The Experts
A man in wraparound sunglasses explains beer, music, fishing, and marriage to anyone within earshot. Poorly.
Friday nights brought out two kinds of people.
People who knew things.
And people who thought they did.
The second group was usually louder.
The band was still loading gear through the back door when the expert arrived.
Every brewery has one.
Every bar.
Every bait shop.
Every hardware store except Home Depot.
A man who mistakes confidence for knowledge and volume for evidence.
This particular expert wore wraparound sunglasses indoors and immediately began explaining beer to anyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot.
According to him:
IPAs were ruining America.
Lagers were easy to make.
German brewers had solved beer centuries ago.
Nobody should age beer.
Fruit didn’t belong in beer.
And craft brewers were all hipsters.
Eli hated him instantly.
I kind of liked him.
Not because he was right.
Because he was entertaining.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Eli whispered.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
I looked over.
The expert was now explaining live music to a professional musician setting up on stage.
Incorrectly.
“He’s wrong.”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“We’re all wrong about most things.”
The musician laughed from the stage. The expert took this as encouragement. A dangerous misunderstanding.
The room filled.
The river darkened outside.
The band started.
I forgot the name of the band almost immediately. Not because I didn’t care. Because around here, bands change names every time somebody quits, takes a vacation, or they borrow the bass player from another group.
We have a hundred bands within thirty miles.
They are all made up of the same fifteen musicians and only three drummers.
And somehow the expert remained an expert.
Three beers later he had explained brewing, fishing, music, politics, weather, and marriage.
Poorly.
After close, Eli finally asked:
“Why didn’t you correct him?”
I stacked chairs.
“Because he wasn’t here to learn.”
“Then why was he here?”
“Same reason everybody is.”
“And what’s that?”
I looked around the empty room.
“To feel like they belong somewhere.”
He thought about that.
I handed him a broom.
“We are all apprentices in a craft where nobody ever becomes a master.”
“Who said that?”
“A famous drinker.”
“Then how do you know it’s true?”
“Because I own a brewery.”
Outside, the band loaded out beneath the streetlight.
Inside, the room smelled like beer, wood smoke, and Friday.
And somewhere in town a man was probably still explaining things.
— from The Last Saturday, Chapter Four