Beer Kid

Back in the days, late ‘70s to early ‘80s, my mom would sometimes have small gatherings at our home in the summer months. BBQ chicken was always the main course, along with sausage, potato and macaroni salads, beans, and something sweet to eat. On average, there would be anywhere from ten to fifteen people attending these gatherings in our yard. There was always a table for dominoes and sometimes one for spades. My mom would have either BB King or Bobby Bland spinning on the record player. I don’t remember who brought the drink, but there seemed to be an endless supply of gin and grapefruit juice along with Miller High Life.
The brew was always stored in our fridge, and since I was the only kid at these functions, I was the beer runner. At first I hated it when my mom sent me in to get more beer. I remember thinking, “Why can’t they get off of their asses and get their own damn beer?” Even though I disliked being the beer runner, I never told my mom that I did not want to do it. As time went on I started to notice that something was different after the grownups drank a few beers. They would talk and curse louder, slam the dominoes on the table harder, and they became lax in their judgment. I learned how to take advantage of these situations. After a few beer runs, I would ask if they wanted me to open their beer cans for them. Most would be too caught-up in their games or in their spitting of game to really think about what I asked them.
I would open the beers inside and take a few sips off of the top before taking them outside to the grownups. Since they were already feeling buzzed they did not notice the missing beer. And, since I was still a little dude I could only hold one can in each hand. It did not take many trips to the fridge before I was buzzed too. I grew to love it when my mom sent me to get more beer. I loved it so much that I would get really angry when someone would tell me that they did not want me to open their beers for them. In fact I would shake up their beer cans before I came out of the house if they told me not to open them. I found it very amusing to see grown ass people getting sprayed in the face by their own beer. And when my mom asked me what happened to the beer I would reply by shrugging my shoulders and saying, “I don’t know mama, I just took them out of the refrigerator.”