Call me "Herm"

Many men discover at some point in their life that they've turned into their fathers. That hasn't happened to me, and this proverbial apple's been kicked enough times in various directions away from the tree, that I don't think it will. Instead, I've turned into Herm Bradley.

When I was a young man in college, there was an upperclassman named William "Herm" Bradley in the fraternity I joined. (Actually "Herm" was his real middle name, but since everyone called him that, it seems appropriate to put it in quotes like a nickname.) Herm had once been an "A" (sometimes "B+") Chemistry student, a clever wit, and if not the actual life of the party, at least one of the players. But he was in a car accident one summer, which didn't permanently disable him, but still set him apart for a while from his life as he'd known it.

He was never the same afterward. He coasted along at school, never quite graduating in the whole time I was there. He took a part-time job which required no advanced education. And he settled into a daily routine that was utterly - and sadly - predictable. The best-observed part of it - especially the semester I shared a house with him and a few other frat brothers - was his nightly walk to the 7-11 about four blocks away. At 11:00pm, he would go pick up a 40-ounce Budweiser, a pack of Camels, and a bag of Doritos. He'd come home and watch TV, slowly working his way through the beer and chips, but saving some of the cigarettes for the next day.

Most of the details don't quite fit, but today I'm remarkably similar to Herm. My "accident" was the loss of my boyfriend and getting fired resigning from my job several years ago. I've been back in school ever since, and it'll be seven years when I finally graduate next year. I took a part-time job that paid about 2/3 what I was worth, and to supplement that I got a job as a paperboy.

With my restricted finances, I had to figure out a way to get my beer budget (inflated by my preference for imports) under control; buying by the case was cheapest per fl.oz. but I tend to drink more when there's an "unlimited" supply in the house. So I figured out that a single 22oz. bottle per day was the least expensive, especially since one of the local party stores was selling bottles of Red Dog for $1.00 "out the door", including tax and deposit. But not wanting to become Herm, I didn't make a nightly trip; I bought them two at a time: one for tonight, one for tomorrow. Yeah, right.

In another effort to limit my drinking and to keep from turning into Herm-on-the-couch, I also set a rule for when I would start drinking. I'm on a different schedule than Herm was (I get up early every day), so I set 9:00pm as the earliest I'd pop open a brew. But lately, I've been cheating a bit. I frequently stroll over to Smitty's or Sami's to pick up a couple Red Dogs at 7:00pm, and crack one open around 8:00pm. It doesn't take that long to put one away, so it's not unusual for me to cheat a little more, and drink maybe half of tomorrow's bottle... maybe all of it. Which sends me on a trek to the party store to restock the very next night. I've never taken up tobacco, and I don't (usually) buy chips, but the similarity to Herm's nightly routine is hard to deny.

I don't know whatever happened to Herm. I'm pretty sure he graduated (like I'm going to do next Spring). I'm doubtful he ever made much of his life, though. Which seems pretty much where I'm headed. So call me "Herm".