“Whisky’s okay, but beer is better. It’s a way of life.”
– Professor Powell Jones

Back in the day in Tidewater, Virginia, Schlitz beer was easily obtainable to those had reached 18. It had a sudsy-salty taste we knew and appreciated, even if the alcohol content was lower at 3.2%. The young Navy sailors liked it in a love-hate sort of way, and so did we. We called it “sea water.”

Some years later I lived in South Carolina. You couldn’t get a Schlitz or any other beer on Sunday. You had to cross the state line and find a joint, for example, in NC that would load you up. We went to a riverside-border restaurant south of Charlotte where barkeeps pulled single cans directly from their drink cooler and packed them loose in a big paper sack. Usually it was PBR. Their Sunday business was brisk. As someone said, “People get just as thirsty on Sunday as any other day.”

Now I live in FL. On some Sundays here, especially in football season, some encoded memory clicks and I go out to pick up a few beers. It’s always relaxing. I like to shop a nearby no-name convenience store, an old-school place where the shelves are overstocked with most anything on earth you might be looking for, and the counter guys artfully juggle merchandise sales while processing lottery ticket customers who call out complicated buy orders.

The managers are community-friendly and have been known to be the first to re-open their store after a major hurricane. One time they gave out free ice to people who asked.

On a normal Sunday they ring up your beer and stash it in an oversized paper bag. You crumple down the top , lift and tuck it under your arm, and put it in the backseat. There’s a strong flash of VA/SC/NC beer-run deja vu.

In older days before zero tolerance, you’d pop one open and slowly cruise around enjoying the sample. Once or twice I’ve done that lately, sticking to back streets. Not that anyone in this town pays attention or gives a damn.