George Altshuler

I was sitting, writing an essay I wasn’t excited about on the history of Oregon’s Native Peoples. It had been over a hundred degrees earlier in the day. I craved beer.

I read about Barack Obama and Joe Biden having a beer with a Harvard Professor and a cop. This didn’t help. The only alcohol I had had in the past two weeks were a few glasses of wine. It was a hot night; it was time.

I got my wallet (complete with my California Driver’s License), put on sandals and found my keys. To Seven Eleven. Soulful music was in order for the short downhill journey—Amos Lee.

I bought two beers and a slice of pepperoni pizza. Back to my room with the two cans in a brown paper bag. Amos Lee was still playing on my iPod.

Now you need to understand: I love the sound of opening something that is sealed. Whether it be a can of tennis balls, or… a can of beer.

The carbonation on my tongue mixed with the slight spiciness of the pepperoni…and I swallowed.

Rare are the times in my life that expectations have corresponded to actuality. I pushed my eyelids together and exhaled. Expectations were surpassed.