I met Budweiser when I was seventeen. Budweiser was the King of Beers. The charlatan King hinted at various adventures, and whispered about mischief yet to come, and we stepped-out-staggering, trusting to caprice and big-time stupid; I bought an entire six-pack of possibilities and my world became a wonderland.

Then little-by-slowly, the magic went bad. Something went missing sometime between the spring of ’62, and the summer of ’75 − I’d sold my soul for a glass of beer. − Darnedest thing …. Must have disappeared in some dark honky-tonk. It may have paid for a short draft − a 15-cent sip at Eric’s in Brooklyn, or a pricey brown bottle in DC’s Cellar Door; misplaced, left on a checkered tablecloth, and taken with the tip.

Eventually, me and the King parted ways, and I soon found my soul in a dead-end hock-shop. I manage to keep up with my minimum monthly payments. King Bud still sends postcards without return addresses. I must admit: I’ve come away scathed and well decorated with bright little keloid scars. Some still sting. Others have blossomed into sweet reminiscences: tales to be told; some to be painted, and others to be penned.