“Hey, Rich, wanna a Beerita?” A what? I deduced what Felicia had asked me, but I asked her about its contents anyway. Zack’s newly married twenty-two-year-old daughter put the transparent plastic pitcher down and rattled off the primitive recipe, perfectly suited for a tank-top-and-swimming-trunks crowd on a Fourth of July weekend. In order to count, her eyes shot up into the upper right of her sockets and she recalled, “Let’s see…three beers,” all out of a can and unquestionably awful, “one can of concentrate,” whatever that is, “and one can of tequila.” Wait, tequila comes in a can? After a pause, “Oh, and some limes, of course.” She poured me a dose of the concoction. As I took a look around, Phillip was already splashing feet first into the lake, having fallen in love with the
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