MESSAGE AT THE BOTTOM OF A PINT

“Shags, what are you doing?”

I kept working. I knew Chaka was laughing at me, probably thinking I was being stupid intentionally. He was right to be suspicious, but I am not the same person I was forty years ago. I am older and more mature.

“Shags,” he repeated, chuckling a little at my dogged determination.

I heard him but continued using my butter knife to dislodge whatever I saw resting snuggly at the bottom of my empty glass pint of beer. With my tongue sticking out as the legendary Chicago Bull Michael Jordan would, I worked the tip of my knife under the edge of the small disc. Eventually, I flipped the disc onto the side of the glass where I could easily remove it.

“Ah-ha! Look!” I showed Chaka. “See, I am not crazy.”

My voice was loud, but only two other tables were at the spacious Route 22 in Weirton, WV. Chaka wanted to show me a sports bar he discovered after returning from San Diego to his hometown to live after retiring from teaching.

Route 22 is a gigantic place. The bar extends lengthwise, with a massive collection of beer taps in the center. HD television screens stretch behind the bar, making it the perfect place to watch Steeler games on Sunday. But I was more invested in my beer glass than anything else.

The waitress brought us a couple more beers. I had another Summer Shanty on draft while Chaka opted for his usual, the alluring darkness of a bottled Guinness. Our tastes had vastly improved over the kegs of IC Light of Beta Hall at West Liberty.

I pulled my empty glass away from the waitress’s extended reach, pretending some Summer Shanty was still there. “I’m not done with this yet.” I kept it to continue my obsessive investigation of the glass and the disc. I looked into the empty glass and saw a half-inch opening in the bottom. Once the waitress left, I turned to Chaka as he poured Guinness into his glass. “Look at this!”

Another hole, just like the first glass, was on the bottom of the new pint. “How can this be? Let me see your glass!” I looked at the bottom of Chaka’s glass only to discover that he had no such hole. “Why is she giving me glasses with holes in the bottom while you get the glasses with none?”

“Shags, let it go,” Chaka laughed. “It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”

“Oh, I think it is,” I said in my best Jerry Seinfeld voice. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you or make a scene when I talk to the waitress. I don’t do that stuff anymore.” Chaka and I laughed. I guess it all depends on a person’s definition of a scene. 

Chaka and I are Phi Sig brothers, members of a now-defunct fraternity at West Liberty State College, long before our alma mater became the high-falutin West Liberty University. Since last summer, we have alternated months visiting each other to reminisce during our talks about living the retired life. 

So we passed the time by drinking our beers, finishing our lunches, and sharing experiences from long after we went to different coasts after college. Life is so new now, but it is still old in some ways. What once was hope and anticipation for a boundless future has evolved into a slow-moving Disney ride back through the lives we have led.

As the waitress returned to our table, Chaka raised his glass for a drink and muttered, “Please, don’t.” I looked at him and rolled my eyes, leaning forward with a pleasant smile and a hint of mischievous curiosity.

“Ma’am,” I began, slightly apologetic. “I am not trying to be stupid or anything like that, but the glasses you gave me…”

“...have holes in the bottom, “ she laughed while finishing my thought. “You are not the first person to ask about this.”

I looked over at Chaka defiantly, giving him an I-told-you-so expression. He shook his head, then leaned forward with me to hear her explanation. We were two old fools who would never admit to knowing everything, so we just sat and listened to our twenty-something waitress.

We were both amazed. This bar has a bottoms-up draft system, which “fills” draft beers from the bottom. Many bars have a tap the bartender pulls to pour beer into a tilted glass. The bartender places the specially made glass atop a kegerator, filling the perfect glass of beer from the bottom.

The round disc? It is a magnet that rises with the pressure of the beer only to fall when the filling automatically stops, effectively sealing the magnetized hole at the bottom. Some businesses put their logos on the magnets; others print promotions. Mine? I had a promotion magnet and one with a message similar to a fortune cookie I would grab after eating at a Chinese restaurant.

“A glass half empty is still a glass of beer,” mine read.  

We asked the waitress to take pictures of us before we left. Afterward, she said I could keep my two magnets as souvenirs. I chuckled and stuck them both in my shirt pocket. Two beers are plenty for lunch at Route 22.