Earl, from over at Earl’s Salvage Yard and Formalwear, couldn’t even remember where in the world the Studebaker M29C Weasel at the back of the yard came from.
“It was one of 10,647 units produced by Studebaker in the mid-1940s for military use,” he told Hank at one point. “It is said to have been in service with the US Forest Service and later at a ski resort near Lake Tahoe in the 1960s.” Hank tried to act as though he gave two shits about it. “It was finished in gray and green, and powered by a Chevrolet 250cubic inch inline-six linked to a three-speed manual transmission, a dual-range transfer case, and a track-drive system. Equipment included a cab enclosure, side doors, and an equipment box. The vehicle ran and drove good, although it did not have a permanent fuel source.”
Of course, by that point Earl didn’t even own it anymore, Delgado did.
How Degado came to be in possession of the Studebaker Weasel was nowhere near the mystery of how Earl did. Delgado won it right there at the Lucky Lady Lounge a few nights before in a bet that never should have been made.
To rewind just a bit, Earl never expected to be betting on anything when he walked into the Lucky Lady. He damn sure didn’t intend to lose the title to a classic he forgot he even had. He just came in for a beer or three after a long day out at the yard selling car parts and measuring for tuxedos for the upcoming nuptials of the Miester girl. The Miester girl found out she was pregnant last week so the date had to be moved up from 2027 to accommodate the birth of the child and the wishes of her father who had threatened to have her boyfriend castrated with the spring herd of longhorns if he didn’t make her an honest woman before the baby was born.
Anyway, Earl came in and ordered a cold Dos Equis. “That’ll be $5.25,” Hank said. Earl was appalled.
“What the hell?” Earl shouted. “They were four bucks last week!”
“Mayor Goodman has put a 25% sales tax on everything from Mexico.” Hank had caught grief all day long about the price increase. “Don’t like it? Take it up with the mayor.”
“Screw that!” Earl retorted. “Give me one of them Mooseheads.”
“That’ll be six bucks. No pun intended.” Hank had to chuckle at his own joke. “Moosehead is imported from Canada. Same 25% sales tax as Mexico. Talk to the mayor if that gets your gander up. I’m just the bartender.”
Earl had a decision to make. A lot of people who aren’t from Texas think that Pearl beer, which is brewed right here in San Antonio, tastes a lot like piss. If you’re from Texas, it tastes more like history. Truth be told, piss and history taste a lot alike. But 25% is 25%. “Give me three Pearls,” he told Hank.
The thing about Pearl is that if you drink them quickly, one right after the other, the fourth one almost tastes like a decent beer. Earl was on his fourth one when Delgado walked in and sat next to him at the bar. The two had seen each other earlier that day out at the salvage yard. Delgado was getting measured for his tux since he is serving as the best man at the Miester wedding. After being fitted, he spent some time wandering around the yard looking for a taillight lens for his old Imperial. That’s when he spotted the old Studebaker Weasel at the back of the yard.
After exchanging pleasantries, Earl warned Delgado of the price increase on Mexican and Canadian beers as he finished his fourth Pearl. “How much you want for the old Studebaker Weasel out at the back of the yard?” Delgado asked. He felt a little closer to Earl after being fitted for the tux. Earl has a way of measuring inseams that make him seem less coarse than he is when removing parts from old cars. Maybe it’s the way he gently cups the crotch of his customers like he’s removing a fuel pump from a Mileager Maker Six.
About three sheets into the wind after downing his fourth beer, and in the mood for some cheap entertainment, Earl said, “Tell you what, ‘Gado. I’ll give you the damn thing if you can drink six of these Pearl beers in five minutes without puking in between.”
Delgado, always up for a challenge, much less when there was a free vehicle involved, said “I’ll have to go to the can first and empty my bladder. Make room. Then, I’ll take that bet.”
“Let’s make it even more interesting. You down all six bottles of that swill and I’ll even comp the camo tuxedos for the entire Miester wedding party!” All of a sudden, Delgado had some real skin in the game.
“If I win, I get the Weasel and you provide the camo tuxes at no charge to the wedding party as a combination wedding and baby gift?” Delgado wanted to confirm the bet, just for motivation.
“That’s the deal!” Earl replied smugly. He didn’t think there was a snowball’s chance in Hell of Delgado being able to down the Pearls.
“I’ll be right back.” Delgado went to the mens’ room, peed like a bear that had just come out of hibernation, stopped by the kitchen behind the bar and asked for a half cup of extra virgin olive oil.
“This is Fort Stockton,” Jenny-Sue said, working the fryer. “They’re ain’t nothing in town virgin, much less ‘extra virgin’. She handed him a bottle about half full of old avocado oil which he downed in one swig before returning to a woozy Earl at the bar.
There on top of the bar was a bucket of six Pearls. Normally, they’d be covered in ice. But Earl had told Hank to get six warm ones from the back. “I never said what temperature they’d be.” Earl gloated as Delgado looked at the bucket.
With the oil coating his stomach, the prospect of a free Studebaker Weasel, and thinking the all-terrain vehicle featuring an open body design that was semi-amphibious and could be used to traverse inland waterways, snow, or sand might be just what he needed to win back Lucinda, Delgado grabbed the bottle opener next to the bucket and ripped off the top of the first bottle.
Hank used the stopwatch feature on his digital Casio watch and set the timer to five minutes. Delgado downed the first Pearl in less than 20 seconds. The first two were gone before the Cassio hit a minute. The second and third beers were both empty before the watch showed two and a half minutes. Delgado felt a bit shaky on his feet. He stopped for 20 seconds and then knew he’d half to shoot the last three nonstop if he was going to get them down his gullet and not have them come back up, possibly through his nose. He knew there was a lot riding on his abilities.
Someone had walked over to the jukebox and played Hank Williams’ There’s a Bear in My Beer. It just added to the tension as the crowd gathered around the bar to see if Delgado could do it.
But the kid was on a mission. He looked Earl square in the eye, grabbed beer number four, popped the top, put his thumb over the opening and shook it like a castanet. He tilted his head back as far as he could, opened his mouth wide, and held the Pearl six inches from his lips. When he took his thumb off, the stream of beer from the bottle shot down his throat like a firehose.
The crowd cheered like the quarterback of the Marfa High team just went down with a season ending injury.
The fifth beer went down just like the fourth. Luke Bryan started singing Beer In The Headlights on the jukebox. Delgado knew he’d won. He teased Earl as he grabbed the last Pearl from the bucket. He shook it up right in front of Earl’s face. He smiled in front of the crowd. Then he shook it, shot it, and slammed the bottle down hard enough on the bar that Hank was afraid there would be brown glass everywhere.
The next morning, Delgado was out at Earl’s Salvage Yard and Formalwear with his Imperial and a flatbed trailer to pick up the Weasel. He waved at Mr. Miester, pulling into the parking lot as he was leaving. He’d come in for a full refund on the camo tuxes for the wedding.
Delgado felt like things were taking a turn for the better.
6 responses to “WEASELS, BEAVERS, AND HOGS, Part I”
Whenever I hear the word “pearl”, my mind goes to two things: A beer out of Texas, and “Pearl of the Quarter” by Steely Dan. Both are happy when you start, but the ending turns out not so great.
Late 1970-1971, I’d been transferred to Fort Wayne, Indiana to support computer operations at general Telephone over a seven state region. The admin personnel been transferred there from San Angelo, Texas and seemed to work at sharing a perceived redneck persona. Despite the ready availability of several excellent national and international brands, and our proximity to Wisconsin’s many varieties, the San Angelinos reveled in in their (reviling, IMO) Pearl beer. If I had to filter Texas beer through my kidneys, I guess I’d have preferred Lone Star, and a few years back we had a very nice visit and tour of the Spoetzl Breweryin Shiner, Tx – home of Shiner Bock which some reviews claim is similar to Pottstown, PA’s Yuengling., One review claimed “Shiner Bock is a chameleon, a cheap beer that tastes better than it is and looks fancier than something that came from southeastern Texas.” I was never much of a beer guy, but learned from Bayou Lady’s late Mom Annie Merl, just how perfectly a “good” beer complements great Louisiana boiled shrimp and crawfish, as well as raw Gulf of MEXICO oysters on the half shell. Besides a great shrimp, hushpuppy, and sweet potato fires platter, I had a half dozed fried Gulf of AMERICA. oysters yesterday down in Cocodrie, LA, but they seemed pretentious. For now I’ll stick with Sam Adams, Coors, and some of those Wisconsin brews, or pay the freight on some of the Dutch and Belgian imports.
No story about beer guzzling would be complete without a historical reference to Bill “the Fox” Foster. A visit to the Fox Inn in Santa Monica back in the ‘80s was a truly unique experience. The Fox would sometimes engage customers in a challenge where he’d down two beers before the civilian could slurp the amount of beer in the bottom indentation of an inverted glass beer mug. Yes, I had the honor to be out-quaffed face-to-face by the legendary Fox himself. Say, ever hear the one about the cartwheeling stripper who had a “W” tattooed on one butt cheek and an “M” tattooed on the other? When she performed, the audience would call out . . .
https://youtu.be/d-XgsgTI_Lw?si=aNp4Snun8dCrU69w
Man, I thoroughly enjoyed that…
Delgado may have won the battle, and for that matter the war what with the Studebaker and camo tuxedo.
But one battle, and a costly one at that, he lost was the inevitable and diabolical Pearl-induced hangover, which is an extremely special kind of hell: No amount of water can quench the cotton-mouth, there is no analgesic potent enough to tame the throbbing cranial cavity, and no cuisine exists that can quell the abdominal queasiness.
At least that’s what I’ve been told.
They’re not called “Pearls of Wisdom” for nothing.