Beer Mountain

The year was 1919. I was the best pilot the Northern Hemisphere had ever seen. True, there were only ten pilots at the time, but I was the best. I had announced on my twenty-eighth birthday that I would make my greatest flight. I would fly from my hometown of Statesboro all the way to Paris. People were shocked. They told me there was no way someone could fly from Georgia to France. I then clarified that when I said Paris, I meant Paris, Texas. They seemed disappointed. Only four showed their faces to my take-off; my mother, my father, my fiancée and a stray dog. I kissed them all good-bye and I was on my way.

The take-off was smooth as usual. I brought with me a lunch-box containing two tuna-fish sandwiches, a banana and a glass jar with my pet snail, Rubin. Within four hours I noticed an unnerving noise coming from the engine. Soon afterwards, smoke started coming out of it like a steam whistle. My absent-mindedness had gotten the best of me. I forgot to put gas in the tank. The meter was on “E” but I figured that could hold me until Paris. Remembering my flight training, I quickly got onto the floor of the plane and rolled back and forth. Then I remembered you only do that when your back is on fire. So, I got into the doorway of the cockpit and held myself there. But that’s for when you’re in an earthquake. By the time I remembered what the right thing to do was, Rubin and I had crashed into unknown territory.

“You’ll be safe here. Quick, get him some suds.” These were the words I heard as I awakened. I had hit my head pretty hard, but I recognized the voice as a woman’s. I could barely open my eyes. “What happened?” I asked. “Shh. You were in a bad crash. We will take care of you. Here have this.” I felt the texture of a clay pot touch my lips and a cold, refreshing liquid traveled out of it. It was frothy, bubbly and vaguely familiar. Then it hit me: It was beer.

I slowly opened my eyes to find a beautiful woman stroking my temple. “This is our home brew,” she said softly. “We use it to treat head injuries.” I turned my head around and found the most incredible sight. Tiny straw houses built around a giant waterfall leading to a river. But this river wasn’t blue, rather golden. “Is that what I think it is?” “It’s our beer river. It never stops flowing.” I stripped out of my clothes and dove into it. She followed soon after. “This is Beer Mountain. You can stay here as long as you wish.”

For fifteens months I stayed there drinking the finest beer. I stayed at the woman’s home during this time, which was made from an over-sized keg. In the morning we would have cereal with beer. They would brush their teeth with beer. From time to time, they even drank beer. But my favorite was the beer shower. To me, there was nothing better than having carbonated suds in my ears. It was a paradise, too wonderful for any one person. It had to be shared with the world. But the woman informed me that telling anyone about Beer Mountain was strictly forbidden.

Soon, I became homesick. I told the people of Beer Mountain I would return but I had a life back home. I knew my fiancée would be worried and I only took two weeks leave from my job as a busboy. But they told me that once I left, I would never be able to return. I did one last chug with them and was on my way. But when I got back to Statesboro, they informed me that my parents were dead, my fiancée married my best friend and they had adopted the stray dog. To top it all off, they began a new law prohibiting anyone from drinking alcohol. I just didn’t fit in this world anymore.

For the past year I have been searching for Beer Mountain, but no luck. Sometimes at night if I listen closely, I can hear the village chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” One day I will return. Until then, I’ll have to settle taking my showers with water.

– Will


2 Responses to “Beer Mountain”

  1. chillsauce13 Says:

    This this for real!?!?

    Just kidding. Pretty funny stuff. I laughed @ stray dog. At least he got a home in the end!

  2. love this. very hemingway-esque.

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