IMPORTANT
Read this manual carefully before assembling. Or don’t—your funeral. If you have any questions about assembly, operation, or repair, call 1-800-835-6765.
*Propane cylinder not included
I. Grill Features
When you awoke this morning, you were a boy. But tonight you’ll retire to your racecar bed a grown-ass man with hair on his chest. Assuming you don’t singe it off first ha ha.
For just as Prometheus passed fire down to man, so do the Granger fathers pass Coleman grills to their sons. Ours is a proud tradition—a rich, red bloodline with an insatiable hunger for cured meats.
Kiddo, I’ll tell you the same thing my father told me and his father told him, and so on and so on, all through the generations: “Fetch me a beer—we’ve got work to do.”
II. Safety Warnings
DANGER
Grill is hot when in use. No shit. Hey, what the hell is this? A “Truly”? I told you to get me beer.
Do not store in the vicinity of flammable liquids and vapors, yadda yadda
Do not leave grill unattended while in use. Ha, my pops could’ve learned a thing or two from this. Most nights, he was a six-pack deep when he finally got the ol’ Coleman fired up. Then he’d throw on a few dogs and pass out in his deck chair. The man snored like a damn cartoon character. I, the curious little shit that I was, would creep over and lift the lid. I’d watch, hypnotized as the flesh of the dogs blackened and bubbled. I can’t explain it, but there was something beautiful about the blueness of the flames. They beckoned to me like, uh, one of those Greek chicks on the islands. The ones that sang to sailors? Yeah, a Siren—that’s it. Somehow, even at that age, I knew they would take everything from me.
III. Start-Up Checklist
Regularly check the burner venturi tube for blockage from insect nests.
Check that the burner tube [A] is set over the regulator outlet [B] correctly. The orifice [C] must be inside the venturi.
Ensure that your son [D] has a cold beer [E] in his left hand [F].
What can I get you? Bud, Miller, Stella? Come on, I won’t tell your mother. I don’t think you understand—a Granger man cannot physically grill without a beer in his hand. It’s science.
Whoa, where’d a sweet boy like you learn such an ugly word? There are no “alcoholics” in this family. Only beer drinkers. Here, have a sip.
IV. Attaching the Propane Cylinder
All gas cylinders used with this appliance shall be constructed in accordance with the specifications of the U.S. Department of blah blah blah…
Enough foreplay. You got the propane tank? Good. Do you see [A] anywhere? Now, just pop it in there. No, you gotta twist—
Like I’m twisting the definition of “alcoholism”? Fine, let’s fire up WebMD and settle this:
Individual uses alcohol in higher amounts or for a longer time than originally intended. Pfft, comical. A Granger drinks exactly as much as he means to. No more, no less.
Individual uses alcohol in physically dangerous situations, such as driving or operating heavy machinery. Sorry to break it to you, kiddo, but this bitch-ass camping grill doesn’t make the cut.
Individual is unable to fulfill major obligations at home, work, or school because of alcohol use. I may have been a little buzzed at a parent-teacher conference or two. But I didn’t miss ’em. Showing up is half the battle, as they say.
Individual continues to abuse alcohol despite interpersonal or social problems that are likely due to alcohol use. Alright, I admit it: I had a Mike’s Hard too many at that Cub Scout retreat. But you gotta understand, kiddo—it was just an innocent remark. I didn’t know it was gonna cause a chain reaction. And I sure as shit didn’t know that chain reaction would end with what’s-his-name poking his eye out with a marshmallow skewer.
V. Igniting the Flame
Open regulator valve and push repeatedly until burner lights.
2. Adjust the flame with regulator valve. See, you want the flames to look like this. Mostly blue, just a touch of yellow at the tips. Same color as the flames that swallowed your grandpop.
He used to work over at Magnolia and Augusta. In those days, it was a warehouse. Or a tinderbox, depending on who you asked. They stocked lumber, big pallets of matchbooks, and—you guessed it—propane tanks. Your grandpa was a forklift operator, and, on that fateful Thursday evening, he fucked up.
Drunk on the job? Hell no. That wouldn’t have been an issue. Problem was, he was sober.
See, every six months or so he’d have some kind of scare—his eyes would turn yellow, he’d nick himself with a butcher knife, or he’d wake up ass-naked on a golf course somewhere. Then he’d dump all his liquor down the kitchen sink. But while he was “drying out,” he’d get horrible tremors. I can still see those hands—those bony knuckles, those long blue veins—struggling with the laces of his work boots.
On the night of the accident, I watched from our back deck, mesmerized as the blue flames crested the tree line. It looked like, uh, whatchamacall it? Aurora Borealis. But the midwestern version. As a cold wind cut through me, I closed my eyes and wished for one more whiskey belch, one more noogie, one more too-charred kielbasa.
Derek Andersen is an Illinois Wesleyan alum working as a copywriter in Chicago. His stories and poems have appeared in Columbia Journal, The Emerson Review, WinningWriters.com, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. Find him on Twitter @DerekJAnd.