Somebody said, "There's twenty-four bars in East Cleveland, I've had a beer in every one of 'em".
A couple of guys popped open fresh beers and wondered if there was anything about twenty-four bars in East Cleveland worth thinking about.
Dwight said, "We should go out and have a beer at each bar, then keep on 'til we've had a beer at all twenty-four".
Sober heads would have recognized the recklessness of Dwight's suggestion. Heads already soaked in beer thought such an adventure worth pondering.
Much of the pondering is confused in my mind.
At about 4:00 in the afternoon consensus was reached. "Let's go".
Dwight said he'd drive.
Dwight was a natural choice as pilot. First, it was his idea. Second, He drove a VW van with room onboard for all. Third, and maybe more important, he'd spent months of every year piloting freighters on the Great Lakes.
Surly his proven skill at navigation could safely steer sailors of foamy seas through the twenty-four ports of East Cleveland.
And so the voyage began.
P.O.C. was the chosen brand at every port. Partly to keep things even, but mostly because it was the go-to brand in those days.
It was modestly priced, not great, not bad, and certainly a wise choice when drinking twenty-four bottles of beer in a row. Although there is nothing wise about drinking twenty-four bottles of beer in a row.
There was some mystery about the abbreviation, P.O.C. The abbreviation was printed on the label along with the words, Pilsner of Cleveland.
For some reason that obviousness didn't stop conjecture. Some suggested P.O.C. stood for, Pride of Cleveland. Other thought, Piss on Cleveland, more like it.
We hit the first bar about 4:30. I think it was somewhere around the seventh bar and seventh beer that, Piss on Cleveland, made increasing sense.
Stomachs can only hold so much liquid before something has to go.
Urination solved the problem for a while. Finally, only vomiting relieved the nausea produced by belly's churning with beer. I'm not sure if drunkenness made it easier or worse.
Vaguely aware that closing-time was drawing nigh, we stumbled on, pushing our limits to complete the mission. Nothing was completely clear anymore, except that our mission was stunningly stupid.
Twenty-four beers later we made it back to the living room. Everybody sat around looking sick and bewildered.
No one talked. That's why we could hear with such clarity the distinct pop of a beer bottle being opened in the kitchen.
It was Dwight getting himself a P.O.C.