The King's Big Red.

Dear Augosto.

I have been meaning to share this story with you. It includes one of the first stories that I remember my dad telling to me. Because my memory isn't the greatest(as I have mentioned many times in the past), I had to add some of my own details to the story.

Enjoy!

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Summer never seemed as hot when I was a kid, especially on those days when my dad would fire up the family van—a sunbaked chocolate brown ’74 Plymouth—and we would go cruising around Houston. The van didn’t have air conditioning so we would always drive with all the windows down. I loved to stick my head out the window in hopes of catching the wind with my mouth. I caught so much wind that my tongue would feel like sandpaper.

We cruised by some of Houston’s most famous landmarks—The Astrodome, Astroworld, The Summit and, my favorite, the Sam Houston Coliseum—Home of Mid-South Wrestling.
After a few hours on the freeways, highways and back roads, my dad would stop at a small, dusty family-owned convenience store on the side of the road.

“Be right back.”

He would rush into the store and few minutes later he would come out with two dripping, wet red cans. I knew the trip was over when I saw those red cans. Now it was time to enjoy the ride home.

When my Dad got in the van, he opened my red can, took a sip—one that looked more like a gulp—and then handed it to me. He did this all the time.

One day, I finally asked my dad, “Dad, why do you always take drink of my Big Red before you give it to me?”

He answered my question with a question, “Have you heard the story about the king’s Big Red?”

Of course I hadn’t, I was only six.

I shook my head and my dad said, “A long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Long long. In a land nowhere close to here.”

“Far far away?”

“Even farther than that.”

“What was the land called?”

“I can’t tell the story if you keep interrupting.”

“Can you at least tell me what it was called?

“It was called…Cottage Grove-landia.”

I loved that name. Cottage Grove-landia. It sounded just like the neighborhood we lived in.

“And in Cottage Grove-landia, there lived a king who loved soda. But not just any soda. He loved Big Red. Every day he would tell his servant, ‘Servant, bring me a Big Red.’” And the servant, whose only job was to bring the king his cold drinks, would always comply.

“One dark and rainy night, the “evil” queen decided that she wanted to rule the land all by herself . She summoned the magic sorcerer, “Sorcerer. I want you to cast a spell on all the king’s sodas. If you do this for me, I will buy you a new crystal ball.

"Initially, the sorcerer didn’t want to poison the king’s drinks. He liked the king. Everybody liked the king. But the sorcerer didn’t like his old crystal ball. It was heavy. It had lots of scratches on it and even a few small cracks. He did need a new one. Without much hesitation, the sorcerer agreed to do exactly what the “evil” queen wanted.

"The next day, the king ordered his daily soda and his servant swiftly brought it to him like he always did. The king smoothly pried open the frigid red can and took a sip—one that looked more like a gulp. Seconds later, he fell off of his imperial throne. Dead.

"Now, the “evil” queen was in charge of the whole country. Upon ascending her throne, she got rid of all the king’s sodas and purchased a whole new supply. She liked Big Red too.

"When her fresh supply of Big Red arrived, she told her servant, “Servant, bring me a Big Red.” The servant, whose only duty it was to bring the queen her cold drinks, complied. The servant returned with a cold can of Big Red and the queen pried it open and took a quick sip. Seconds later, she fell off of his imperial throne. Dead."

“Why?” I interrupted.

“I’m getting to there. Just wait.”

My dad took a quick sip from his Big Red and continued, “Little did the “evil” queen know that the sorcerer made a mistake. He didn’t just poison all the Big Red’s in the castle. He poisoned all of the Big Red’s in the country, and some parts of the world. And to this day, that there is still a possibility that some of those poisoned drinks still exist.”

My wind-dried mouth fell open as my brown eyes stared on. The image of the dead king and queen floated in my mind while I thought about how these red cans were part of some kind of exciting history.

At that moment, I realized how lucky I was to have a dad who was willing to risk his life just so I could have a Big Red. That day I didn’t even finish my soda. I just stared at it the whole ride home.

Before summer was over, my big brother felt it was his “duty” to tell me the real story.

“You know why dad always takes a first sip?”

“Because of the king.”

“No, dumb dumb. He does it because every time you drink from a full can, you spill it all over yourself. Always. And mom doesn’t like it when you come home with big red stains on your shirt. And she doesn’t get mad at you. She gets mad at dad. So, instead of not buying you anymore Big Reds, dad realized that all he had to do was take a sip. A big one.”

The following Sunday, I was in the van waiting for my dad to come out of the convenience store. Sitting there, I couldn’t help thinking about what my big brother said. The large red stains on my shirt. My mom getting mad at my dad. Then, I thought about my dad’s story. A King. A Queen. A Socerer. Cottage Grove-landia.

As my Dad came out of the dusty family-owned convenience store holding two dripping wet red cans, I decided—-in the van with no air conditioning and the Texas heat that makes your clothes sticky—-that I would live my life among the kings and queens.

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Miss ya. See you this weekend.

Love.

Dad.