ZipBeer

I think, for the first time in my life, I realize I have an alcohol problem. Not that I drink too much alcohol—although if you ask those ludicrous magazines that say a woman should have no more than one drink per night I do—but that I am willing to rent a car and drive to buy one particular brand of beer.

Yes, I drove myself in a Zipcar all the way to bloody Dedham to buy cheap beer. Paying $35 to rent a car and drive to the cheap beer kind of defeats the purpose of buying cheap beer. Maybe I was homesick for the salty shores of Narragansett (I have wanted to make a beach run for the past couple weeks). Maybe the fact that I have Narragansett wallpaper on my work computer has subliminally swayed me to stop at nothing to acquire this lovely brew. In either case, I got in the car with my sketchy Google maps directions, and headed south.

I know Dedham fairly well now, since the Whatever lives near there and runs to Dedham for shopping instead of Natick like us Brooklineites do, so I had a vague idea of where Google was sending me. I drove along, singing along to terrestrial radio (the XM radio wasn't working) and rocking my ass out to Kelly Clarkson. I drove down Centre Street, and headed on Grove Street toward Dedham.

Grove Street, which is pretty busy closer to the city, becomes a rutty, patched-up, pitch-black stretch of road once you cross Washington Street. I tried to read the directions, but the dim streetlights weren't providing enough light. I drove by a spa that looked like it could have been the liquor store, but the sign had fallen off and the backlighting was off, so I couldn't read the name. I continued on for a while, then saw the liquor store when it was too late to stop. I pulled an adventure-driving U-ie and pulled into a small lane next to the store.

I walked in, and was greeted by the typical suburban packie. "Open Sundays during football season" read the sign on the door, along with several beer company posters celebrating Boston sports teams. There was a small island-sized wine rack in the center of the tiny store, surrounded almost entirely by thirty-packs of Miller, Bud and Coors light. A twelve-pack of Sam Adams lingered in the corner, and at the back of the store there was a small deli. One guy was finishing up a sale with the cashier, another guy was lingering around, and I felt like I'd disturbed a guys-only poker night.

I went into the walk-in cooler and didn't see the Narragansett anywhere. "Son of a bitch," I muttered, frustrated at the prospect of driving ten miles out of my way for beer. I walked out of the cooler, and heard the lingering guy talking to the cashier in French, I think.

"Can I help you?" The cashier asked me as I walked up to the counter.

"Yes. Do you have Narragansett Beer by any chance?"

"We usually do," he said, walking out from behind the counter toward the cooler. "One of my dear customers loves it, so I keep it in stock just for him."

We walked back into the cooler, and he pulled down a six-pack of sixteen-once cans from the back of the top shelf. "Here we go."

"Can I trouble you to pull down another one?"

"Sure thing. Let me carry this for you. I don't want you to do all the work," he said, pushing open the cooler door for me.

"Well, I do appreciate that," I said, carrying my six pack to the counter.

He rang up my sale, reading me my name off my credit card. "And, Amy, you smell really good. But don't let your boyfriend know I said that."

I signed my slip and grabbed the heavy bag full of my precious beer. "No boyfriend here," I called, watching the door close behind me.

It's always nice to hear you smell good when you left the gym not two hours before, and especially nice to hear that you smell so good that it's assumed you have a boyfriend. So thanks, liquor-store dude, for both the beer and the compliment.