The Cream Ale Incident — An Alan Story, Circa 1985

 




The Cream Ale Incident — An Alan Story, Circa 1985

Let me take you back to a simpler time. A lawless, bench-seat, crank-window kind of time. A time when seat belts were optional, vent windows were peak engineering, and drinking Genesee Cream Ale behind the wheel was just something a man did when he was “making good time.”

It was 1985-ish. My dad, Alan, was in rare form—which is to say, very much his usual form.

The Beer That Makes New York Proud 

We were on our way home from God knows where. Could’ve been a softball game. Could’ve been a bar with a hot dog roller. Either way, my dad was behind the wheel of his 1978 Chevy Big Ten pickup, which had two working speakers and smelled permanently of two cycle chainsaw gas, Raleigh cigarettes, and the kind of man who cut the middle seatbelt out because “no one sits there anyway.”

Now, by the mid-80s, New York had just passed the first seatbelt law in the entire county, and drunk driving was starting to be frowned upon by polite society. But this was Alan. He’d been a constable in the local township, which no longer existed, possibly (allegedly) because he and his partner made “too many executive decisions.”

Anyway, he’d had a few beers, and I mean that in the ‘80s dad way—not “buzzed,” but functionally pickled.

And because one road beer for the ride home was apparently as essential as air, he cracked open a Genesee Cream Ale for the ride home. A squat, chubby little grenade of a bottle with a green-and-silver label that made Western New York proud and 9-year-old me nervous.

The Turn, the Cops, and the Toss Heard ’Round the Cab

We’re cruising along, Alan in full command of the 3/4  ton Chevy, one hand on the wheel, the other nursing his road beer, windows down (not for safety—he smoked). We come around a bend and suddenly—

State troopers.

Parked up on the side, doing what they called “roadside checks.” Alan lets out a sharp, “Sonofabitch,” and without missing a beat, Throws the bottle at me and says:

“Chuck it out the window!”

Now, I’m 9. The truck’s got crank windows, and not just any windows—the classic triangle vent windows  and regular  combination that every kid from that era either loved or lost a fingertip to. I scramble, try to roll the main window down fast, and—THWACK—the bottle hits the side of the vent  window frame, bounces back into the cab, and drenches me in Genesee Cream Ale like I’m being baptized into chaos.

Alan curses, kicks the bottle under the seat with a boot that had seen things, and pulls up to the checkpoint like nothing happened. Cool as a corpse.

The Cop Conversation

The trooper walks up, flashlight in hand, and says,

“License and registration, please.”

 Alan hands over his license—and casually flashes his defunct constable badge like he’s still patrolling the streets, even though his department had been disbanded years prior (allegedly because of him and his partner).

“Smells like beer in here.”

Without hesitation, my dad gestures toward me and goes,

“Yeah, the kid knocked one over earlier. Running around, bumped a table. Spilled it all over himself.”

The flashlight turns toward me. I’m still soaked in Cool Cream Ale, smelling like a bar mat and betrayal. The cop leans in:

“That true, son?”

I pause. Consider my options. Look at my father, who is calmly smoking a cigarette like the scene isn’t unraveling faster than the township budget he once served.  I’m wet, cold, and sticky I'm petrified because I know he is not happy. I should’ve started sobbing, asked for a lawyer, or just screamed “HE GAVE IT TO ME!”

But I just nodded. Slowly. Pathetically. Like a kid who knows this is how loyalty is measured in the Alanverse.

The trooper stares a moment longer, then waves us through.

The Aftermath

We drive in complete silence for a good half-mile, the only sound the tires humming on the road. Finally, Alan glances sideways and mutters:

“You stupid shit.”

No yelling. No lecture. Just… disappointment wrapped in flannel.

Final Thoughts

To this day, I can’t look at a bottle of Genesee Cream Ale without flinching slightly. That was Alan. A man who trusted an 9 year-old to jettison evidence at highway speeds and still somehow talked his way out of it with an expired badge, a made-up story, and a cigarette that was probably lit the entire time.

And me? I learned two things that day:

  1. Always pre-roll the window in an Alan emergency.

  2. Never, under any circumstances, miss your cue when it’s time to toss the evidence.

More “Traveling with Alan” stories to come. And if you ever smell beer in an old pickup… it might just be me, still trying to get the Cream Ale out of my childhood.

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