The Six Pack of Christmas Ale

Kelly Opalko

“Go on,” I said. “Go in; the Christmas Ales are in the garage.”

Grabowski walked forward into the garage, slowly walking around the front of my Ford Escort. I followed immediately behind. He stood there a moment, wondering why the beers would be in the garage fridge. On the fridge handle was a pair of handcuffs. Before Grabowski could guess what was happening, I slapped the cuffs around his wrists. I stepped back.

“Grabowski,” I said. “Do you hear that compressor running? She’s a real beaut. I bought her at Home Depot back in March. Closeout.”

“But...but the Christmas Ales?”

“Ah yes, yes indeed. The Christmas Ales.”

As I spoke these words, I cleared the scrap wood from my tool bench. I climbed up and unscrewed the fluorescent lights hanging above Grabowski, where he stood trembling.

“McCarthy! What are you doing?!”

I could hear him shaking the handcuffs wildly. I calmly walked past my car and out to my driveway.

“McCarthy, okay, real funny joke, bud. You-you really got me good. This’ll be a funny story - haha - and we can laugh about it over a Christmas Ale.”

“Of course. Over a Christmas Ale.”

“Ya know, I bet the guys are gonna wonder where I went. W-we better head back to the bonfire. Let’s go.”
“Yes. Let’s go.”

As I said this, I pressed the DOWN button on the garage door opener.

“McCarthy! Jeezum Pete!!”

“Yes. Jeezum Pete!”

The garage door closed. “Grabowski? Grabowski!” I heard no answer.