While picking up a case of Black & Tan from BevMo!’s refrigerated section this weekend I heard a dark gruff of a whisper behind me say, “That’s what Michael used to drink.”
Turning around I saw an older gentleman who looked like he was in his late 50′s and heavily tattooed from chin to wrists. Well over 6′ tall, he had musical bars and notes inked around his neck, stars under his eyes, and a mermaid peeking out from under the collar of his blue t-shirt. His forearms were completely covered in various shapes and shades. Short-cropped gray hair and facial stubble framed a face with deep-set wrinkles betraying years of both heavy laughter and much furrowing.
I asked, “What’s that?”, not quite sure I heard him correctly.
“B&T,” he said with a voice that sounded like he gargled tacks every night before bed, “That’s what Michael used to drink.”
“Michael?” I asked, noting that he was wearing what looked like bermuda shorts, and that his legs were tattooed as well.
“Yeah, Michael and Al. Well, that and plenty of other things. Other guys, they’d be more up for some of that harder stuff. The stuff you can’t drink. Made me get it for ‘em, too.”
I wasn’t quite sure just how to respond. ”Really?” was the best feeble response I could muster, but I’m not sure if he heard me. If he did then he must not have felt like replying. He instead put a huge left paw of a hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me out of the way so he could look at the various makes of beer behind the frosted glass. I wasn’t sure how to interpret this gesture, but it didn’t feel like a violent act. I figured I didn’t want to get into it with this guy, so I blew it off and began to make my way towards the cashier.
And this guy followed me.
“Okay,” I’m thinking, “I’ll just make my way to the front, calmly put my beer down in front of the clerk, and hope that this guy’s not tweaking on anything.”
I approached the register and placed my 6-pack of beer on the counter, and the tattooed monster behind me calmly pushes my beer up a bit and places down an identical 6-pack of Black & Tan with an authoritative “Thump!”. The letters tattooed on the fingers of his left hand spelled out “roll”.
I look up at the guy and he’s staring down at me with a weird vacant expression, like I wasn’t worth looking at. Just another thing in front of him. I’m now beginning to worry a bit.
I paid for my beer and walked out the exit without looking back. Opening the door to my Toyota FJ I place the beer on the floorboard on the passenger side. Closing the door and turning around I see a brand new silver Mercedes Benz G-class SUV pull up behind my truck. It stops. The tinted passenger window slowly rolls down and inside is the giant inked up behemoth. He raises his right hand, forms it into a pair of devil horns and says, “Rock on,” in a deep, gravely voice. He then smiled and drove away.
Like a stunned fool I waved back.
As I write this I’m still trying to comprehend it all. 20/20 hindsight makes me question what really went down. Was this guy messing with me? Did I know him from somewhere, or did he know me? To say that it was a surreal encounter would be like saying that Hieronymus Bosch was a boring painter. I’m sure I’ll figure it all out someday…
