Sord in Prosperity - Hope Beyond the Apocalypse

EP. 155 - JERRY

APOLOGIES FOR THE LONG-WINDED diversion from malt liquor.

"You hid a full six-pack of malt liquor in the desert?" Jerry smirked.

"Yes," I replied in complete confidence. "It's lodged under a cactus where nobody will find it."

"Including you, no doubt. How long has it been there?"

In our world, it was not unusual to store an illegal alcohol stash for months then forget completely about where you placed it. While in high school, I did that once with a few six-packs I carted up north to do trout fishing with a friend. We took a full case of twenty-four cans in a cooler, but could only drink fourteen of them during two days of predictably poor results.

Unaware they were still there, the remaining ten cans and a small, dead fish sloshed around in the cooler water for a week, poaching in the sun in the Ford's trunk. My mother's olfactory soon went on high alert from the stench, and she let me know she found the stash with an 'I see you caught only one fish' comment.

I thought about Jerry's question for a moment. Two weeks? Three?

"Less than a month," I replied, beaming at my ingenuity.

Since the brew was no doubt getting stale in the sun, my plan that day was to impress my friends by telling them about the stash, speed through the desert pitted with ground hog holes to find it, split the liquid treasure between us four wrestlers, and be none-the-worse on our return. Another successful venture to brag about to the women.

"No way I'm drinking month-old beer that's been broiling in the sun all that time." Jerry then reconsidered. "Did you bring a cooler? Any ice?"

Jerry was a weight class above me, and wrestling had just begun. Being a boys-only sport at the time, like many sports, the 'mat-maids' were new additions in the mix. They would pensively sit at the edge of the mat and cheer us on to pin or win. Indeed, that team of non-elites lacked the visibility and status of cheer or pom-pom, but it was nice having them watch us in our muscular frenzy.

Jerry had been going out with one of them, wondering whether he should partake in a noon desert drinking foray or have lunch with his love interest.

"What do you think, guys?" he queried, frowning at our other two wrestling friends.

"Let's do it," they responded without thinking, which was very typical of wrestlers.

So we loaded up in the Ford after the lunch bell rang and headed due east, straight from the school lot, across the two-lane, and onto the dusty and roadless desert, dodging creosotes, palo verde trees, and cacti along the way.

"Shit, dude, can you drive any faster?" Jerry asked as we bolted to and fro in the Ford. He was riding shotgun next to me, and the other two were in the back getting the hell beat out of their butts.

It was a facetious comment, obviously. I was tearing a streak across that desolate brown wasteland, worried about the time. My mind was affixed on making this illegal and improper venture work successfully without getting caught.

After the bell rang, we'd have ten minutes to get to the car and load-up. Fifteen minutes of driving to locate the malt liquor, as it had been a while since I placed it there. Twenty minutes to guzzle down the brew and shoot the bull about wrestling or planned or actual sexual escapades. Ten to get back, and five to run to class. That was a full hour, but it would require skin-of-the-teeth timing.

However, I was having trouble finding the spot and drove around more than fifteen minutes searching for the hidden brew. Jerry was getting noticeably impatient.