Beer Run

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight! Schlemiel! Schlemazl! Hasenpfeffer Incorporated!

Give us any chance we'll take it
Read us any rule we'll break it
We're going to make our dreams come true
Doing it our way

Nothing's going to hold us back now
Straight ahead and on the track now
We're going to make our dreams come true

There ain't nothing we won't try
Never heard the word impossible
This time there's no stopping us
We're going to do it

On your marks, get set, and go now
Got a dream and we must know now
We're going to make our dreams come true

And we'll do it our way, yes our way
Make all our dreams come true
When we do it our way, yes our way
Make all our dreams
Come true
For me and you
--theme from Laverne and Shirley

At the Days Inn 15 miles outside OshKosh Wisconsin (as supermarkets erased farmers, OshKosh B'Gosh assured their continued mimicry in miniature) in the orange tiled lobby, where a "continental breakfast" of burnt coffee and plastic wrapped sweet rolls is served from 8 to 10 am, a twelve inch square white board hung on the wall reads in pink marker "Guest of the Day". Below in blue is a name randomly chosen from the night's registrants. The honoree, at departure, opens a small plastic bag to find granola bar, bottled water and trial size hand lotion.

In the summer of '83 T and I drove mom through Wisconsin and the U.P. to grandma's summer home in Northern Michigan. Mom was to drive grandma to Florida while T and I drove back to St. Paul.

At that time the drinking age in Michigan was 21, but in the state that industrialized a German-Polish imbibing lifestyle, the home of Laverne and Shirley's Chaplin via I Love Lucy inspired beer bottling opening credits' scene, the drinking age was 18.

So, on our way back, in the border town of Marinette, we hit a convenience store for picnic supplies: bologna, sliced cheese, white bread, mustard, chips and a case of Old Style. As we lean against T's '69 Le Mans in the city park, nourishing a buzz, a couple of twelve year old girls leap from their swings and begin prodding us from across the playground fence.
"Hey, where you from?" One of them wearing a blue checkered jump suit asks.
"Minnesota," T replies with a grin.
"What are you doing here?"
"We're just eating lunch."
"Who said you could do that?"
"Whaddya mean?" I ask.
"Who said you could do that?"
"This is a public park, we can eat here," T plays outrage.
"No you can't," the other girl jumps in with authority.

The game of adolescent sentence senselessness builds to laughter, and any worry that it's already two in the afternoon, we still have 300 miles to drive and we're on our third beer, is far from the mind.

Finally, we promise to return in 5 years to marry the girls, jump back in the car, and peal out down the highway to Wausau, smoking a joint and cranking "Led Zepplin II".

200 miles later at Chippewa Falls, its time for a refill. We stop in a bar that serves a glass of Leinie's and shot of Jack Daniel's for a buck. After two or three of these, we're almost wasted but still 90 miles from home.
"You drive," T says.