On Friday nights I’d run across god’s creation and pick up my underprivileged buddies who were scattered from one end to the other end of the county. We were young, green, and filled with mischief, and many nights after a football game we’ve head to Joe’s for a beer. Joe loved us, and always made us pour our draft beers in a red solo-cup even though there was something magical looking at those draft beers in those cold frosty Joe mugs; and Joe watched us too, made sure we didn’t drive too impaired, he did care, and would cut you off if you got out of hand, but for a 16 year old I could out drink anyone.
Joe had his immense stereo system turned up high on Friday and Saturday nights, especially if he went into the green room where only the cabinet members were allowed to smoke the latest herb(marijuana) which at the time was usually Columbian Gold or some homegrown, and when Joe popped out of this room he had that gleaming faraway look in his eyes that smiled at every living abled body that walked by him, he routinely clicked that stereo dial upward several notches and he really went to work washing mugs, cleaning off tables, and tapping daft beer out like a beerslanging champion. His classical portrait with his blunt-end cigar hanging out of his mouth and those massive arms tapping a mug of cold draft still hangs in the Bluegrass Tavern Museum.
I'd usually gathered in my buddies and sobered up with a draft of mountain dew before I got into my Vega, it was a job getting these cats back safely home, one end of the county to the other end was right at 40 miles. My round trip back home was right at an hour before I entered my mom and dad’s driveway, and I slept soundly in those youthful years too.
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