The Lager Queen of Minnesota

by J. Ryan Stradal

Colleen was the load-bearing wall in their family, the one who would take care of them. She didn’t quite have the money or the space, but had both the ability and the heart.

she understood a little bit of where he was, and the difference between a brain and a mind, and whatever his brain was or had become, however the failings of its architecture, his mind was moving, exiled and tireless, and she could feel it already, around her, and hear it in the sounds he loved, in the songs, half-asleep, he sang to himself.

The most-obeyed parents are probably the dead ones, if they were loved.

She wondered how many people in the world, just then, were walking alone somewhere on an unshoveled sidewalk, like her, missing someone.

Love was just a rationale for boundless drama and error, she’d cynically declared. Still, like most cynics, she wanted to be wrong. And now, here she was, falling madly in love, eight years into her marriage.

The following week, Frank let her sample another range of beer, this time 100 percent from Midwest breweries, and no IPAs. For the first time, she tried New Glarus, Surly, Three Floyds, and Founders. “I thought I didn’t like beer,” she admitted later. “So there’s hope for you yet,” Frank told her.

“Here,” Edith told him, trying to slip him a twenty. “You’ve done enough, Mom,” he said, and looked at the cash once before walking away, his hands in his jacket pockets.

I know how complex my family and friends in the Midwest are, and I try really hard to give my characters the sorts of problems that reveal a similar depth. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. I love my characters, and it breaks my heart to impose hardships on them.