In Search of the Holy Stuff

I CAN'T REMEMBER exactly when we did it the first time, but I do know how we did it. A few friends and I went to a little store on the ground floor of the run-down Commodore Hotel, stood on the street corner and stopped shady looking people as they walked by. "Excuse me," the bravest of us asked politely, "would you mind going in and buying us some beer?"

That was six years ago. Now, as my 21st birthday approaches, I look back at those six years of beer procurement and know it has been well worth the wait.

Getting beer on Friday and Saturday nights became a ritual for us in high school. We called it "making a run," but the run was seldom easy.

Freshman year we'd get the cheap stuff--quart bottles of Magnum or Olde English 800--and sometimes we'd splurge for a shorty (12-pack) of Henry's, a local brew which soon became our beer of choice. Then we'd go to the usual outdoor drinking spots, the names of which have been around since long before our time--Inspo, Arbo, the Circle, the Crest, the Peanut Bowl, the Meadow, the 18th Hole, the Water Towers, the list went on and on.

By sophomore year, our tastes were fixed on Henry's--"Let's get a case of H," we'd say. More important, we got our driver's licenses. That way, we could drive to a parking lot and sit in the warm car while a noble soul would stand outside the store and beg people to make the important purchase for us.

THE FIRST TIME I bought alcohol was during Passover, so I couldn't drink beer. Instead, I grabbed a bottle of kosher for Passover wine and brought it to the counter, my body shaking as if I were having a seizure. Luckily, my loss of composure didn't give away my under-21 identity, and the cashier sold me the wine.

Over the years, we developed a number of methods to get our fill of brews. (After taking junior chemistry, we began calling it "balancing the H's"). I once went into a store wearing a shirt with Hebrew writing on it. When the checker asked me for ID, I looked at her quizzically and began babbling away in Hebrew. It didn't work.

There was also the famous "all or nothing" routine. We'd load up a shopping cart not only with beer, but with other household essentials--kitty litter, laundry detergent and the like. If the clerk asked for ID, we'd say defiantly, "Well, if you're not going to sell us beer, we're not going to buy any of this other stuff either! As a matter of fact we're never going to shop here again." It seldom worked.

The key to a successful sale, though, was a good fake ID. A friend made one for me which I was occasionally able to use. The ID's ultimate success came at a restaurant where I was eating dinner with my family. When the waitress asked to see my ID, I showed it to her and watched my parents' mouths drop. "We'll talk about this later," my father told me.

Now, as I reach that golden age I've dreamt about for too long, I value the struggles I've had to endure. From street corner begging to Semitic stumbling, I've gone through a lot for that invaluable substance that has become a pillar of my existence. But I worry, now that I am legal, will I have to turn to crack for excitement?