Boozehound

I've been here ten years and I still don't fully understand bars. There's one called Boozehounds fairly close to where I live. The sign incorporates an excited cartoon dog, tongue hanging thirstily from its mouth with its eyes forming the double O of the name - which lacks dignity from where I'm stood. The term boozehound doesn't seem like much of a compliment. In fact it's probably debatable as to whether it even counts as affectionate, and so it has struck me that the bar in question might just as well be renamed Alcoholics or Losers, and somewhere there's a gentleman's club - as they're euphemistically known - called Sex Offenders.

Anyway, today it seems I have met a genuine boozehound. He's sat on a mobility scooter in front of me in the fifteen items or less queue at HEB. He has three cans of beer on the belt and the basket of the mobility scooter is loaded with shopping bags. He has greasy black hair and is thinning on the top of his head.

I heft a catering pack of twenty-four tins of cat food onto the belt.

'You got some kitties, huh?' he says, turning to grin at me.

'Yes.' I look at the people presently being served. They've just paid for many more than fifteen items and now they've found some coupons they would like to use. Great.

'We got kitties at our place. They won't let us feed them. How many kitties you got?'

'About fourteen, I think. Why don't they let you feed them?'

He doesn't seem to hear the question, but honestly, I was only making conversation.

'I like beer,' he tells me happily, indicating his three cans.

I don't recognise the brand, something called the Bull in a black tin. I see Schlitz in ornate writing somewhere beneath the picture of a bull.

'I forgot to buy my beer so I came back.' He indicates the basket full of already bagged groceries. 'That's the most important thing,' he smiles. His accent reminds me of Cheech and Chong records, probably because I didn't grow up here.

'I like Dos Equis,' I offer, not really knowing what else to say.

'This is much stronger,' he says, grinning, eyes sparkling with anticipation. 'It's 8.5%, but your beer is only 1%.'

I suspect he's wrong, and subsequent investigation will reveal that it's actually 4.2%, but I don't feel massively invested in the subject.

'My beer, it really… you know…'

'It gets the job done,' I say, finishing his sentence for him, which he seems to appreciate.

'It gets you drunk,' he laughs in confirmation. 'I'm an alcoholic!'

I smile and nod to show that I've taken this on board. 'Okay.'

'You ain't from here. Where you from?'

'England.'

'Yeah, I thought so. I was born and raised here.'

'San Antonio?'

'I'm from Crystal City.'

'Oh yeah - I know it. I've been there.'

'How you like it here?'

'I like it fine.'

Coupons are finally accounted for and the conveyor belt moves at long last. The boozehound pays for his three tins of malt liquor, then turns back to bid me farewell. 'I liked talking to you, man.'

'Yes,' I say. 'You take care.'

'He lifts up the bag with the cans. 'I'm gonna have me one of these while I wait for the bus.'

He grins and drives the mobility scooter away toward the exit. This has probably been one of the more refreshingly honest conversations I've had this year.