Jojo Dynamite is my beer slave for life. If she is in the vicinity, I do not get myself a beer.

How did this happen? How did I subjugate this poor innocent lass? How shall I answer to the ACLU and Amnesty International? It’s simple. She did it to herself. Alcohol was involved.

It all goes back to a time, many years ago, when Jojo had quit the balmy climes of San Diego for a life in San Leandro, near Oakland, CA. There were several family members in the neighborhood, including one sister we will call Sally. Sally was prone to take “party naps”. When this would happen, the magic markers would come out, and hilarity was sure to ensue.

After a few parties, many of the markers were the worse for wear, and didn’t mark as magically as they once had. It was on one particularly crazy visit to the great white north that slavery happened. “Sally” was passed out, and out came the markers. We ran out of exposed skin on Sally, however, and by God the artistic muse was still unsated. Drawing upon one another ensued.

There was one marker, the blue marker, that was the king of all markers. The ink flowed free and rich from its fibrous tip, covering all it came in contact with. I, being the calm and sober soul that I am, took control of the blue marker. Hardly any time had passed when Jojo came crashing up to me: “Gimme the blue marker!”

“No.”

“You have to give me the marker! I need the blue marker!”

“If I give this to you, you’ll just use it to draw on me.”

“No, I won’t! I swear! If I draw on you with it I’ll be your beer slave for life!”

At this point I knew already that I had a beer slave for life. The rest was just formality. I gave her the marker. Sure enough, not ten minutes later, Jojo says, “Hold out your arm. I’m going to draw a whale on you.”

“All right.”

The black marker was still doing pretty well and soon I had a whale on my forearm. As a finishing touch, Jojo drew in a pretty blue spout of water coming from the whale’s blowhole. “Jojo, you’re my beer slave for life,” I said.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!” cried Jojo, running in circles. “No! No! No!”

But, yes. She was, and is, my beer slave, until death do us part. In the old days she would try to talk her way out of it, but on this visit, it was she that reminded me of her beer slave status. The fact that she now lives in my old home town is an incredible coincidence, but one to be appreciated. So today, for the first time in a long, long, time, I said, “Jojo, bring me a beer.” And a sweet, sweet beer it was.