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at work: Jo-Jo, Ron "Bear Butt" McBride, Arnir the Mad Syrian, and Lloyd.
None of them do much beside paint, drink beer and screw, and on occasion, all
at the same time. Crap on that, Merrik thinks. Pound your beer and Betties.
It was just after his thirtieth birthday that Merrik decided it was time
to ante up and be a liver -one who lives - instead of just a Beer and Bettie
Pounder.
Merrik reaches into his fanny pack, removes a Pabst and a granola bar.
Granola is healthy, and Merrik's heart swells because
he's an outdoorsman and a liver. He pops the can open,
swirls the slush of beer around. He had the
good sense to keep it outside the car the
night before so it'd freeze up nicely into
a beer slushy. What good is having
beer if you can't drink it cold? He
chugs it down, gets a frozen Pabst
headache that doesn't last too long,
then inhales the granola in one bite.
It's dry and sticks to his teeth, and
Merrik wishes he 'd have saved a
sip of beer to wash it down with.
He wipes his mouth with
the back of his hand, belches,
crushes the can and shoves it back
into his fanny pack. Looks back
toward his car. Three hundred
yards to the north, Merrik' s
Pontiac sits in a gravel and ice lot.
Texas Backpacker said almost
nothing about the Utah winter,
but then again, the article
about Bryce Canyon hikes
was from the July issue,
when there wasn't, presum­
ably, the need for cram­
pons.
He looks down at
his boots - Ticonderogas
- two hundred bucks
worth of breathable nylon
mesh, leather, suede, and
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