by Mike Patrick

Created on: October 01, 2009

Clyde Barlow was in terrible need of a beer. He'd hoed the better part of an acre of sweet corn; his back hurt, his hands hurt, and it was hot. None of those things had anything to do with him wanting a beer. On any day, for any reason-or no reason at all-Clyde wanted a cold beer. He figured the smartest thing for him to do was to talk Jug Jameson into buying him a few of them frosty long-neck beers.

Everybody knew Jug wasn't as smart as Clyde. Jug was plum gullible when it came to buying beer for his friends. On top of that, Jug had him a flatland farm. That meant he made a lot more money than Clyde did on his hillside; therefore, Jug could better afford to buy.

Before Clyde started his old Ford Pickup to go to Jug's, he noticed the left front tire was flat again. Damn tire picked up a wood screw down to the sawmill three weeks ago. It was a slow leak. Clyde, being exceptionally clever, knew it would go flat fast if he took the screw out. Then he'd have to get it fixed. Fixing tires cost money that could be better spent buying beer. His answer had been to tighten the screw up every few days with a screwdriver. It took about a day for the tire to go flat when the screw was tight; about four hours when it was loose.

Today, Clyde bit off a chew from his plug of Red Man, tightened the screw with a bent screwdriver, aired up the tire with a hand pump, and headed for Jug's place. When a man needed a beer, there wasn't time to trifle with unimportant things like leaky tires.

Bouncing along the gravel road, Clyde noticed his gas gauge was leaning on empty: Another damn thing costing money and diverting a man's mind from his primary goal of drinking beer. Clyde figured he would talk Jug into using his car to get the beer; besides, Clyde had more than enough gas to get the half mile to Jug's place. Damn day was getting more complicated by the minute.

Clyde pulled into Jug's yard amidst the rattle of gravel and a cloud of dust. Jug came walking out of the barn using a greasy rag to wipe his hands. He looked like he needed a beer too.

"Hey, Jug; whatcha doing, son?" Clyde asked in his typical greeting as he reached outside the pickup for the door handle-the inside handle was broken off. He opened the door, stepped out, and looked at the tobacco juice now on his hand from the door handle. He'd have to learn to spit further.

"Figured you'd be needing a long-neck right about now," Clyde said as he took a red bandanna out of his pocket and wiped off his hand and the door

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