After being confirmed as a Justice on the Supreme Court, Brett Kavanaugh needed a break – a little, anonymous getaway. His wife needed to get him out of the house for a while, too. So, Kavanaugh secretly slinked away to – where else? – Oxford Town. He arrived on the Wednesday after homecoming, disguised as a former Ole Miss frat brat: khaki pants, a red polo shirt with “Ole Miss” monogramed over where his heart ought to be, and loafers (sans socks), topped off with an Ole Miss baseball cap.
The Balcony was pretty crowded with Whiskey Wednesday friends. Kav stepped outside, Wiseacre beer in hand. He surveyed The Square then looked to his left where, lo and behold, he saw me sitting in the corner. He gave me a polite “Hello” and asked if he could sit in my chottoman (It’s a chair that’s used as an ottoman.). Being the gracious and hospitable man that I am, I smiled and said, “Of course”.
Kav was quiet for a few moments, then he broke the silence.
“I like beer,” he said.
I held my tongue (which ain’t easy to do after two greyhounds and two vodkas – neat).
“Yep,” he said. “I really like beer.” Not getting the desired reaction from me, he put his thumbs under his belt, leaned back in the chair and said more emphatically, “Yep. I REALLY like beer.”
I loosed my tongue. “Yeah, the whole world knows you REALLY like beer, Bart.”
He turned whiter that he already was and his eyes got bigger than the mouth of a German beer stein. He leaned in to me and whispered intently, “F-f-f-f-f-forget that you know who I am! Please! I’ve just been drawn and quartered in the public area and all I wanna do is hide out for a little while. And the name’s Brett, not Bart.”
“I understand, Bart. I’ve had a taste of that, too.”
“You too?”
“Yep. Me too.”
“Why?”
“Ain’t none of your f-f-f-f-f-reakin’ business. But I’ll tell you this: I wasn’t stupid enough to let somebody nominate me for even the town Dogcatcher, much less the Supreme Court.”
“But I was confirmed.”
“Yeah. I heard that. The Court started its session Monday, Bart. Why aren’t you there?”
“It’s Brett, not Bart. I was there. But yesterday Donnie boy told me to take a few days off to recover. ‘Get out of town. Go drink some beer’, he said. Who am I to question POTUS? I’m gonna get another beer. I like beer. Do you like beer?”
“Yeah, Bart. I like beer, but I’m more of a vodka man myself.”
“Vodka, huh?” he chuckled. “You don’t sound Russian, cowboykof!”
I rolled my eyes and took another draw on my pipe.
“Hey! What kind of tobacco you got in that thing? Some of that funny stuff?”
I pulled my Steampunk sunglasses down just enough to look over them. “I’d never defile this sacred space like that. Go get your beer, Burt.”
Kav came back with another glass of Wiseacre. Bits of foam stuck to his upper lip. I didn’t tell him. Three beers and a few high school drinking stories later it was way past time for me to leave. I packed up my accoutrements, stood, shook Kav’s hand and wished him well.
Kav’s curiosity got the best of him. He asked, “Of all this mess about the confirmation and after having talked with me tonight, I can’t help but wonder…If someone asked, what would you say you think of me?”
I paused, weighing my words carefully. “Bart likes beer, I’d say. He really, really likes beer.”
Kav grinned a beer-foam mustachioed grin and toasted me.
I’m thinking about asking Andy O’Bryan if his Yalobusha Brewing Company would make a special beer in honor of his ornery – one that tastes sweet at first but leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. I can’t decide on the name to suggest, though. Justice Beer? Bart’s Brewski? Supreme Cork? Let’s have a hearing and vote on it.
And that’s the view from The Balcony. 
