The Lager Queen of Minnesota

by J. Ryan Stradal

A lot of people told her, Let me know if there’s something I can do to help, which was kind, but clearly said more for them than for her. Sure, she could use help, but she didn’t have the emotional steadiness or ability just then to choose and allocate helpful tasks for them. The last thing she wanted to do was call around and be disappointed by what people were unwilling or unable to do. On the days when she lacked the energy or willpower to cook, she just needed dinner to magically appear, and not feel as if she’d been demanding or needy.

This.

Diana was now a person who judged people by what kind of beer they had in their fridge.

Same, sister.

Looking back, sure, Diana could’ve handled this better. It wasn’t even the woman’s response that set Diana off; she seemed genuinely apologetic. No, it could’ve been because, by now, Diana had a throbbing headache. It could’ve been because she’d been holding her urine for ten minutes. It could’ve been because she hated front-of-house work, and had still tried so hard to give exemplary customer service and earn a tip, not just expect one, and she’d failed. It could’ve been the wanton disrespect and destruction wrought by these demanding little brats, and the burgeoning fear that her taproom would in time become a filthy, helpless playpen. But she certainly never expected to say “fuck you” to her first customers.

“I want to die doing this,” she said, staring straight ahead at the tents coming down. “Me too,” Linda said. “I want to be found in a pool of my own beer.” Agatha was smiling. “I’ve never thought of it before,” she said. “But me, too.” “Definitely a stout, though,” Linda said. “Guess I’ll have to make some more.” Betsy laughed. “I’d like to drown in a triple IPA.” “I hate to say it,” Agatha said. “But I want to die in a pool of lager.”

Edith stood there for a moment, alone again, staring at the mop like it was a shy man who’d asked her to dance.