Cheap beer grew to be my favorite. The advertised fresh draft on the ocean blue label always felt sweet with condensation and left over sweat. I avoided the inner label due to the calorie count and serving suggestions never quenching my thirst or proving my gut wrong. Instead my dirt-tainted palm wrapped around those numbers and percents as I tipped them back.

            I sat in my backyard of sweet ol’ Michigan. The smell of a close by river and vomit danced in my nostrils. There is just no entertainment in these parts. For fun I would go around in search of Mountain Dew green and root beer brown bottles. My bike would take me up and down Holland Avenue. My trail would be left behind from evidence of earlier remains dripping out my old black plastic bag thanking me for shopping.

            It grew into a hobby. I would parade around harvesting my collection and return it to the emerald and golden rod corner store, B&H. They would transfer my hollow plastic loves for a dime a piece; one shiny dime to add to my middle class life and cheap addiction.

            The carbonization tickled my tongue as I kicked my feet up. I listened to the news on the radio as they spoke about stocks and healthcare.