by Al Drinkle
“...such late spring thoughts opening
all distance here beside fragrant reds.”
• Po Chü-I
There once was a boy with an insatiable thirst. Polydipsia, as it's known, had encumbered him for as long as he could remember. When he was an infant, a suckling session would physically deflate his mother, leaving her exhausted and delirious for hours afterwards. And his kindergarten peers would taunt him mercilessly while he spent minor eternities at the drinking fountain. “Leave some for the fish!” they would yell, pelting him with spitballs as they impatiently awaited their turn.
This chronic appetency persisted through childhood, burdening his parents with mountains of recycling and astronomical water bills. In his teenage years, his mother landed him an after-school job with Gerolsteiner in hopes that his staff discount would save the family from financial ruin. After a few months, he was relieved of his position on the grounds that he spent far too much time in the lavatory—after all, his insatiable thirst led to an interminable compulsion to micturate.
The boy had a Bavarian uncle who patriotically but erroneously believed that his homeland brew would sate his nephew's formidable thirst. Alas, innumerable bottles of maibock rendered the boy farty and bloated, but did little to temper his rampant thirst. A year later, he participated in a school trip to Würzburg to study the city's rococo architecture. In the evening, he and a few classmates imbibed furious quantities of the local Silvaner wine, all parties certain that the herbal and heady elixir would extinguish his inner fire. Sadly, the emptying of countless bocksbeutel only resulted in heartburn for him and spasmodic fits of vomiting for his mates.
As time passed, the thirsty boy grew to be a thirsty man. He moved to Stuttgart to work in the Mercedes-Benz factory and spent his weekends ambling around the splendorous countryside surrounding the city. One Sunday afternoon, he found himself in the idyllic village of Strümpfelbach and, thirsty as always, darkened the doorway of a weinstube.
A wizened barkeep welcomed the man, presenting him with an immaculate pretzel and a brimming pitcher of wine. More rhubarb than red, the liquid glinted diaphanously as it poured into a glass. The man took an intemperate glug and the vibrant, cool wine caressed his throat and sloshed about in his desolate belly. The world seemed to disappear for a moment before another wave of thirst struck. He chucked back a second glass, then a third, beginning to sense that the wheel of samsaric thirst was slowing within him… But how could this be?
By the time the pitcher was empty, an entirely foreign feeling had settled over the man—one of utter tranquility and satisfaction. The mysterious liquid had satiated his thirst!
“What in the world did I just drink?” he demanded of the impish barkeep, “it's nothing short of miraculous, I tell you!”
The barkeep smiled puckishly. “Why, it's just a little Trollinger wine from the yonder slopes” he squeaked. “Brisk, fruity, light, dry and traditional to these hillsides… modest, yes, but modesty is a prerequisite for chuggaluggability, sir.”
“Chuggaluggability?”
“Yes, sir,” the barkeep affirmed, eyes atwinkle. “It takes no effort to drink and it innervates the spirit. But most importantly, sir, it quenches thirst.”
The next day, the man quit his job in Stuttgart. He gave his belongings to strangers and settled in a tiny house in the hills to write poetry and tend Trollinger vines. He never went thirsty again.
