Day 010: Bev of the Week – Red Bull Watermelon
Manhattan seems to be alive and well again. It’s a welcome sight to see on this crisp Fall afternoon. Or is it crisp? It might not be crisp. The air from your car vent is crisp, that’s for damn sure. At first, you’re endeared to see all the people walking along the tree-lined streets of the Upper East Side. The endearment only lasts so long, as many of them have the unlimited potential to get in your way, like deer alongside the highway. They’re cute at first, you might even utter an “awwww”, but god forbid they ever cross you. That’s the problem with New York. You might be enjoying yourself but then it could be interrupted by somebody enjoying themselves more than you.
The target is in sight. And by target, you mean Target. The target, Target, is in sight. But what isn’t in sight is a parking spot. You drive forever, but the streets are littered with sidewalk cafes and UPS trucks. You finally find a metered spot on Lexington, but it’s for “Commercial Vehicles Only”. The fuck does that even mean? How are the cops supposed to know that all of these anonymous BMWs and Toyota’s are “commercial vehicles”? Just pure silliness. So you pay your five bucks to the meter. This spot is yours. Enjoy it. Or don’t. Because on your way down the block you realize that every car has a crumbled piece of paper in the windshield that most likely deems them “commercial”. Rats. This outta be quick.
You beeline into the Target and get stuck behind a slow walking blonde in a punk jacket that read, “Keith Richards For President”. That’s a bold strategy. Let’s see if it works out. You juke left and right to get around her. And then you get to the, uhh, hrmm, Feminine Care Aisle. That’s right, bucko. Your wife sent you in “The Run™“. You knew this day would come and frankly, you’re surprised that it took that long. And like any God Fearing Khaki Owning Husband would, you scratch your head. You hold your phone to your face, trying to match the picture she sent you with the actual package. Like a detective with a magnifying glass or a drunk person with a flashlight, you find it, inspect every corner, side, crevasse, nook, cranny, nutritional facts, everything. That’s the one. You did good, Husband Dude Man Bro.
The cashier asks if you want a bag. You dumb dummy, you forgot to bring a bag. She can see the discomfort on your face. The sweat on your forehead. The booger in the corner of your eye. She nods, grabs a reusable bag and says, “I got you”. And then you see the cooler to your left. A good job shouldn’t go unrewarded. There’s a red can, sleek, slim and cool. It’s got your name written all over it. That is, if your name were Red Bull Watermelon. Either way, you know what time it is. It’s Bev Time. “Is it alright if I add something else real quick?”
You get close the the car and you see a traffic cop across the street, writing a ticket. Scanning with his scanny scan. Making you nervous. You casually race to the car and get in. Clean windshield. In the clear. A man runs out of a shop to yell at the cop. Plead his case. Straight out of a Mentos commercial, you crack open your can and cheers the cop.
It goes down smooth. Almost too smooth. But then a sour finish reminds you that too much of a good thing could turn bad. It keeps you on your toes. Like the wandering New Yorkers enjoying their day, paying no mind to vehicles, face in the sun. The watermelon taste isn’t overwhelming, but the sourness is. It’s like they manufactured Sour Patch Kids into a can. And as you cruise down 5th Ave, you take another gulp. You made it. The rest of the day is yours. And the can is still half full. They may say that Red Bull Watermelon is the Summer Edition. But baby, it goes really nice with a crisp Fall afternoon.