Cheap Beer

By Matt Leingang
Contributing Writer
I walk into the liquor store with a steady gaze; I’m here to consecrate what must be consecrated. I head for the back coolers with ten dollars in my wallet. Under the fluorescent lights, I realize my gaze is not as steady I’d hoped. I peruse the domestic beer with only a hint of longing for pale ale. The cat I am not, as my curiosity finds me running numbers in front of the imports minutes later.
I’ve been caught in this precarious position too often. How far can my ten dollars go and what am I willing to sacrifice?

I’m not totally sure I like beer, reasoning with myself now. Given the choice of a refreshing beverage, I might opt for a quality ginger ale or cream soda, maybe even a cold glass of soy milk.

They way I see it, it’s not as much about the taste as it is a means to an end. If I’m looking to buy beer, I’m looking to get drunk. And if I’m looking to get drunk, the taste won’t matter much after knocking a few back.

For the longest time I couldn’t even stomach the product. I was probably 18 before I finished a whole can. But at some point I fell in line, a creature of haphazard habit. As far as I can tell, a person’s choice of beer is as much a status symbol as it is about actual taste.

“What’re you drinking man?” Overheard at a bar or party by a bourgeois patron looking to level up.

A scowl marks my face as I grab six tall cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, “Selected as America’s Best in 1893.”

I fork over the six dollars and smile at the thought of cheap food later. I beam in solidarity with my ancestors, because after all, there’s no war but the class war.

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