What can YOU say in six sentences?
In 1972, the legal drunking age in my state was eighteen, and a well developed young girl could get away with a lot.
So, one sweet evening as the sun was slipping down, I entered a 7/11 like I knew what I was doing – went straight to the beer cooler like I had been there a thousand times, bent to the bottom shelf and casually grabbed the neck of a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill.
Went to the register, greeted the cashier, put the bottle on the counter, paid with steady hands, said thanks, exited, and found that outside the temperature was chillier than I remembered.
When I met him in the empty lot next to the store, he took it from me, swept me up, and we landed on the grass, where we rolled around like puppies and popped the cap - and what I swallowed tasted exciting, like love.
After we drank it, we climbed the fence behind the drive-in theatre, and hung around the concession stand for a while, but the fucker never even bought me a hot dog.
Thirty-seven years and a lot of other stories later, when I relapsed, what I craved was Boone’s Farm - no shit.