There was maybe a month when I would drink nothing but Ralph’s Cantaloupe Cocktail, and that summer was the one when a girl from northern Maine became a lip balm model and rode around on the roof of my mint green car. The flavor was like fake sugar and a very cheap postcard and not unlike cantaloupe in the way that it only maintained my interest for a few minutes. Then, I wanted to swim at midnight with the new girl whose lips were even mintier. That summer now serves simply as proof that before I was a man, I was a shitty man, and even now I can’t deny that my taste buds are any less immature. Now, before I drive nowhere, I like to buy a long tall bottle of Stewart’s Key Lime Soda.