The Beer Taster
I had more fun writing this one than almost anything I’ve written (and I always have fun writing. It’s social satire, of course, but mostly I wrote it because I thought the story was funny. I still think the story is funny.
Bob Smith had a simple job, and it was a job that he was very good at:
He drank beer.
His official title was “Director of Quality Control,” and he had been given that title by a very large beer company in New Mexico. It was his task to drink beer made at this brewery. He would sample from the product, as the company felt it important to keep their quality high, and try new recipes and give his opinion on their worth. His tongue was skilled and experienced, and he was, arguably, the best beer drinker in the country.
He was aging, bald, and overweight. He was much liked by the few friends he had, but was generally a rather melancholy man. He would arrive at work with his friend John Walker, who worked in Development, clock in with only nods to his coworkers as greetings, close the door to his office, and stay there all day, even through lunch. There he would drink his beer and write his reports, and when five o’clock came, he would leave his office without a word, nod to his co-workers, and leave in the passenger seat of John Walker’s car. The other employees there hardly knew he existed. His supervisor, a man twenty years his junior, was always happy with Bob’s performance. The beer taster never called in sick and his reports were always on time and very thorough, but even the supervisor rarely spoke to Bob.
No one at work knew of Bob’s home life, as he chose to talk about it to no one. John Walker would drive his friend to his home, which was a small two-bedroom house. It was a rundown place that needed serious work, but Bob never got around to all of his projects. Even the grass would get out of control before Bob would finally mow.
As he was driven up each evening, Bob would look at the house with great lament, remembering how much he had promised his young wife when he had also been young, remembering how much he had expected of himself. He had been so full of energy then. He was thin and ambitious, and looked pretty darn good with a full head of hair. How long ago had that been?
He, day after day, stumbled out of the car and trudged to the door, where he would look for his keys a moment before the door would swing open, revealing his wife, wearing a nice new glare and matching set of discontented grumbles.
Darlene, once a prom queen and cheerleader, was also haunted by dreams of the past, but her release was not depression, but anger. She tried to keep her beauty, but beauty is often quicker to flee from one who can’t let it go. The worry over her weight brought grey hair early, and concern over the hair brought the wrinkles. Out of sadness over her hair and face, she began eating more and put on a few pounds.
Upon the opening of the heavy door, Bob leaned forward to kiss his wife, whom he truly loved, and she grimaced away from him. “You’re drunk again,” she said, accusing. “You never fail to come home drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, honey,” he said, staggering inside.
“Don’t lie to me,” she yelled, pushing him. He almost fell under the force, which was not strong, but surprising. She continued, “You’re late too, what’d you stop by a bar with your friends?”
“We came straight home,” he replied, collapsing onto the couch.
“You should be home earlier,” she said. “There’s no reason for you to be so late.”
“It’s half past five,” he said, his voice trailing off as he turned on the television to see the news. “I get off at five, we drive home.”
“Turn off the damn TV!” He ignored her, and she began pacing. “Will you listen to me for once? Your dinner’s cold. I don’t even know why I cook for you. You’re always drunk and you’re always late.” She stopped pacing, grunted in her great sacrifice, and stormed away, calling back after her, “That’s it, I’m leaving. I’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
She disappeared down the hallway to the back of the house. Bob heard the bedroom door slam, and he sighed, truly hurt by the words, even as often as he had heard them. He never became numb to such comments. The beer taster stood up and went to the kitchen, where he found the dinner his wife had left for him -- a can of beef stew on the counter, unopened. He warmed it on the stove and dumped it into a bowl and took a cola from the fridge, then returned to his seat on the couch.
He looked at the TV for several hours, but wasn’t really concentrating on it. He hardly heard the words at all. It was only something to do. It was an excuse to not pay attention to everything else.
He promised himself that he wouldn’t, just like he promised himself every night, but just like every other night, he stood and walked out of the front door. He pulled the old car off the driveway and drove it through the maze of neighborhood streets and down the highway to the nearby bar, where he stayed until closing. The beer taster returned home and fell asleep on the couch.
The next day he went to work, shut himself in his office, and went home once the clock reached five. Darlene was still there, but once again she promised that she would be gone the next day, and once again Bob spent a good part of the night in the bar. But on that night, in a rare change from his rut, he left the bar early. His stomach felt terrible.
* * *
Bob Smith, for the first time in his life, called in sick a few days later. In his absence, he stayed home, listened to his wife yell at him, and he drank until he passed out.
The next day, he went to his doctor, who examined him for some time, ran tests, and then came back, saying, “Well, Bob, I’m going to prescribe some pills for you to take for a couple of weeks. That should get you well again, but you have to stop drinking. Your body simply can’t take any more of it. You won’t get better until you stop.”
“But my job . . .” began Bob.
“Bob,” the doctor sat and put his hand on Bob’s arm. He looked his patient in the eyes and said, “You keep drinking and you will die. It may not be for a few years, but you’ve drunk three lifetimes’ worth of alcohol. You could have another thirty good years ahead of you, but not if you continue with this lifestyle.” He took a pad from his desk and wrote down a name and number and handed it to Bob, saying, “This is the number of a good program for alcoholics. They’ll meet tonight, and I want you to go. They can help you.”
The beer taster took the number and nodded. He was worried over his doctor’s advice. He knew that he needed to give up drinking, but what about his job? He was the best beer taster in the country, but he had few other skills. Maybe he could get a job tasting fruit juices somewhere.
* * *
Bob Smith drove across town that night to a small building and an even smaller room where ten people sat in a circle.
They talked about how long they had been sober, but Bob didn’t listen much. Before long, it was his turn to speak. He stood slowly, looking at the many faces of the people he didn’t know. They were all smiling at him. They were all interesting in him. His courage was suddenly fueled by these strangers, and he began.
“My name is Bob.”
“Hi, Bob,” said the people simultaneously.
“I’ve drunk every day for the past thirty years,” he said, and there was a sharp gasp in the room. “Wow,” he continued, “I hadn’t even realized it had been that long.”
The leader of the group said, “Why don’t you tell us how you started drinking.”
“Well, I would just drink with my friends while watching the game or at parties. But it was when I took my current job that I really started drinking daily.”
“Was it the stress, Bob?”
“No, no, it’s a nice job. Everyone’s real nice. I would just come in, and there would be a beer waiting, and I’d need to finish it within the hour when another would come.”
The leader was concerned, saying, “Someone at work would bring you beer?”
“Yeah, every hour or so.”
The group was horrified. One lady began crying. The leader stood and embraced Bob, saying, “Tell us who did this to you.”
“My boss.”
The leader was speechless for a moment, trying to comprehend what kind of sick man would bring his alcoholic employees beer. He finally asked, “Well, Bob, why did you drink it when it was brought to you?”
“They made me.”
The lady who had been crying fled from the room to hide her tears, and the others surrounded Bob in a long group hug, and Bob, as sober as he had ever been, was happy.
* * *
Bob Smith sat in his office and refused the beer when it came to him. He sent no reports and gave no suggestions. He merely sat there.
His supervisor, a young and productive man named Williamson, stormed into Bob’s office without even knocking. The beer taster stood in respect, but Williamson slammed his hand on his employee’s desk and then turned to throw the door closed.
He said, coldly, “Bob, what the hell is going on? Are you still sick? You call in a few days, and now that you’re back you won’t do your work. If something’s wrong just tell me, and we’ll work something out. You know we all love you here. But I can’t have you just sitting here, no matter how much I like you. Our labor costs are too high to begin with. I’d be fired in a second.”
The beer taster sat and paused a moment, then took a note that his doctor had written from his desk and handed it to his boss. As Williamson read, Bob said, “I can’t drink anymore. I’ll die.”
Supervisor Williamson sat, massaging the temples of his head with his fingers. He started to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth and shook his head, then only said, “Bob, you’re a beer taster.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young man stood and started away in frustration, saying as he went, “You’re fired, Bob.”
* * *
Bob Smith was cleaning out his desk when his friend John Walker came in.
“They can’t do this to you,” said John.
The unemployed beer taster shrugged and replied, “I expected it. I can’t be the Director of Quality Control and not drink. I’ll find something else at a fruit juice company somewhere.”
“But you’ve trained so long,” John pleaded. “You have to fight for your job here. You’ve been here for thirty years. They can’t just throw you out because you have some health problems.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and gave it Bob, saying, “This guy is a friend of mine. He’s a lawyer. Just go talk to him. You have nothing to lose.”
And so, when his things had been gathered, Bob called the lawyer, then took a bus into town, the box of his meager belongings in his lap. He found the law offices quickly and waited in the richly furnished reception area until the attorney could meet him.
The man, six feet tall, thin, with glasses as an expensive suit, came out with a smile to greet the older man. “Bob Smith,” he said with kindness. “Come on in, let’s talk about your case.”
“Do you think I have a chance?” Bob asked as he was led into the corner office.
“Based on our phone conversation,” said the lawyer, “I believe we do.” He sat at the long dark desk and motioned for Bob to sit in one of the leather chairs on the other side. “Tell me, how much did you drink in a day at the office?”
Bob sighed and said, “It depends on the day. It would average to about nine or ten cans of beer, I suppose. The glass was pretty big.”
“And they made you drink it too,” said the attorney.
“Well, they didn’t force it on me.”
“What I mean is, they wouldn’t simply allow you to drink what you wanted, and if you didn’t want to drink, to have the day off.”
“No, it was my job.”
“A job that was harmful to you.”
“I guess.”
“What do you mean, you guess? Was this alcohol harmful to your health? Did you not have to go to a doctor about it?”
“Yes, I mean, no. I mean, yes, I went to a doctor.”
“Are you not in a twelve-step program to help you stop drinking?”
“Uh . . .”
“Let me ask you this, Bob. Would you have a problem with alcohol had it not been for this job?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then let me explain the way I see this, Bob. For thirty years this company has put your life on the line for a product. They knew that this product was harmful in large quantities, but took no precautions to guard your health. The company may as well have forced you to install asbestos and not given you a health plan. The doctor says you have to stop drinking or risk death. We’ll get a second opinion, but I’m sure he’ll say the same. Then we have a big corporation, the same company that endangered your life in the first place, firing you because you want to get healthy again. Not only do we have wrongful termination, but we have negligence for putting you in that position to begin with.”
* * *
Bob Smith sat quietly while his lawyer spoke to the judge.
“Your honor,” said the lawyer. “Our case is simple. For thirty years this company has put Bob Smith’s life on the line for a product. They knew that this product was harmful in large quantities, but took no precautions to guard his health. The company may as well have forced him to install asbestos and not given him a health plan. You heard two doctors say that he had to stop drinking or risk death. Then we have a big corporation, the same company that endangered his life in the first place, firing him because he wanted to get healthy again. This is not only wrongful termination, but also negligence for putting him in that position to begin with. We ask that you compensate this man fairly for the suffering that he has endured at the hands of his employers.”
With a smile, the lawyer looked to his client, as if telling him that they would win. Then he sat, and the opposing lawyer, who was sitting across the aisle beside Supervisor Williamson and his direct supervisor, made his statement.
The defending lawyer looked to the judge and said, “His job, as it states in his contract, is basically to drink beer. That is why he was hired. He wouldn’t do his job, and therefore he was fired. And let me add, you heard Mr. Smith himself admit that he would often drink outside of work. Both doctors here agreed that without this added consumption of alcohol, he would probably be in good health. His illness and addiction were not the result of drinking at work, but of drinking outside of work. We cannot be responsible for his actions after hours. This is the fault of his own lack of self-control, not of our company who wishes to test a very popular and very legal product. It wasn’t our alcohol that did this, but his overindulgence of alcohol. He’s asking us to pay for his mistake.”
The judge was not away long. When he returned to the bench, he seemed angry. He looked directly at Williamson and said, “I am ashamed that I live in a country where companies force alcohol onto people, then fire those people when they finally say no. Bob Smith has gone through a great deal of suffering at your hands, and then when he wanted help, you turned your back on him. Such practices disgust me, and I am proud that this case came to me to decide, because, for once, you will be held accountable for what you have done. I’m ruling in favor of the plaintiff in the amount of three million dollars and ordering him to be reinstated. I suggest you find a way to let him do his job without forcing beer down his throat, or I’ll see you here again.”
He turned to Bob and nodded, saying, “Mr. Smith, I’m proud of your recent actions. It takes a great man to challenge his way of life. I hope that this judgement will aid you in your journey. I wish you the best of luck in your new life.”
With that the judge pounded his gavel, stood, and left the room. Bob Smith was in shock. He never thought he would win. He felt like going to the bar to celebrate.
* * *
Bob Smith returned to work on Monday, not sure what he would be doing for the rest of his career. He was surprised to see a beer on his desk.
“It’s a new line,” said Williamson, entering the office. “We’re trying to create a popular non-alcoholic beer, and we want you to test it out. Tell us what you think.”
The supervisor patted the beer taster on the back. “To be honest, Bob, I’m glad you won.” He left his employee alone with the drink.
Bob circled the desk and sat, wrapping his thick fingers around the glass and bringing it to his lips. He took a sip, and spit it out immediately. It was terrible. Nothing so offensive had ever touched his tongue. He had no experience with nonalcoholic beer, but he did assume that it should taste, well, good.
He stormed out of the office and across the building to the Development department, where John Walker worked. John smiled to welcome his friend, but Bob was in no mood for small talk. “Show the nonalcoholic beer recipe,” he said.
John typed a few commands on his computer and brought up the requested document. He printed it, and Bob grabbed the paper and a pen and began editing. He only worked a couple of minutes before it was done.
“Try this,” he said, handing the new recipe over. He turned around and calmly walked away, knowing that his ideas would prove effective. Finally, all his training was paying off. His tongue would never again touch beer, but the memory was enough. The memory would prove his greatest asset. It would be his future. For the first time in thirty years, he was proud of his job.
A sample of the new beer was ready by the end of the afternoon, and it was exquisite. Word spread around the office quickly, and soon there was a line forming to get a taste of the drink. Even Bob’s test glass was consumed before it reached his office. The rest of the work day turned into a celebration at Development. Even Williamson was there. He brought the chips.
At four-thirty, A message came for Bob. The higher-ups wanted to meet with him immediately. He slowly walked to the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor. He was nervous about the meeting, and the elevator reached the office far too soon.
The nonalcoholic beer taster was escorted through a long hallway and into a dark room. There was a long wooden table with ten old men with white hair and identical suits sitting at it. Bob stood at the door, his hands sweating at the sight of the table. He had never before laid eyes on the higher-ups. It was rumored that they even had a private elevator so that they wouldn’t have to see the common employee.
“Bob Smith,” said the man at the head of the table. “We’ve seen a bit of your new beer.”
“You-you’ve tasted my beer?” Bob asked, encouraged.
“No,” said the man. “We’ve just seen it. Nice color to it. We hear good things about the taste too.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’d all have one, but we’re at work. Maybe tonight.”
“It’s nonalcoholic, sir,” said one of the other white haired men.
“Even so,” replied the man at the head of the table. He turned back to Bob and said, “We have an opening in Development that we want you to fill.”
“What position is that?”
“We want you to run it.”
* * *
Bob Smith, Director of Development, leapt from the car and started toward the door.
“Bob,” John called after him. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Johnny,” Bob said, and turned back to the house. He stopped again and looked to his friend, saying, “I think I may drive in myself tomorrow.”
John laughed and nodded. “Okay, Bob, see you at work. If you need me, you know where to find me.”
“See you later.” As John Walker pulled away, Bob hurried to his home.
Darlene, with rollers in hair, opened the door and parted her lips with full intention to start yelling. She lifted her finger in anger, but was suddenly met with an embrace from her husband. Before her mouth could criticize, it was covered by Bob’s. They stood in the doorway for a long moment in a passionate kiss. She resisted at first, but her finger eventually relaxed, and her arms wrapped around him.
Bob moved away with a smile and went into the house, saying, “Darlene, get ready. We’re going out to celebrate!”
* * *
Darlene Smith stood in the doorway, and all remembrance of what she had come outside to say left her and was replaced by a smile and wonderment.
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Paul Lytle
