The afternoon sun was warm, not hot, and yet I felt feverish. I struggled to keep up with Jim and Kumar as we made our meandering way from the Other Side to the Fenway location of Beer Works. Instead of walking through the heart of Kenmore Square, we took a circuitous route through some cavernous apartment buildings and ended up on Landsdowne St., Kumar stating imperatively that we must pray at the altar of the Green Monster. As we shambled by the palaces of flesh on the right, some party tents covering us in shade, I noted in quarter speed that Jim, as he punched Kumar in the shoulder and spewed some profanity in my general direction, laughing and pointing at me, had tiny shreds of carrot sticking to his greasy hair. Kumar, laughing and nodding, had a sliver of radish clinging to his bushy, left eyebrow.
We finally made it up to Brookline Ave. Beer Works lay directly across from us. Kumar was shaking his fists and yelling at the back side of the Green Monster, while Jim was rappelling his hulk up and into the Cask & Flagon when I finally came to, if only for a little while.
“Jim, we can’t go in there,” I croaked, “you can’t go in there.” Jim looked up, examined the door of the Cask & Flagon, and apparently something registered. Jim pirouetted like the principle dancer in the local ballet company, and cried, “Jesus, are we drinking today or what? Get that fucker and let’s get drinking,” he yelled and sloped across the street to Beer Works. I turned to see Kumar screaming silently up at the green wall, tears tracking over his dust-covered face, fists clenched to the sky.
Upon entering the Beer Works, I noted the small bar on the left, tables and chairs lining the small area, and Jim already hoisting a pint to us. Kumar and I continued on up the dark tile ramp to the main bar and restaurant area at the back, brewing equipment clearly visible through yards of glass on the whole right side of the building. The whole place was dark, and the tile and general layout of the place with the long bar on the right and raised restaurant seating on the left, with swallowing booths, brought to mind a skeletal image. Trying to shake off that chilling image, I immediately made for the bar and sat at one of the twenty-two or so stools that the slightly jagged bar offered. Kumar joined me with eyes staring pointedly at the bar top, searching for something to wipe his hands with; Kumar suffered from OCD, with his manifesting particularly in needing clean hands. Finding no napkins on the bar, he told me what to order for him and rushed off to the bathroom. Jim ambled up with eyes focused on the television immediately above us, a CSPAN telecast of the presidential candidates. I noticed that there were televisions festooning the place, giving off a pallid shade to the proceedings.
I examined the chalkboard above the bar and saw that they had fifteen draughts on, two cask-conditioned offerings, some wine, Mercury sodas, and some malternatives on hand. Among the draughts were their regulars, as well as the seasonals Handsome Devil and Double Vision. I ordered one of the latter and tried to settle down a bit. Matters did not improve when my pint arrived and I was confronted with the stark reality of what they passed off as pint glasses; cylindrical tubes tapered at both ends. I tried to recall at that very moment why it was that we had decided to make this our third stop, but, as luck would have it, Jim started shouting and I had to decide whether to sit and drink or run and hide. I decided that the former was more provident as I was actually enjoying my Double Vision.
“Hey, do you make it a habit of berating your customers,” Jim demanded of the bartender. “Just because I support Obama doesn’t mean you can just break my balls and spout off some glorious shit about McCain, you know,” Jim said and looked in my direction for some support. I buried myself in my ale. “Hell, I’m a paying customer here,” Jim turned back to the barkeep and shoved his pint forward, “and I sure as fuck aren’t paying to hear you extol the virtues of McCain!” Kumar had suddenly reappeared, a few feet of paper towel gripped firmly in his hand. Jim continued to argue with the bartender, their volume ratcheting up slowly, while I motioned to Kumar to kindly drink up. He took a quick swallow of his Handsome Devil, and then examined his hands and the pint glass, back and forth, ghoulishly. Apparently, there had been some spillage on the glass. Kumar dunked the paper towel he was carrying into the glass of water the bartender had brought each of us when I had ordered our pints, and wiped his hands maniacally with the sodden towel. In the meantime, I finished up my pint and started edging off my chair while Jim went further down the spiral.
“I want to talk to your fucking manager!” Jim was well on his way to getting banned from this location too.