Tom Robbins - B Is for Beer

Technically speaking, that isn’t entirely accurate. Karla and Moe didn’t fall in love, Karla and Moe discovered that they’d been secretly in love all along, had been secretly in love for years, had been in love so secretly that they’d kept the secret even from themselves, kept it locked away in the deep velvet vaults of their hearts. Now some force must have jimmied the locks.

(If somebody ever calls you a “weirdo” or a “nut job,” you should consider the possibility that he or she has a secret crush on you.)

In any event, on the eve of the U.S. Thanksgiving holiday, Gracie’s mommy and uncle were married at a little thatched-roof shrine in the jungle. The groom wore his white suit, which had turned rather yellow from age, and read aloud a poem by a crazy dead Frenchman. The bride, who’d imprisoned her pretty feet in tight shoes for years, stood beaming in floppy straw sandals. Hiccup the monkey attended in one of Gracie’s old dresses; the parrot, from the rear of the hut, squawked “hi de ho” incessantly; and, at the appropriate moment, Gracie squealed with such joy she nearly peed in her pants.

So, now you know. There they were. And did they live happily ever after? No, nobody ever does — at least not totally. But whenever Karla was blindsided by bad days, as most of us are from time to time, she’d make a point of refusing to take them too seriously, and that, dear reader, is the next best thing to everlasting happiness.

By the most narrow of margins, Costa Rica had elected a conservative president, and though Moe was worried that the enlightened little nation would now be led down the path of relentless, sordid moneygrubbing (which seems to be the principal activity of conservative societies everywhere), he was too wise to let politics spoil his ongoing honeymoon with Karla and with life.

For her part, on those rare occasions when her customary high spirits showed signs of taking a dive, Gracie, sooner or later, would remind herself of the parting words the Beer Fairy had whispered in her ear.

“We’ll meet again someday,” the Beer Fairy had prophesied.

“The ordinary world is only the foam on top of the real world, the deeper world — and someday you and I will meet again.”

When Uncle Moe refers to Gracie’s “monkey dance of life” he’s riffing on a line from Jack Kerouac. I’d love to pour Jack’s ghost a beer — although in life he seemed to prefer cheap red wine.

Preferences aside, I’m here to roll out a barrel of gratitude to the editorial brain trust on East 53rd Street, most particularly Daniel Halpern, Abigail Holstein, and the legendary David Hershey (with his special knowledge of the interpenetration of realities); a second keg of thanks to Barb Bersche and the talented folks at McSweeney’s; and yet another to the artist Leslie LePere, for whom every pencil, every pen is a baton, a wand, a bottle rocket, a customized ’51 Mercury he drives to town on Saturday nights.

Let me also lift a convivial mug to E. Jean Carroll, Phoebe Larmore, Alexa Robbins, David McCumber, Russ Reising, and Lee Frederick, among a handful of friends who assured me I could when other parties were warning that I couldn’t or shouldn’t, or wouldn’t bloody dare.

— T.R.