God of Beer Booth #3

  Today, I am Captain of Beer Booth #3 at the Sausalito Arts Festival. For those who have never been in a position of REAL POWER, where the hopes and dreams of six booth attendants, the unborn grants for a dozen local artists and the thirst of hundreds of festival goers are totally in your hands, let me tell you, it’s power to the max!

You arrive at the volunteer entry gate as just one of hundreds of human helpers swarming onto the festival grounds. But once you’re in your booth, have taste-tested your taps, skyscraper-stacked your cups and donned your captain’s shirt, the warm wave of command washes over both booth and being. As the crew arrives, looking to you for direction and comfort, you’re the father of a family.

Early morning is the time to take your team on a shakedown cruise as few beers are sold before eleven. As business picks up, kegs are tapped, beer flows into waiting cups and money swims across the counter into the cash box; you’re the supervisor of a productive work group.

By noon, the lunch hour rush is building faster than a kindergarten Lego tower; now you’re the owner of a small company. By 1 PM, the company has grown larger; you feel more like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company except yours is an all cash business with no union problems.

After lunch, the crews switch. There’s a new group to indoctrinate, train, watch over on the fly, all the while continuing to pull and pour and command. It’s not all glory. Some customers complain: “Too much foam”, “I want to watch you draw mine so I know it’s cold,” “the dog ate my driver’s license,” and “Hey, suds slosher, I said I no foam!” The complaints roll off your back. You’ve been here before.

By five, when you’re supposed to turn off the taps and thirsty music lovers are circling the booth, hoping for one last pour, you’re, well, The King — holding everyone’s thirst in your hands.

The crowd fades into indistinguishable silhouettes. You hum along to the final strains of Dan Hicks and the Hot Licks, harmonizing in a few bars of Hail to the Chief … then there’s a tug on your sleeve. Huh? Another tug. The music fades into the background, you focus on an unshaven man in a plaid shirt and checked pants. Reality seeps into the kingdom. “Excuse me. How cold is that beer?”

It’s past five. After a few gracious glasses for needy subjects, you stop public pouring and close down all the taps save one. S-L-O-W-L-Y, you build yourself a perfect beer, little bubbles levitate from the bottom of your tankard to form a shining crown at the rim — not so much you drink through the foam; just enough so froth laps across your upper lip and delivers popping flavor bubbles to your nose. There’s nothing as satisfying as putting yourself outside a cold beer on a hot day.

The volume of beer sold is in direct proportion to the temperature. The hotter it is, the more beer people drink; the hotter it is, the less wine people sip; the hotter it is the less clothes women … OK, that’s a different topic. Rewind your mind to “…the less wine people sip.” Now, read on.

You stand in your booth surveying the scene, satisfied with a job well-done, aglow with an inner contentedness, secure in the knowledge that all who pass are watching you — watching YOU — slowly savor the last beer of the festival. Emperor John I!

You finish your draft and clean up your booth. The crowd has now dwindled down to a gaggle of volunteers with “GARBAGE” on their black t-shirts, sweeping the fair’s remains into large plastic bags.

You collect your meager belongings and join hundreds of other worker bees shuffling out the gate. You get into your car and dissolve into the hordes heading north on 101.

But, for a few minutes, hell, for the whole day, you were the God of Beer Booth #3!
###