Reminiscing At Twenty Years Old

Twenty years from now, when I'm forty and (hopefully) married, I'll go out to dinner with my wife and kids. I'll have a job, presumably the one I'm working towards right now, but with the shrinking world of writers one can only remain so positive. On this Friday night excursion after a long week at the office, my family will be what I fall into for support, my sense of ease. 

The waitress will walk by. She's likely a college student, which, when you think about it, means she's being born any day now. Someday a girl born in 2012 will be taking my order at a restaurant. I don't know about anyone else, but that freaks me out. She's young, with smooth skin and lustrous hair that's pulled back tightly in a ponytail. Her smile isn't genuine, it's plastered on her face for the sole reason of earning an extra dollar or two in a tip. I know she hates her job, and I think it's dishonest of her to pretend like she's this happy in a place that anyone who has ever worked in the food industry knows sucks. 

I'm not stupid. I know waitresses can't display how they really feel. They would undoubtedly be fired, or, if the manager didn't give a shit, they would make no tips from the American public that wants to be force fed a delusional sense of happiness everywhere they go. Cheery faces all around, the American Dream of psychopaths. 

I'll look down at the drink menu and gaze at the multitude of choices. Perhaps I'll allow myself a beer this evening, it is Friday after all. And nestled inside that long list of choice lagers, I'll spot the outlier. The one that doesn't appear often but when it does I immediately have to order it.

Pabst Blue Ribbon.

The beer of hipsters! Perhaps it won't carry that unfortunate and demeaning label anymore, but I'll order it and immediately think back to my days at Ohio University. 

I've never liked PBR. In fact, in all the beers I've had (which isn't many), PBR is my least favorite. Its taste is a jarring one that sometimes even ignites my seldom-used gag reflex. So why will I order it in 2032?

Because it's all we fucking had in college. It was cheap, and you could get a lot of it for the lowest price possible. In a world where half the people didn't have jobs and the ones that did usually had to pay rent, PBR was the go-to choice. I'm not sure anyone really enjoyed it, but it definitely got the job done. And remembering those many weekend nights when all there was was a fridge full of that ungodly beverage will bring me to choose it years later while out to dinner.

Because even though I don't enjoy the taste, I'll always have the experiences that go along with it. Sometimes we need to forget about what feels good physically and think about the moments that made us feel good. 

With that first sip, I'll begin remembering segments of nights gone by, but probably won't be able to piece together a continuous map of an entire evening. Nonetheless, I know which memories I'll fall back on. I'll remember going five beers deep and just wanting to escape the loud, horrible dance music that is blaring from the speakers in the living room. The floor is shaking as people dance around, just waiting to fall through. So, my friends and I naturally head for the basement. It only made sense.

Here in the basement are five kids, all talented in what they do and all nervous about what's going to happen in three or four years. Cause that's what college is for students today. It's the ascent up the rickety old roller coaster that may just be on its last legs. There's a good chance it will crash and burn when it starts that fast downhill slide, so you might as well joke around and have a good time on the way up. We know that not all of us will get our dream job. Rolling Stone and Spin can only hire so many people, and the chances that these five basement dwellers will get so much as an interview are slim. It's scary. So we drank PBR and tried to forget. 

I'll remember those conversations in the basement. We talked about our favorite Hendrix albums, and argued over whether Electric Ladyland was just a little too long. I had to assure my ill-advised friend that the Beach Boys were way more than "Surfin U.S.A.," and that Brian Wilson has written songs that not even The Beatles can top. 

We were obsessed with the new Beach House album even though it hadn't been released yet. It wasn't coming out for another two months and yet we could pick our favorite tracks and talk at length about how even though Victoria Legrand's voice is killer, the foundation of the band is the glittery guitar and the otherworldly keyboards.

Those nights, those conversations, were fueled by a beverage that I hated. It's odd that I can already see how I'll look back on these memories, but I can. I'm sad that I'm already done with nearly two years of college, and scared as hell about what's coming after. 

But my future self will tip that waitress a little extra that night. And hopefully, she'll take those few dollars and split a case of Pabst with her friends, because we all need those cheaply-purchased memories that we'll carry on for the rest of our lives.