Thirty beeroids crushed the bar that Friday night, and a hundred more mingled and shouted at each other over the din of rock 'n roll and ninety-nine competitors for immediate earspace. I had occasion to bend the ringing ears of four comrades at beers, trying to tell them in my own gaseous way what little I know about carbon dioxide and its connection to global warming and global cooling, when I noticed the noise subsiding, a wave of silence progressing from the front of the building towards where the rest of us sat and sloshed brew, disjointed conjecture and general bullshit.
I stopped talking and looked quickly about, at first amused by the wide eyes and open mouths of the local drinkers, but then surprised by the weighty quiet that swept the bar and revealed the parting cry of an over-indulger who mumbled loudly, "I didn't come here and I ain't leavin', so you can kiss my ass and I'm just the guy who can do it." He stumbled out past a giant of a man who waved his hand and mouthed a silent benediction for the drunk. Best I can describe him, he was a brown-skinned god in a dress with forearms and hands big enough and strong enough to crush two beer cans at a time. I was stupefied, and if I drooled on myself I'm glad that's all I did because the poor fool on my right choked, farted and spewed a couple ounces of really good stout out his nose and onto his lap. Damn. I HATE to see beer wasted.
I cannot describe my feelings at the sight of this guy. Rambo and Conan would have backed off, unable to excuse their presence politely enough. No one in the place could speak or take their eyes off him. If the ceilings were any lower he would have to duck! I swear! He's got to be eight feet tall, had to bend down to come in the door, and here he walks, slowly, smiling, eyes on fire, up to the bar on my left to a seat recently vacated. I think I'm bad, right? But I feel uncharacteristically small, humbled by his mere presence. He looks me in the eye, says in a voice that blows whitecaps on the beer in my glass, "Wazzup?"
I look up in sheer delight and terror. I want this guy on my side, right? But he's wearing a one-piece kaftan and sandals, something like sensitive new-age guys wear at sweat lodges, and though I think I can relate at least a little bit, I cannot speak. My chest is filled up with a tension occupied by my heart, which is pounding, and I can feel veins swelling and pushing out of my neck and face. I want to say something, anything, that won't make this guy walk away in search of intelligent life on Earth, so I look him in the eye and say, "Peace and love, Dude. Have a seat."
I must have said something right because he smiled a bit bigger and said, "Watcha drinkin?"
"Dude, there are few brews better than the pale ale served in quantity here," I say, "so that's what I'm having. It's awfully good, if you like bitter beer." He looks up at the bartender and says to a silent audience, "I'll have what he's having." He turns to me, points to my aching chest and says quietly, "The Orientals say bitter is good for the heart."
So now everybody wants to know what I'm having, and why this guy mentions Orientals when he looks more like a cave man on steroids, but I could hardly care less because I've got the unexpected attention of the biggest, baddest lookin' dude since Genghis Khan. He's trying to sit on this tiny barstool next to me, and his knees are banging into the gum on the bottom edge of the bar, so he grunts a bit, turns towards me, the battered knees of his kaftan just below my chin, and smiles as the bartender puts a pint down beside him.
I figured this was the ultimate partner to have on my drinking team because his left hand swallowed the pint like it was a shot glass, but instead of throwing mug and all into his enormous mouth he carefully pinched the tiny handle between his right thumb and forefinger, held it up to the light, turned it slightly, then waved it under his nose. He looked at me and winked, then SIPPED the beer. Actually it was more like sucking it up from a thimble with a shop vac. He carefully put the mug on the bar and politely asked for another. With no hesitation the bartender graciously pulled sixty ounces into a pitcher, shoved it across the bar and said, "It's on the house."
Here's where I started getting suspicious that this guy is not your normal beer swilling, pickup driving redneck in Paul Bunyan's body. Somebody in the room laughed, and there was some snickering, but .. hey! I hadn't even asked his name yet. Seeing him treat that beer like the high-quality beverage it is gave me a bit of courage, and a sense of familiarity, so I asked him straight up, "What's your name, Dude?" The pitcher slowed on the way to his mouth and he turned to me and said, his whisper like distant thunder, "Dude. What's your name?"
"Henry. Nice to meet you."
"Same."
We lifted our glasses and drank. Many of the patrons in the bar followed suit, but still no one spoke.
I wanted to hear him belch, so I again raised my glass for another deep draught. He did the same. Now, if you're going to have a guy this size on your drinking team you are going to need ear protection in a burping contest, and though I didn't really expect him to start practicing right here right now, as quiet as it was, he surprised us all the more when he opened his mouth to say, "Have you found Jesus?"
I spoke to my beer. "Nope."
He looked across the bar at whatever was there and said, "I can't find him either. We got off the bus together yesterday afternoon and were wandering up and down Dickson Street, and I was looking at one of those statues over by the art place and he got away from me." He looked at me for a second. I felt intense compassion from him, and could feel it flowing through me back to him. He continued. "I don't necessarily worry about him, but bartenders get ticked off because he orders water and drinks wine that he gives away. Sure as hell he'll end up in a brawl and I'll find him talking to cops."
I remember how Jesus used to dress, but since he hasn't been seen in a couple thousand years, and this guy talks like he knows, I asked, "What's he wearing?"
"About the same thing I'm wearing, a little lighter in color. His is a lot shorter though because he likes to ride skateboards, and his knees are all scarred up. He really likes hanging out with kids too. Lots of folks suspect he gives wine to the kids because they act so nice around him, but that's not what makes 'em act nice. They get off to the love."
There was a sudden melancholy that surrounded him, and it was almost sad, seeing him sitting there misty eyed, thinking about his missing friend and drinking out of a beer pitcher. Everyone in the place was still looking at him, and he was certainly used to it, and used to ignoring the spectacle that is his very appearance, but after a few more swigs on the beer he looked around at the silent crowd, made eye contact with a bunch of them, and said, "If you see my friend Jesus, tell him Dude's looking for him, will ya?"
A good forty or fifty voices agreed that they would watch for Jesus, and somebody asked, "Where will we tell him to find you?"
He held his pitcher towards the sky, thumped his huge chest with his other hand and said, "Right here. Now, who needs beer?"
A righteous cheer went up from the crowd, a hundred glasses held overhead stirred the spirit in the room, and Dude's face brightened into the biggest grin any of us had ever seen. He turned first one way and then the other, looking intently as if he needed to see everyone, or so that everyone could see him, and he turned again to me and said confidently, "I'll find him. I always do. In the mean time .." He lifted his near empty pitcher.
I lifted my beer mug and saluted. "Party on, Dude!"
Satisfied that the giant in their midst was no great threat to drinking, the patrons slowly returned to partying and general revelry.
Dude finished his pitcher and asked for another. While the bartender was busy Dude touched my water glass and the liquid changed from clear to bubbly gold.
"I've learned a lot from Jesus," he apologized, "but we both have trouble with ice. Hope you don't mind."
"Nope." I felt like a big kid. Better, because I felt like a big kid with two beers and the attention of the most righteous dude I have ever met, and who just might actually introduce me to Jesus. Finally.