Fred was a Pabst Blue Ribbon sort of guy, at least before the brand got hot.
For a few uneasy months there was an overlap in sales of PBR between the blue-collar bait-'n-tackle drinker and the metrosexual urbanite. But since Fred didn't label himself by the products he consumed so it didn't much matter.
He lived close to the ground with a healthy lack of self-absorption. To him, the "unexamined life" was the life for him. He'd married into a family of blue-bloods who traced their ancestry to certain ducal personages in medieval England. They had get-togethers so often that he often lacked anecdote to share, not even a new successful car repair. But he liked being with them.
They were always going to "the City", which meant New York City, and they always invited him to MOMA or the latest on Broadway or the Philharmonic. Fred was bored by it and wished Phil and his harmonic would cease and desist. He longed not for the transcendent experiences but for simply his in-law's presence.
May 24, 2009
Fiction for a Sunday
Posted by TS at 5:50 PM