The shiny van approached our car from the left, sweeping past the family wagon in a blaze of colour and promises.
Artwork adorning the van’s side panel depicted cold mountain streams and frosty bottles of beer that would – according to many highly believable television ads and testimonials by paid actors – enhance my volleyball skills and possibly even brighten my smile.
I can’t recall the precise wording of the message next to the cold mountain streams, but am confident it was something along the lines of, “No beer is more refreshinger than ours,” or, “Our hops are tops.”
Other possibilities include, “Contains nothing but the purest ingredients in the galaxy. Dislcaimer: mostly it’s just water.”
My wife and daughters paid no notice to the beer van as it passed because they do not appreciate the fact that it is the vehicle of choice for the Beer Rep.
The Beer Rep is widely considered among males between the ages of 15 and 90 to hold the best summer job in the world, especially if it is bikini weather and the sun is beating down and members of the Swedish Women’s Outdoor Pillow Fighting Team have run short of sunscreen.
(The Beer Rep has thoughtfully brought along six cases of sunscreen, because that is just the kind of guy he is.)
His duties are straightforward: drive across the province promoting the company’s delicious beverage at bars and other social gatherings, such as beach volleyball tournaments where the only requirement for participation is the desire to have a good time.
And no beer bellies.
As the van pulled ahead, I read with growing interest a declaration printed across the back door.
It was the sort of declaration that can cause a guy between the ages of 15 and 90 to reconsider his career choice.
“This vehicle stops at all hot tub parties,” it read.
To which I nodded and said, “Cool.”
That was before I caught a glimpse in the rear view mirror of the generous gap between my two front teeth.
“I’ll bet they’d never hire a guy like me,” I grumbled to myself. “Beer Reps have beautiful teeth.”
I did have the opportunity to work in a brewery for several summers, though my bosses never saw fit to pass me the keys to the beer mobile.
Instead, I was given the key to the machine that extracts returned bottles from their dusty and dog-eared cardboard cases, which usually smelled like a cross between a gym locker and vinegar.
The temperamental machine had a habit of plucking a damp and clingy case into the air along with the two-dozen bottles that were wedged tightly inside, which was my cue to shut it down and yank away the case in shreds.
This caused me to turn red and shout something that had nothing to do with cold mountain streams or “chilled goodness in a can.”
My compensation was a near-freezing lager, swiped from the bottling line and downed in a few frantic gulps behind the industrial-sized bottle washer.
You had to be fast, otherwise the foreman would realize your machine was sitting idle, and that could result in a province-wide shortage of “thirst-quenching goodliness.”
Then what would the poor Beer Rep do?
Today's Weather 
Clear and 6°C
Clear and 6°C
