Jim

It was the 90's. Ubiquitous plastic water bottles were merely a glimmer in the creative cosmos of some beverage marketer’s eyes. Until then, it was the cooler jug. The Marlboro Thermos I had won in the summer of 91’ brings back memories…

They were the pestilent-days-of-summer. Mid-to-late July, a Friday happy hour at one of those corporate lounges inside a homogenized roadside hotel near a monolith business park. One of those contrived corporate watering holes named T.J. McGinley’s, Flirtation or Rumors with brass railings and fake potted ferns that acted as buffers to the waitress station. The bartenders wore uniform store grade tuxedo shirts with clip on flowery bow ties and suspenders. Drink specials were listed on back lit boards in day glow colored script.

As corporate cogs filtered in to the bar, Kane Gang was soul-popping “Motortown” on VH1 over the large projection screen TV in the background. A local tobacco distributor set up a skirted folding banquet table on the dance floor by the D.J. booth. The smoke rep was giving out Marlboro promotional items. Answer a lame trivia question and the swag was yours.

With 5:30 p.m. on a Friday turning into 7:30 p.m. rather quickly, social rhythms of the night dictated a little drinking and dancing and plying potential hook-ups with liquor. The local Lotharios were starting to ditch their white-collared shackles: the necktie. It was time to wrap up tobacco promo night. There was one last item, a Marlboro Thermos. One last lame trivia question: “Was Humpty Dumpy pushed? “Yes!” I shouted. I hooked-up with a red and white Marlboro Thermos that Friday night. Made by Coleman’s, it was a sturdy, plastic jug that could hold an adequate amount of beverage. It was perfect for the next day at the beach resort. Let the local Lotharios have Friday night, my day was Saturday.

That Saturday was a sun kissed day at the beach. I dropped that Marlboro Thermos on a blanket and was in business. It was a chick a magnet. Because of my beach blanket symbol of smoker unity, the brazen brunettes and blue eyed bottled blonde bikini babes would drift over to bum a butt from me. The Marlboro Thermos was a static smoke signal that said "hey, come on over, we smokers take care of our own." I didn't smoke but that didn't matter. Once I got the ladies over to my sandy lair, lazy charm mixed with lazy summer breezes was a perfect cocktail for flirting. Then, the next thing you know, they're thirsty.

With their mouths marinating in anticipation, I announced “ladies, some cool, clear, water perhaps?" A flip of the snout spout and the pour into the requisite frat house party red plastic cup (coordination of the power color red was important) satisfied the need. Water, the life force that sustains us all is the gateway liquid. Later, I would guide them to supersonic gin and tonics (gin, tonic water, lemonade and lime wedge) or simple vodka on the rocks with a rumor of lemon juice.

As the daytime sun and fun at the beach ended, there were evening invites to my rugged, smoky cabin, where light refreshments and harmless pedestrian drinks were served. Later, a campfire back at the beach.

That's when the Marlboro Thermos got dirty. The tables scrap jiggers of booze about my cabin all got mixed into one glorious melting pot of Emma-Lazarus-The-New-Colossus glory: "Give me your gin, your vodka, Your huddled masses purchased from duty free, The wretched refuse from the package store. Send these, the homeless mini bar bottles, tequila tossed to me"...all mixed with ice, creating a liquid liberty libation. Then, down to the beach with my guitar and the trusty Marlboro Thermos at the ready.

At the beach, a campfire burning and me, a wannabe troubadour singing, things were humming along. A little "Call of The Canyon" on the guitar here, a little Emma Lazarus cocktail there, and the party was on. Oh, that Marlboro Thermos, my trusted friend, we had good times back then, you were plastic, you were safe, no worry of glass to break. We sure had fun, that summer of 91'…

But, alas, all good things must come to and end. The free-wheeling, carefree days of summer waned and soon gave way to autumn shadows, to cubicles and spreadsheets, days ending with single malt scotches in heavy bottomed rock glasses.

As years passed, like a friendship that dies from residual contempt, you were unceremoniously relegated to a shelf in the garage next to a box of steel wool, rat poison and charcoal fluid.

We can’t go back, Marlboro Thermos, my old friend. Back to the beach and those glory days of boom boxes and cocoa butter, of Frisbees and gin-soaked good-time girls. We can’t go back to the days when I was younger, faster and strong. Those days are gone...