Killer Words & Kellerweis

He might have expected it from someone in a loud Escalade. Or maybe a punk kid wearing bejeweled sunglasses and supremely gelled hair. But he heard an entitled response from a skinny twerp squinting through the sun from his bird-shit covered Honda sedan.

This weekend is the Children’s Festival in our tiny town of Edgewater; concerts and vendors entertain screaming, saliva-dripping tykes. Early in the week, we found a flyer on our doorstep, which politely informed us of certain roads that would be blocked on Saturday and Sunday. Eaton Street, our street, would be closed to through traffic, but residents would be granted entrance and exit from workers posted at the intersections.

My brother and I snuck out for a few errands—well, the first was hardly an errand. We cruised to a wine & spirits shop to fill a variety six-pack with Colorado craft brews we’ve been eager to try. But after stops at the almost-equally-hellish Walmart and Target, I steered my Civic back to the house.

Left blinker on, we whined to a stop perpendicular to Eaton Street. A nondescript middle-aged man walked a few steps to be more inline with my window.

“You can’t drive through here,” he explained.

It irked me, inexplicably. This guy—standing in the miserable heat for hours turning away shortcut seekers to protect funnel cake-eating infants—should inherently know I live on the block. (I moved here less than two months ago.) So I respond accordingly.

“2525 Eaton Street.”

That’s absolutely all I said, aggressively. Almost shouting.

“2525 EATON STREET.”

Within a millisecond, my stomach knotted as I realized, That sounded exactly like Dad.

My pops is a solid guy; intelligent, loving, wants the best for his two sons. But Chris and I don’t shy away from calling him on his occasional faux pas. Sometimes when he thinks he’s being cordial with a stranger—a waiter or mechanic, for example—he sounds, to a degree, like a douche.

Dad, gotta be more aware of your tone, we’ll suggest with a disapproving head shake.

Yet there I was, completely careless with my tone.

“Hey, we actually live just a few houses down,” would have been a much more appropriate explanation to this volunteer—volunteer!

As I turned the wheel, my eyes widened. I tried to look at this roadblock man imploringly, full of guilt.

“Thank you so much,” I said with an enthusiasm that probably made him think I was conversely rubbing his incompetence in his own face. He didn’t really give me a glance. Likely a Fuck you under his breath.

I voiced my thought to Chris.

“Did that sound like Dad?”

Him mocking me was a clear answer.

“2525 EATON STREET.”

Chris, too, went through a couple alternatives that would have been much better. Ah, I am a jerk. But aside from discussing retrospect, Chris also had a wonderful idea for right then.

“You should go give him a beer,” he said.

Brilliant. I could clear my name with a cold one; a sweaty, unpaid and unappreciated fellow couldn’t turn that down. And thankfully, he didn’t.

I shook his hand mid-apology. I told him I knew I sounded hostile, privileged. It seemed before I could fully present the Sierra Nevada Kellerweis, he snagged it from my grip.

“I have a bottle opener,” he interrupted as I started reaching into my pocket for the device. Dude was prepared.

We exchanged pleasant chit chat: how long he had to stick around, how merciless the sun was, what his favorite beer is (Odell’s 90 Shilling).

“Hey, this is a good beer,” he hollered as I was 20 steps down the sidewalk. He set it next to the curb for quick access.

“Glad you like it,” I returned. And, man, was I serious. I felt absolved. The night would have been mentally torturous otherwise.

I idolize and mimic my father in many respects, but in this way I do not. It’s possible he is truly unaware of his voice, but I take note. And as a result, I’m more critical of my own. Making others feel unequal by word (or deed) is a faulted practice.

But such a slip has a liquid fix.