The Pursuit

• TYPE: IPA
• BREWERY: Six Point, 
• LOCATION: Brooklyn, NY
• CONTAINER: 6 pack cans
• COST: $11.99
• ABV: 6.4
• RATING: 4 Swigs
• REVIEWED BY: Dave

It was just past 9:33 PM, where the road feels more like a memory than a direction. I’d just left Total Wine in West Palm Beach and the cashier wanted to see my ID–– weird, ’cause I’m well past the expiration date. The cans hissed a little in the bag, as she slid them my way.

I was halfway through the DMZ along A1A approaching Hobe Sound, when I saw him: thumb out, no coat, no skin. Just a skeleton, upright and hopeful, standing in the beam of my headlights like he’d been waiting specifically for me.

I slowed down. Not out of charity. Curiosity. Or maybe the IPA whispering from the passenger seat: Pick him up. Let’s get weird.

He climbed in like it was his car. Seatbelt clicked out of habit or muscle memory—I couldn’t tell which. I could see the cresent moon through the gaps in his ribcage.

“Thanks,” he said, voice like dry leaves caught in a storm drain. “Not a lot of folks stop these days.”

“You get ghosted a lot?” I asked.

“Ha. Good one,” he said, then pointed to the six-pack. “The Pursuit, huh? Smooth from start to finish.”

“You know it?”

“Loved it when I had a liver,” he said. “Still do. Phantom tastebuds, maybe.”

We drove in silence for a mile or two, the IPA calling my name. I cracked one open. The carbonation fizzed like a second opinion. I offered him a can. He took it, held it to where his mouth used to be, and I swear I heard him sigh with satisfaction.

“You know,” he said, turning to me, “you look familiar.”

“That’s comforting.”

“No, really. You feel familiar. Like I’ve worn you before.”

I squinted over at him. “You’re not one of those past life types, are you?”

“More like… previous tenant,” he said. “I recognize the skeleton.”

I nearly swerved. “You’re telling me—”

“Not you, exactly. Just the bones. Borrowed, repurposed, shuffled around. We’re all part of the long game, buddy. I wore that tibia back in 1826. Hell of a winter. Lost it on a bet.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I took a sip. Damn, this IPA was smooth.

“Look,” he said, setting the can in the cupholder like it mattered, “I’m just glad to see it’s still being put to good use. And I gotta say, we both have excellent taste. You, me, and The Pursuit—that’s a trinity I can get behind.”

I nodded. “You ever get the feeling that beer is a kind of spiritual currency?”

He grinned. Or maybe he just defaulted to that expression. “Buddy, I’m the spiritual. You’re the currency.”

He asked to be let out by the old train depot, the one that was stolen for half a century before being returned to its rightful place.  I pulled over. He got out, left the can behind, half empty—or maybe half full. Depends who you ask.

Before I drove off, I asked, “You need anything else?”

He gave a bony shrug. “I’m good. Just out here, chasing old bones and better beers.”

Then he vanished—just a shimmer, like heat off pavement.

I finished that can on the way home. It was smooth. From start to finish.

THEIR STORY: Beer is Culture