Honest Fizz

A midday thirst had me marching straight toward the corner bodega stoop. Tucked inside a weathered wooden soda crate near the iron cellar doors sat an unopened, thick glass bottle of root beer, cold to the touch. Folks waste time fishing in their pockets for openers. I clamped the stout glass neck steady between my left knuckles, wedged the rim of the crimped steel bottle cap squarely over the sharp iron angle of the cellar frame, and brought the heel of my right fist down with one clean, measured swat. The cap popped clean off with a sharp hiss and a metallic ping against the brickwork. Took a long, cold pull of that sweet, peppery syrup. Proper fuel for a solid frame.