A Good and Useful Hurt Read Online Free PDF Page B

Founders, a local brewery, two days after he’d tattooed Doc. He’d asked Becky and Lamar to tag along, but they’d both declined and winked at one another after he’d asked; neither wanted to be a third wheel. Deb was excited; she’d never been to a brewery. They walked from the shop in weather that was turning cold.
    “What’s it like?”
    “Do you like beer?”
    “It’s OK.”
    “Have you ever had a Michigan beer?”
    “Like one made here? I’ve had Stroh’s before. It was gross.”
    “Not like Stroh’s, like Founders or Bell’s or Dark Horse.”
    “Then no. But Stroh’s is gross.”
    “You’ll like this beer, plus I know a couple of the brewers, so we should be able to get a little tour.”
    “Cool.”
    “Are you cold?”
    “Yeah, no colder than you, though.”
    “It’s the lake. She’s a beauty, but she’s a bitch.”
    “Aren’t we all?”
    “Yes, you are.”
    “I meant people, not women, you ass factory.”
    Mike tensed, and she grabbed his left hand and pulsed it twice. “I’m just fucking with you. Calm down.”
    “We’re here.”
    “This is it?”
    “Could you at least acknowledge that the building looks nice? Jesus.”
    Deb grabbed Mike tightly around the arms and said, “It’s lovely fucking architecture, but I’m freezing. Can we just go in?”
    Mike strode up the steps ahead of her, pulled open the glass door, and waved her through.
    They sat at a table near to both the bar and the door, neutral territory. Deb looked over the chalkboards listing the beer names, strengths, and flavors.
    “What’s IPA?”
    “Oh, we’re in deep water, then. Deb, what beers do you like?”
    “Good ones?”
    Their waitress pulled up to the table. “Hey, Mike, how ya been?”
    “Good, you guys staying busy?”
    “Yeah, always a lot of drunks when the economy’s bad. You?”
    “We’re doing OK. Could be better, could be worse.”
    “What’ll ya have?”
    “I’ll have an Oatmeal Stout, mug 225. I imagine my friend here would be best suited with a sampler.”
    “Sounds good. I’ll have those right out.”
    Deb watched the waitress leave and then said, “What is mug 225?”
    “My mug.”
    “What do you mean, ‘My mug’?”
    “They have a club here where you can pay a little extra money to have your own glass.”
    “That’s stupid.”
    “I think it’s kind of cool. Plus you get drink specials and deals on growlers.”
    The waitress returned, setting mug 225 in front of Mike. It was filled with a black liquid. In front of Deb she set a wooden rack with six three-ounce glasses in it. The waitress said, “OK, left to right, we have a Pale Ale, our take on a classic, light with a mild finish; Red’s Rye, that’s a hoppy red ale; Centennial IPA, that’s our house IPA; Dirty Bastard, our specialty and a Scotch style ale; Oatmeal Stout, a lighter stout with a mild finish; and our Imperial Stout, a Russian style stout with a 10.5% ABV.”
    Deb looked at the drinks and back at the smiling waitress. “Alright, let’s give it a whirl.” The waitress turned and left the table as Deb picked up the glass of Imperial Stout and held it high. “Cheers!”
    Mike tapped glasses and drank long from the mug. When he lowered it Deb was smiling, a white foam mustache across her upper lip.
    “This is good. Like really good!”
    “It’s real beer. ’Bout time you had some.”
    “Agreed.”
    She finished the drink and then took up another of the glasses, this one filled with a lighter colored liquid. “This is the IPA?”
    “Correct.”
    “It’s kind of bitter. I like the stout better, but it’s not bad. What’s IPA stand for?”
    “India Pale Ale.”
    “So it’s from India?”
    “Sort of.” Mike drank again from his mug, then continued. “Back before modern preservation, sailors were having issues with beer staying good for long trips.”
    “Like to India.”
    “Exactly. Alcohol was a known preservative, so they’d have brewers add extra hops to the barrels of beer to