Paul Beckman Brewski and Air Horns Beer is the only thing that can bring me down from a tequila buzz so as I turned off the highway to get onto Scenic Mountain Drive I reached behind me to open the cooler and get a nice cold brewski that I’d hold against my throbbing forehead before popping it and taking the first sip. I was on the cliff side of the mountain when I turned back feeling relief from the ice cold beer and saw the 18-wheeler careening down the mountain in the middle of the two lanes and I didn’t want to drop the beer to steer 10 & 2 because I could already taste the yeasty fizz tickling my gullet and his air horn sounding more like a klaxon and I thought back to my early days in the Air Force and having that klaxon go off at 3 a.m. for KP and drops of ice cold water from the can on my forehead rolled down my face—the first onto my nose and sliding down to its tip while drip drip the next two rolled down to my right eye and forced me to blink and close it as I fishtailed a bit and shook my head and heard the sound of wood rail splitting and the steady air horn and then the quiet engulfed me and I decided I might as well open the god-damned beer.
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