2003-02-19 - 2:33 a.m.

Saturday, freezing, and I had everything planned perfectly--get outta work at 6:00 on the nose, take the Red to Davis, hit the packie there and exit with a cheap 30-pack of PBR, and, with five or so minutes to spare, catch the 88 bus to the Cosby Brownstone.

Got held up, tho, and I had to spare the minutes spanning 6:00 on the nose to 6:10 on the nose. I decided to forge ahead with the plan anyway, as long as the Red came right away, which it did for once, and I snagged those PBRs and a compliment on my book from the checkout dude.

Four minutes remaining, and I walked as quickly as I could, tugging along that 30-pack. Left onto Cutter Ave, not far to go, and as I crossed a side street, the gravity ripped off that pasty cardboard handle, and cans o� beer exploded everywhere.

I can�t believe that just fucking happened!, I shouted to nobody in particular, at houses and apartments, one of those rare lapses of politeness that precedes anger or even confusion.

The bottom row of 15 cans seemed intact, but the rest were dented, hissing, or far away. I started gathering �em up, hoping to make that bus with a wilted bouquet of beer in tow. I justified--I had taken that bus before with a 30-pack, and had gotten some stares--imagine the reaction I�d get with an exploded case of beer snuggled in my arms.

Not 30 seconds later, some punk-ass car wanted to turn onto the dinky little side street, and, having no other choice, I tugged what I had gathered to the safety of the curb, letting that car pass, letting it actually run over a can, and by letting it go, allowing a bus, my bus, that I now had no hopes of boarding, to go.

I watched it pass, I watched those warm passengers watch me, the spectacle, the frustrated guy with glasses and a scarf and a hat and a torn-up 30-pack of wicked cheep beer.

It then finally occurred to me to take what I had gathered back to the packie. If I was gonna have to wait another half-hour in the cold, it�d have to be with a little dignity.

I walked in with a receipt and a hey, isn�t this just a lark, I�ll be outta yer hair in a second demeanor.

I explained the situation to the dude behind the counter, a kid my age, who struck me as someone who had read Dante�s Inferno for fun and more than once.

He said absolutely... not.

I said but I missed my bus �cause you sold me a defective item, and all I want is for you to replace that item, throwing in the bus part for sympathy.

He said nah, bra, I completely understand, believe me, I completely understand, but you�re not returning a saleable item.

I said but if this was a music store, and I was attempting to return a broken CD, you�d have no choice but to replace it.

And he said nah, but bra, I totally understand, totally, but you gotta understand that this isn�t a CD store, and I can�t return a busted 30-pack to the manufacturer.

And I said but you sold me something that broke! I�m bringing it back!

And I looked around, a punctured beer still pssssspspssssspspsssing away, people in line spectatin�, amused.

And I said Look, this isn�t going anywhere, can I talk to the manager?

And he said that�s me, and you gotta understand my point, bra, that I can�t just put this back on the shelves.

And I said you can put out 28 or 29 loosies, you can do whatever you want, but the point is, you sold me something that broke, and I want you to replace it!.

I let this cycle repeat itself a couple of times. I knew I was right, and I never get to argue when I know for a fact that I�m right. This kid--I dunno, I was surprised that he was so adamant about it. Like he owned the packie. Like it was coming out of his pocket. Like I was Oliver Twist, asking for a handout. But more like he was getting off on the argument, he was diggin� it, like the idea meant something to him. That kid coulda just said next, and I woulda considered myself dispensed with. Vanquished. I woulda scampered, whimpered, tail where it�s used to bein�. But the kid wanted to argue.

And there was no way I could win this argument, but no way I�d stand for it either. With ever increasing bravado, and never increasng volume, I threw in words like unacceptable, and displeased (borrowed from the roommate), and the underrated a-bomb of words (only when used properly, and I�ve seen this borrowed from me quite a bit) nonsense.

Anyway, it went on, and he explained that this exact situation happened all the time it had happened to him even, and that if it had happened in the store, he might have been able to do something about it. I pointed out that if the store refunds defective items, it shouldn�t matter where.

And he said bra, if you got this thing home, and it got busted there, would you bring it back? Would that be this store�s responsibility then?

And I said, well, that�s a good point, �cause it still would be the store�s responsibility for selling me a 30-pack that broke through no fault of my own, but I wouldn�t bring it back because the cardboard packaging would be more of a luxury and less of a necessity.

And I said It�s like I�m in a bar, and I ask for a glass of PBR, and you pour it in a glass for me, and on my way back to the table, the glass shatters in my hands. Are you NOT going to replace the beer?

And he said OK--how about I replace the beer that got run over by the car?

And I said fine.

I put on my best look of increduliosity as he went back. He had made a point earlier about how the store only sells PBR in 12 and 30 packs, so I was preparing an argument about where�d that one beer come from, but when he got back, five minutes later, he took my busted 30-pack off the counter, and put it by his feet. He wiped down the remnants of spilled beer, and took out a big brown bag.

And started filling it with six-packs of PBR. Five of them.

Bra, he said, you gotta understand that I completely understand, but if we replaced every smashed bottle in Davis Square, every drunk in town would be tearing down our gates. I completely understand, but I can�t let you grab another 30-pack. I don�t want you to think we�re a bunch of pricks, but I just can�t let you do it.

And I said fine, and walked outta the store, giddy.

I used to play chess in high school. In fact, I was on the school chess team, and even got a varsity letter outta it. But I wasn�t very good. I�d do OK for awhile, and then just make a stupid mistake.

And, believing that poker faces had something to do with winning games of chess (if a kid forgot to punch the clock, I�d stare at the board like I was studying it intensely, hoping that he�d just sit there for sixty minutes so I could win by default), it didn�t matter if I knew I had made a stupid mistake before my opponent did. Either way, I�d play it like I was rockin� the board, like there was nothing standing in my way.

Maybe that kid saw my point. Maybe he got tired of the argument. Maybe he just felt bad.

Maybe, but I don�t think so. He was lovin� the argument--he had nothing to lose and was just the special type of prick who would argue vices and virtues just for fun. And I don�t think he felt bad, either. No, he completely understood.

I think, just as he had me pinned, he made a stupid mistake, and coupled it with the chess poker face.

Maybe he realized that he couldn�t just replace one beer, and that he also couldn�t come back without that promised can.

Maybe he got all heated and didn�t think about what he was doing, and thought the argument was actually over the packaging, and not the actual busted beer.

Whatever the reason, I walked outta that store with what I had paid for nearly 20 minutes ago--30 PBRs (no, by the way, they weren�t skunked or spat on).

I leisured my way towards the bus stop, knowing that I was passing by the scene of the tragedy, knowing too that there was one can that, in my haste, I hadn�t picked up before. I figured that if it was still there, hey, why not?

Two punks were walking ahead of me, and one of �em, in one graceful ninja motion, stooped to pick it up and smashed it against the pavement.

It went POP!