  Back home, Mrs. P. served Gracie another slice of cake to comfort her, then went out into the yard to discuss something important, so she said, over the fence with her friend. Gracie was sure that that “something” was her daddy. Had it been a different subject, one they didn’t mind Gracie overhearing, they could have discussed it on the telephone. She glanced at the phone then, and noticed that its red light was blinking.

  Thinking the recorded message could possibly concern the whereabouts of the misplaced puppy, Gracie punched the voice mail access button. Sure enough, someone began to speak, to speak in a voice that stretched out its words with exaggerated attention, as if it were applying suntan lotion to the bare back of a Hollywood starlet, although sometimes it sounded more like it was milking a snake. True, she hadn’t been around much, but so far as she knew there was only one person in the world who talked that way.

  “Stand by for a bulletin. A bull has just been seen entering a china shop. How’s that for breaking news? Ha ha! Greetings, earthlings. Moe Babbano speaking. I’m out at Sea-Tac Airport, international terminal, passport in hand. Yes, yes indeed, I’m leaving the country again, and this time I don’t think I’ll be coming back. So to Charlie Perkel, my esteemed, ever-insensitive halfbrother, and to his weary, long-suffering, lovely wife, Karla, I now say, adios and thanks for all the opportunities you provided for me to fresco my tonsils with the cardinal brush: that is to say, to drink your beer. Mainly, however, this communiqué is for the birthday girl. “Gracie, you won’t remember this, but when you were an infant, six long years ago, I used to read the encyclopedia to you. It always lulled you to sleep. Especially the volume containing the Z ’s.

  “I don’t know if I’m exactly gaga over children, but I do respect them. I respect their deeper feelings and deeper thoughts, layers to which many adults, even the most doting of parents, too often seem oblivious. At any rate, my dear—and this is the point—I’ve never ever talked down to you, and I have no intention of starting now.

  “Here’s the deal. Madeline Proust and I have fallen passionately, wildly, crazily in love. A great many birthdays will surely come and go before you’ll experience anything remotely resembling this. Indeed, some people never experience it, although they’re pretty good at fooling themselves that they do. I can’t explain this love, I couldn’t explain it to you even if you were twenty-six or thirty-six. The fact that it’s totally irrational is part of its appeal.

  “This much I can tell you. We’re so nuts for each other that Dr. Proust is abandoning her medical practice and I’m skipping out on my apartment—although the postcard collection I’m leaving behind should more than compensate the landlord for any back rent—and in less than an hour we’ll be flying off to Costa Rica, where we’re intending to permanently reside.

  “Costa Rica is downstairs from Mexico. With your mother’s help, you can locate it in Volume C of that old encyclopedia that used to provide your bedtime stories. What the map won’t tell you is that Costa Rica has done more to preserve its natural environment than any country on Earth, and that it has no army. No navy. No air force. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, that any modern government could be that enlightened or any modern population that civilized? Since their government also guarantees free health care, and since it’s reasonable to assume that they aren’t tying their shoes too tight down there, Madeline’s business prospects may be limited, but, hey, it’s personal freedom not hundred-dollar bills that lights the soul’s cigar, and I hope they’re teaching you that in kindergarten.

  “There’s a lot more to say, Gracie, but we’ll be boarding any minute and I’ve got a pint of Redhook to finish. Obviously, I won’t be escorting you to Redhook’s brewery tomorrow. Truth is, pumpkin, I’m unsure if I’ll ever see you again. Whatever happens, I want you to know…”

  Click. Whom-hom-hom-hom. Silence. Apparently, the voicemail recorder had reached its limit. There were no other messages. Gracie backed away and began to wander around the empty house.

  In the kitchen, she was turning in circles, like a dog looking for a soft place to lie down. Her tummy felt like a washer set on Spin Dry. Her heart felt like a balloon from which the air was leaking. Her brain felt like her gums feel after a visit to the dentist.

  She was too hurt to stamp her feet or throw things, too angry to weep. She knew she had to do something, though, or else she would just curl up in a knot and die.

  Eventually, she found herself standing at the refrigerator. Yanking open the door, Gracie suddenly was face to face with a beverage shelf fully stocked with Pepsi cola and beer. She reached in and pulled out a can. She stared at it. She popped its tab. It wasn’t Pepsi.

  9

  Through the lips and over the gums

  Look out belly here it comes.

  Glug glug glug. The golden liquid was so cold it gave Gracie’s teeth a sleigh ride. Glug glug glug. It was so bitter it made skunky hair sprout on her tonsils. Glug glug glug…buurrp! It was so bubbly it caused her to belch like a Puget Sound ferryboat on a foggy morning. Glug glug.

  Kids! Listen up! Don’t try this at home. It will upset your parents, upset your tummy, and take your brain to places that, guaranteed, will not be as interesting as the places it was eventually to take the brain of Gracie Perkel. For better or for worse, Gracie’s experience was a special case. You will see for yourself. But first…

  After practically chug-a-lugging the entire can of brew, the six-year-old just stood there in front of the refrigerator, as if guarding its ice cubes from roving gangs of international ice cube thieves. For some reason, her spirits seemed rather rapidly to be improving. In fact, a sense of delicious mischief overtook her, enveloped her to the degree that she suddenly snatched another can of beer out of the refrigerator and, with a whoop, hurled it at her birthday cake, giggling as chocolate frosting splattered from one end to the other of the dining room table.

  Borrowing a couple of CDs from her parents’ collection (which was strictly against the rules), she carried the discs upstairs to her room, where she shoved one of them, an Aretha Franklin album as it turned out, into her player. Soon she was jumping up and down on the bed (also against the rules), using her hairbrush as a microphone, belting out duets with Aretha.

  When the bed began to protest too loudly, to appear on the brink of collapse, she hopped down and commenced to prance, skip, and spin about in what Uncle Moe once called “Gracie’s monkey dance of life.”

  Unfortunately, when the album ended and she paused to rest, she discovered
that everything around her was still spinning. The bed, the dresser, and the desk were doing their own monkey dance of life and the walls were lurching and whirling in circles like some kind of theme park ride. The next thing Gracie knew, she was on her hands and knees, throwing up on the Hello Kitty polyester rug: she hadn’t even been able to make it to the bathroom.

  In a pitifully weak voice, she cried out for her mommy, but Mrs. Perkel was still gabbing in the yard, and anyway, would have been as angry as a chain saw when she discovered the reason for her young daughter’s condition. So, using one of her fluffy fuzzy bunny slippers, Gracie wiped clots of chocolaty upchuck from her lips and chin. Then, with a helpless moan, she pulled herself onto the bed.

  As you are surely aware, our planet is turning on its axis around and around in space. It turns slowly, however, making one complete rotation only every twenty-four hours; and that’s a good thing—isn’t it?—because if our world turned as fast as Gracie’s room appeared to be turning, the sun would be either rising or setting every fifteen minutes, astronomers would be as woozy as rodeo clowns, and it’d be nearly impossible to keep our meatballs from rolling out of our spaghetti.