First of all, I am sorry. I did not have the place, or mind to make that decision. It had been a long day. We had run a series of errands, for ourselves and in conjunction for you. Sure, we were just hanging outside on your back porch, shooting the shit and enjoying the beer. You have always been so kind to share your beer with us, and your kindness is proportionally heightened by our knowledge of the price of some of this beer. One should know we were not drinking Pabst or some cheap lager. We were drinking bottles of IPA that were over ten dollars. And to be honest, you probably have more worthy respect and love for that beer.
That bottle of Maharaja was nearly empty. It was at the last littlest bit. That 10% that when we were in middle school, kids assured me was 100% backwash at that point. But at least it was good backwash. And to be fair, I did ask you if it was okay that I poured the last bit out for “the homies who couldn’t be here today,” and you nodded in approval. And when I poured the bottle empty, there was a bit more than we thought. It wasn’t backwash. We could see the deliciousness falling onto the spring grass of your backyard.
And you immediately repented. As did I.
You said “I really wish I still had that. That was a huge mistake. I think I can still taste it.” Yes, it was a huge mistake. Wasting any part of that delicious Avery ale is a sin against beer, against brewing, something we both adore. My girlfriend sat there laughing at the unfortunate situation unfolding. I sensed then I was beholden to you. This may have been because I was high. We were all high. Very high. I never get that high these days. We never get high together, or at all. So in some small way, I can deflect the blame to drugs. But this doesn’t remove that tension between us, which was no longer exclusively sexual.
This was in the spring. I spent all summer wandering Europe, for the express purpose of soul searching in this matter. How could I repay you? A man of your stature may express his forgiveness, but is kind enough (you are kind,) to not verbalize any sort of ill will you may have towards me or my vain tendencies. I sat on trains, contemplating for days, weighing my mistake. I then weighed a second weight against the grave truth laying behind that first weight. And that second weight was that ultimately, it was not my beer. And the way you reacted was the way you truly felt. And all I had accomplished by wasting such deliciousness was a brief fleeting laugh at the absurdity of someone like myself actually having “homies,” much less “homies who couldn’t be here today.” I still can see the beer seeping into the ground, wasting away into mother earth. I delved into a deep and unreachable depression. I slept on streets. I asked for change for small slices of bread and cheese in order to survive. I performed sexual acts on strangers as a way of coping with my despair. There is a small gerbil running somewhere inside my small intestine, now a small, surprising reminder of the damage I had done. No favor or gift could repay the hurt I had done to you. And when I was being beaten by those Italian politicians in that hotel room, two hundred volts of electricity running through my body, a dirty sock stuffed in my mouth, I realized something. I never truly apologized to you. I never said I was sorry. This was also likely because I was high. I get nervous when I’m high.
So you asked me to write a thousands words before you could forgive me. So, is this a thousand words? I keep on losing track when I am counting. It’s not? Well then, it may be in your best interest to expect another letter.