A beer-amid. A perfect menagerie of brown glass, one simple triangle built up in levels. The bottles are lined carefully as a child’s blocks, intentional and serious. The liquids were drunk up long ago, one beer for him and one her and one for the third wheel who later brought a friend and three more followed. A beer-amid, the purest kind, constructed out of matching glass with no Rolling Rock greens or Corona desert-pales.
It was built as seriously as it was drunk, by Andrew who digs architecture and wheezes when he breathes. The structure spreads quickly at the base as bottles empty, one two five seven and eleven. The labels shine out (they weren’t removed) from the sides and the nooks between, gothic letters set on a majestic spread of silver. "Take off the labels," she insists, "it will look prettier…" He won’t get into that, it’s the climb he’s after, the power of sheer numbers. Wheezes.
A beer-amid, the purest kind, all brown Buds and no imposters to screw it up. And so it starts, one empty set down. Two and a few and it’s on its way, up and up, the dude wheezing as he balances the still glass. A beer-amid is a beautiful thing. It could even be art. And why not? Warhol’s cans are.