As an 18-year-old non-drinker I was atypical in my peer group, and remained that for several years thereafter. I wasn’t a holier than thou type who decried the evils of alcohol, nor was I overly concerned that too much late-night drinking would hasten the onset of middle-age spread. I eschewed hard drinks because I thoroughly disliked the taste of alcohol in general and beer in particular.
For that dislike I have to credit (or blame) my father. Near the end of a family gathering when I was 12 or so Dad asked me out of the blue if I’d like to try a beer. Having seen adults quaffing the stuff I eagerly replied, “Sure!” Handing me an open can of Ballantine Ale containing perhaps an inch or so of liquid, he invited me to take a swig.
There’s no telling how long that can had been sitting there, but the warm fluid that emerged from it assaulted rather than tickled my taste buds. Judging by both the color and taste it could just as easily have originated in some dog’s kidney as it could have from a brewery in Newark, NJ. It was at that precise moment that any possibility of my becoming an alcoholic completely evaporated.
Then as now, peer pressure was omnipresent for those who had just finished high school. When I went to parties or visited taverns I’d feel the need to fit in, and as a result would start the evening off sipping from a brown bottle filled with inexpensive domestic beer. When it was completely drained I’d retire to the nearest men’s room, refill it with cold water, and return to the festivities. As the night wore on, no one was the wiser, particularly because at the rate I was swilling down those bottles of cold water I was visiting the men’s room with the same frequency as my increasingly besotted companions were. After about a year of perpetuating that hoax I dispensed with drinking beer altogether. I’d simply grab a full bottle, discreetly dump out the contents, and get an earlier start on my night-long water-drinking binge.
Every once in a while I’d be at some nocturnal social function where I’d allow myself to imagine that the comely-looking lass I was chatting with was becoming smitten with me, and confess my deception to her. More often than not she would be impressed by the ingeniousness of my subterfuge, although in retrospect it’s likely that on most of those occasions my female companion’s fascination was due less to her interest in me than it was to the lateness of the hour, and that the brown bottle(s) she had been drinking out of all night contained actual beer.
Life’s gone pretty well in the years since drinking became a legal option for me, so much so that I am thinking about using my dad’s method of alcohol education on my own offspring. Our oldest child turns 7 next week, and although that may be a little too young to offer him his first taste of beer, I’ve already got a can getting warm in the garage for him.
Andy Young is a high school English teacher, aspiring writer, husband and father — though not necessarily in that order.