2000 BC MEX12:19:12 PM Rancho Ramajal Popped a can of Tecate (my second: the first went like a blink) which may seem to you a small action, An insignificant action, but the marvel of engineering that is the pop-tab top is nothing short of art, a miracle, the way the little tongue of aluminum, waiting all it's life for this chance, only chance, to shine, to perform for you, happily belches successfully and then folds itself out of the way that the great river of chilly nourishment may flow freely. Yes, I notice, humble tin-tab, I always notice. Recently, on a train in the UK, I was seriously hindered in my consumption of what looked to be a fine, formidable can of McEwan's Export, a lager I'd grown fond of on the trip, and decided it was a good trustworthy brew that could safely be consumed at opening-time (11:00.a.m.) Happily, I paid the man with the little cart, and settled in for some fine lager and scenery. The train rolled steadily through perfect countryside: tiny lambs frolic'd alongside their mothers in the impossibly green meadows, little watercolor brooks ran through everything, everywhere..the (very) fat and (very)contented cows and sheep lolled in the sun, the tiny yellow mustard blossoms hovered like swarms of bees over everything. My books waiting on the flip-down table in front of me, I pop my can of lager. But..wait.. No. The little tab of metal comes off in my fingers, leaving a small pinhole and breaking off before The little tongue could be pulled off..instead of the belch of success.. it's a little, impotent pissing sound. My God. Professional that I am,I can tell immediately there is no repairing this unfortunate malfunction in public. We all know if it were 2 A.M. and no one was looking, I would simply wrestle the can to the ground, grab a pen or coat hanger and pry the bastard's mouth just open enough to suck out the beer, Which would be ruined anyway due to the unfortunate and unnecessary agitation. The ratio of foam to beer would not be right; even if I were to pour it, it wouldn't be right. People just don't appreciate the exactitude of the Pull Tab. These things aren't accidental, the liquid escapes at exactly the right velocity and speed, in order to form the perfect 2" foam head at the top of the pint, (possibly more, depending on your choice of brew, but it's desireable, so if you're not used to it most good pubs will top you up for nothing..but see, we're talking about cans, here) or, bubble up just enough to reach the keyhole-shaped opening in the can..enough to make you look around nervously for a towel, or.. I anxiously stick my head out in the aisle and peer down..he's gone, the little cart is almost to the next car. I really wanted this beer at this hour, and wonder what my chances are of his having another in his little cart, with the plastic-wrapped Creole-style sandwiches and vinegar crisps. If I even look like I care, I will surely be labelled a stangely-dressed American alchoholic who is stressed over a beer at 11:00.a.m. This will not do. Patiently I wait until the cart is brought all the way back to the back of the train again. Those who travel regularly will appreciate my courtesy to both passengers and personnel. I, of course, in waiting, risk losing a last can of McEwan's Export, as someone else surely, surely will have drunk whatever was left on the little cart. Sweet smile, gentle body language leaning to the right into the aisle: not enough to block his way, but enough to signal my Need: 'I'm sorry' (I learned this from an old boyfriend who used to begin
every sentence with 'I'm Sorry'. I used to think it was funny and cute,
now I realize it's enormously manipulative..whatever you're going to
say is already All Right: 'It's ok, I swear! Just tell me' .
. .'No, I'm sorry' . . . .'Stop it! You have nothing to be sorry
for! I swear I won't be mad! Just tell me!' . ..'I'm sorry' (sheepishly) He smiles, genuinely. Very nice guy. "It's allright! What is it, then?". I lift the useless, leaden can of dead beer by now completely undrinkable, as the little piss-hole has let enough air in to ruin it. I shake my head, in order to avoid speech as much as I can which will surely provoke 'American, can't open a can of lager' sentiments in everyone on the train. I smile inanely, like the loser I am. I don't even really know what I expect him to do. Whip-quick, he sees the can and bends to retrieve another from the bottom bin of the cart. 'Third one this week!' he smiles, and takes my faulty brew, happily. Busily, he fishes the bin for another. A minute later, I relish the motion. Fingertips lightly grip the cool aluminum tab, and a slight forward pull miraculously forces the metal tongue down into the can, which belches satisfactorily. The sun is perfectly warm and loving through the tinted train window, and we pass villages of old stone and millwheels, with giant clockfaces on steeples and well-fed horses. My pint of Foster's goes down smooth and sweet.. it wasn't what I wanted, but by now, it's almost 12, and hits the spot just fine. |