Friends Bond Over Beer, Revised Version (An Excerpt from Reunion: Coda)

Cover designed by Juan Carlos Hernandez © 2023,2024 Alex Diaz-Granados

 The final strains of "Finale" seemed to linger, stretching out to touch the edges of eternity before they dissolved into the quiet of my shadowed room. The tape hissed its postlude, then snapped off with a decisive CLICK.

Should I replay it, Marty’s graduation gift to me?

"I wanted to give you something to remind you of our time together... um... in Mrs. Quincy's class. And our song is in it," Marty had said, her voice now a ghostly echo in my mind. A fresh stab of regret pierced me, sharp and frigid, and I knew—I just couldn't face it again.

A knock at the door fractured my contemplation. My mother's voice, warm and familiar, filtered through the wood. “Jim, honey, Mark's here.” Mundane as they were, her words came like a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present, to reality.

“Thanks, Mom,” I replied. I jumped up—or at least rose—to open the door.

Mark stood in the doorway grinning. He wore Wranglers and a Return of the Jedi tee and clutched a Publix bag as if it were something precious. The soft clinking of glass hinted at its contents. "Hey, buddy. How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine, I guess," I answered, my eyes darting to the bag. “I hope that's not another graduation present."

He set the bag down with a clatter that seemed too loud for the quiet room. With a glance at the door, he shut it firmly. "It is a present," he admitted, "but not the kind our moms would be thrilled about."

I raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's definitely not the July issue of Playboy." The lightness in my tone belied the turmoil in my mind.

Mark's grin was a prelude to mischief. "Man, gift a buddy—no, a best buddy—a Playboy for his 18th, and it's like you've signed a pact for eternal ribbing," he said, his eyebrow doing a comical dance that pulled a genuine chuckle out of me. "Zip it, and check these out..."

He delved into the Publix bag, the drama in his movement worthy of a stage, and emerged victorious with two Heineken bottles held high.

My surprise must've been clear as day. "Where on earth did you snag those?"

Mark, ever the secret agent, gave a quick, paranoid sweep of the room before leaning in, his voice a low whisper. "You recall that last visit to my dad's? The monthly post-divorce ritual?"

I nodded, intrigued.

"I swiped these bad boys for an occasion just like this. Dad's got a whole stash of Heinekens in his 'special fridge.' He won't notice a couple missing," he declared with a grin that spelled trouble and camaraderie all at once.

The chill from the Heineken bottle seeped into my fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. I raised a finger and tapped my chin in silent questioning.

He caught my look and chuckled. "I stashed them in the freezer the moment we got back," he said with a conspiratorial grin. "Mom and Leslie were none the wiser." He plunked his bottle down on my desk, the sound was a solid promise of the night to come. Fishing out a bottle opener from his pocket, he popped the caps with practiced ease, the metallic ping of the caps hitting the floor a testament to our quiet rebellion.

I took a swig from my bottle. A curious blend of bitter and sweet rolled over my tongue mixed with a malty backbone complemented by subtle notes of biscuit and a whisper of green apple and sweet corn. The beer was as cold as the water from a mountain stream in late fall, sending a shiver down my spine. I wasn't sure if I liked the taste—there was a complexity there that I couldn't quite place, perhaps a hint of something almost skunky in its boldness. But as the lager settled in my stomach, I couldn't deny the comforting surge of warmth that followed.

"Whoa," I managed, the word hanging in the air between us.

Mark's smile displayed the enjoyment of shared secrets. "You've officially lost your beer virginity, Jimmy boy," he teased, his blue-gray eyes twinkling with the kind of camaraderie that comes from years of friendship. "Maybe next year, you'll be sharing a beer with a girl and..." His voice dropped off, and he took a hearty swig from his bottle.

A flush of warmth spread up my neck and over my cheeks, whether from the beer or Mark's insinuations about girls and what comes with them, I couldn't tell. "Hey..."

"Cheers," he interrupted with a laugh that was both knowing and forgiving.

"Cheers," I echoed, and this time, a genuine smile spread across my face.

We finished our beers in contemplative silence, each lost in our own maze of thoughts. When the last drops were gone, Mark gathered the empty bottles and tucked them back into the Publix bag. "I'll ditch these in Mrs. Finklestein's trash on my way out," he declared.

I raised an eyebrow. "Just make sure she's not out there playing cat wrangler on her porch."

"Nah, she does her feline roundup at 7 sharp every evening," he replied with a certainty that came from years of neighborhood observation. "We're in the clear."

I couldn't help but laugh. "You've got her routine down to a science, huh?"

He shrugged, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You pick up on things after a while, like the eccentricities of cat ladies—or," he paused, a serious note creeping into his voice, "...the signs of a best friend with something on his mind."