The universe usually gifts some launching pad of mutual conversation: the heavy rain last night or Ryan Lochte or the new pizza special. But especially, Mystery Beer. You say that it’s $2.50 and they say “Is there a way the mystery beer could be a Sweet Josie?” and you shake your head solemnly and say “Sorry, there are rules in this world about mystery.” But you end up bringing them a Sweet Josie anyways, pulled from a giant cooler of beers the bartender wants to get rid of. And then you feel like some greek god blessing the masses with their favorite beer, and they feel really special. “This is so mysterious!” they’ll say, taking a sip, and you laugh together.
This is the way it went for most of the night; the tables outside mostly filled with people my own age watching the Olympics. Cleaning up the table, I talked with the kind, funny grad students about how beautiful swimming looks, when projected out on some giant restaurant projector: these clean, giant strokes cutting across the screen above us; larger and more beautiful than life. I told the graduate students I was jealous of the heroic emotions the Olympians experienced that I never would.
“Don’t be so sure.” They told me. “You never know.”
“That’s true. Maybe I’ll spontaneously take up gymnastics.”
“We’ll see you in 2016.” They said and raised their Fat Tires. Now, that’s what I call generous optimism.
Inside, however, neither of the two tables wanted surprise beers: that’s how it goes; you turn 30 and start wanting wine from a particular vineyard. One of the tables held a couple who was very obviously Artsy; they were probably in a band (everyone in my town is in a band). She had on cowboy boots and drippy feather earrings and did not smile, and he had a beard and the same immobile expression....
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