Bob on Barleycorn

I just finished reading Jack London's autobiographical alcoholic memoir entitled "John Barleycorn". Although I've never indulged in the adventures of alcohol I found myself rather enjoying London's perspective and his style of writing. His memoir took me to the forbidden world of alcohol that I will never truly know, with all of its hearty laughter, depressions, self-justifications, poisoned states of mind, chesty man behaviors, and hail fellows well met. Surprisingly, I felt I could superficially relate...or at least I allowed myself to get into his mind.

I have observed the brotherhood of John Barleycorn in those with whom I have worked. I have witnessed the uniting power of the drink and the business accomplished under its auspices. Unlike Jack London, my current boss has loved the taste that bitter brew since he was a five year old stealing sips from his fathers glass. He proudly boasts of sneaking tall cans of beer out of the ranch supply house with a wink and a nod from the grisly ranch hands who welcomed the boys into the world of men. He now considers himself a connoisseur of lagers, whiskeys and ales. The darker and thicker the beer, the better he tells me. I have discovered that when I attend the infrequent happy-hour with co-workers that my abstinence and utter refusal to drink actually becomes endearing to those that have already tossed back a few. My non-judgemental fascination with the varieties and complexities of the various spirits and my incessant questions about them also amuse them. This always leads to jovial feigned attempts to get me to just try it out. They will often rejoice when I finish off bottle of Henry Weinhard's Rootbeer and order me up another as if I were a part of the true order of the drinking fraternity, yet I know I am a fraud and hypocrite as I am so unwilling to pledge. I'm sure I have emasculated myself in their eyes by not returning the favor of purchasing them a drink in turn.

My own life changing experience with ingesting an alcoholic beverage was when I was five our six years old. My father was remodeling a man's home in which every flat surface was cluttered and covered with beer bottles. My father explained that the man was hopelessly lost in the lies and warm embrace of John Barleycorn. My brother Carl and I began to clown around with the empty bottles doing our best impressions of drunkards. As I held one bottle over my tilted-back head pretending to guzzle it down, a couple ounces of beer that remained in the bottled seared right down my gullet. The taste was horrible and I vomited it out immediately. A green garden hose was connected the hose spigot on the front porch of the house which I used to repeatedly fill my stomach with water and spewed it up again to exorcise that demon rum from my belly. At the moment I swore to never have another drink and that is one commitment I am honored to still be keeping.

Another day, while still a young boy working on a construction site with my father and uncle, we were invited to Buster's Bar & Grill by a group of suppliers and subcontractors. My father and I were the only ones not to drink from brown long-necked bottles. As the men drank, they become extremely jolly and rather funny. I was amused and caught up in the raucous behavior, but very much aware of the effects of alcohol leading them to this happy state. The waitresses were provocatively dressed in tight fitting white t-shirts and bottom revealing denim mini-skirts. I remember one of them sat on my uncle's lap and they flirted away. I was self-righteously disgusted while at the same time secretly and prepubescently intrigued.

One final personal faith-promoting anecdote. During my construction management internship in Las Vegas there was an All-Hands Meeting held in the construction trailer every other Friday afternoon at three. The area manager brought a couple cases of beer and they were joyously passed around to quench the thirst on those sweltering hot summer afternoons. There were two or three of us Mormon party-poopers that were forced to endure the chesty men's abuses because of our teetotalism. To make it worse, no water was available for us to drink, so we sat through the meeting with parched mouths as the men around us become loose and foul. In a moment of clarity and inspiration I made my own plans for the next meeting. I would bring my own delicious beverage...oh that sweet nectar of the gods...Rootbeer. Unabashedly I plopped down a 24-pack of A&W Rootbeer on the center table and to my complete astonishment almost everybody ignored the case of beer and took to my rootbeers like vultures to carrion. As I left the meeting many thanked me for providing an alternative beverage and I noticed that the case of beer was largely untouched. Prior to my graduation from the BYU CM program, a recently returned intern from the same company related that the rootbeer had become a tradition for the Friday All-Hands Meeting. Sweet sweet triumph over John Barleycorn!

Back to the book...

London was extremely honest with himself in his memoir and it has led me down a path of deep introspection. I've been taken to the darker corners of my soul and it is actually helping me realign my priorities and to rediscover my standing before God. As far as the brotherhood that Jack could only find arm in arm with John Barleycorn, I have found a much deeper bond with the brethren I serve and serve with in building up God's kingdom.