This Ain't Whiskey

[prodigalson]

I drink. Not like in eighth grade, when my friends and I would each save enough out of our lunch money during the week to buy four quarts of beer and chug them down one after the other on Friday night, or in high school when I'd put away a half case of Budweiser and a liter of Yukon Jack just to get started.

When I was sixteen I drank a full bottle of Two Fingers tequila on top of a substantial portion of a keg of beer and lost my dad's car. We searched for three days, following every possible track and trail on the hill I'd been on. Imagine my surprise when it was found stuck in a rut on an overgrown logging road on a mountain I had no recollection of being on that night.

I'd run around the infield at the motocross races with a Budweiser 12-pack box on my head with one end of the handle cut loose so my nose could poke out the front and holes cut out for my eyes, mouth and ears. Calling myself 'The Unknown Cold-pack', I fancied myself a celebrity.

My old Chevy pickup spent so many nights in the ditch it began to think that was home and it'd head that way when it was tired. My front teeth were knocked out on the steering wheel when it went to bed one night without warning me in advance.

I was banished from a neighboring town for driving around in a truck that had been rolled over several times then had the doors and top cut off. There was no windshield. We had a girl dressed up in an old long dress and army boots, her hair in a bun and a pair of round granny glasses perched on her nose. Smoking a corn cob pipe and sipping water out of a one gallon clay moonshine jug, she rocked in a rocking chair between hay bales in the bed of the truck while waving at townsfolk on the sidewalk.

A cop pulled us over when it began to drizzle. “What are we doing, boys?”

“Wal, granny back there gets a tetch of cabin fever now and then and we got to take 'er and air her out.”

“And it takes all of you to do it?”

“It takes all of us to get her in an' then she takes a likin' to it and it takes all of us to get her out.”

“Well, it's starting to rain. You need to park this thing. You've got no windshield wipers.” Hell, we had no windshield. But I did have wipers. I turned them on to show him and they waved spastically, trying to beat themselves to pieces on the cowling. “Shut them off,” he said. “I don't want to see this truck again without wipers and a windscreen.”

On the way home we discussed our options. I could cut the windshield frame off another cab I had and weld it onto this one. Using shelving brackets, I could fasten a couple pieces of plexiglass where the windshield had been. Or I could borrow a pair of ski goggles with the little battery operated wipers, which seemed the most sensible option by far, an opinion which was not shared by the cop.

He seemed a little testy this time. “I thought I told you to get this truck out of Arcata."

“You said unless I had wipers and a windscreen,” I reminded him.

“Well...?” he said, expectantly.

Taking the goggles from where they lay on the seat beside me, I turned the wipers on, pulled back the elastic strap and snapped them on my head. The big smile I had on my face when I turned to show him how well they worked disappeared when I saw he did not share in my enthusiasm. “If you don't get this truck out of Arcata right now I'm going to haul you in," he said, "even if I have to make something up." He said the windscreen had to be permanently attached, “...and turn those God damn wipers -- better yet, take the goggles off."

I went to look in the rear-view mirror which was no longer there. "I'll get a ticket without them."

“You'll go to jail with them,” he said.

I took them off.


But that's not the story I was wanting to tell you. I was wanting to tell you about my Uncle Jim, and my dad's special bottle of whiskey. You see, Dad was the County Administrator of Hospitals for several years when I was young. He had been working as an LVN when the position came open so he already knew all of the staff and understood their needs far better than an administrator who had never worked the floor.

When he retired from that position the staff, to show their appreciation, gave him a farewell party at which he was presented with a special edition bottle of ninety proof Jack Daniel's whiskey. Dad appreciated the sentiment, but neither he nor Mom drank so the bottle was placed in the back of the cupboard above the refrigerator and forgotten.

But not for long. After a dedicated search, my older brother Geoff and I stumbled across it. “No one will notice if one sip is gone from the bottle,” we told each other and we each took one sip. “It's a big bottle,” we agreed. “Two sips gone looks no different than one,” and we each took another sip. A couple sips later and the level in the bottle was noticeably lower. We put it back.

A couple days later we did it again. And again. The whiskey level was now down out of the neck and well into the body of the bottle. That wouldn't do. We topped it off with a carmel, coffee and apple juice mixture that kept it looking like whiskey and continued to have our little sips until it got so weak even we lost interest in it. Time went by and if we thought of that bottle at all it was to think that we'd be grown and gone before it was discovered.

A year or so later Dad announced that his brother was coming from down south to visit. Uncle Jim was a hard working, hard drinking giant of a man who liked his whiskey and could tell the good from the bad. He was fourteen years older than Dad and his only remaining sibling. It was the first time he'd been to the farm and Dad proudly showed him around the grounds then took him in the kitchen for something to drink.

I happened to be in the adjacent wash room when they came in. My step toward the kitchen was arrested in midair when I heard Dad say, “Jim, you want a shot of good whiskey?” I put my foot down slowly and turned toward the back door. The cupboard doors popped open, I could hear the glug-glug of a couple shots being poured then silence. My hand was on the knob, turning it.

“Bob,” my Uncle Jim said, “This ain't whiskey.”

I slipped out the door and ran for the hills.

[Patchez]

Fantastic.

[oldsmartskunk]

Epic story indeed. I had similar experience with drunk driving a and missing car. I looked for hours... Then i dicovered it was nicely parked on grass, behind dumpster.

[mistah willies]

I drink


...“Bob,” my Uncle Jim said, “This ain't whiskey.”

Damn fine first post there. In-fucking-deed. Hath the prodigal son returnethed?


Well met.


.

[oettinger]

Well done, more of that please!

[prodigalson]

Glad y'all liked that. I think I might have a couple more, if I dig around a bit...

[Dear Booze]

I like this story very much. Looking forward to more. Much more.

Your compact writing style is nice. Thanks for sharing.

[AntonArkydivich]

I drink. Not like in eighth grade, when my friends and I would each save enough out of our lunch money during the week to buy four quarts of beer and chug them down one after the other on Friday night, or in high school when I'd put away a half case of Budweiser and a liter of Yukon Jack just to get started.

When I was sixteen I drank a full bottle of Two Fingers tequila on top of a substantial portion of a keg of beer and lost my dad's car. We searched for three days, following every possible track and trail on the hill I'd been on. Imagine my surprise when it was found stuck in a rut on an overgrown logging road on a mountain I had no recollection of being on that night.

I'd run around the infield at the motocross races with a Budweiser 12-pack box on my head with one end of the handle cut loose so my nose could poke out the front and holes cut out for my eyes, mouth and ears. Calling myself 'The Unknown Cold-pack', I fancied myself a celebrity.

My old Chevy pickup spent so many nights in the ditch it began to think that was home and it'd head that way when it was tired. My front teeth were knocked out on the steering wheel when it went to bed one night without warning me in advance.

I was banished from a neighboring town for driving around in a truck that had been rolled over several times then had the doors and top cut off. There was no windshield. We had a girl dressed up in an old long dress and army boots, her hair in a bun and a pair of round granny glasses perched on her nose. Smoking a corn cob pipe and sipping water out of a one gallon clay moonshine jug, she rocked in a rocking chair between hay bales in the bed of the truck while waving at townsfolk on the sidewalk.

A cop pulled us over when it began to drizzle. “What are we doing, boys?”

“Wal, granny back there gets a tetch of cabin fever now and then and we got to take 'er and air her out.”

“And it takes all of you to do it?”

“It takes all of us to get her in an' then she takes a likin' to it and it takes all of us to get her out.”

“Well, it's starting to rain. You need to park this thing. You've got no windshield wipers.” Hell, we had no windshield. But I did have wipers. I turned them on to show him and they waved spastically, trying to beat themselves to pieces on the cowling. “Shut them off,” he said. “I don't want to see this truck again without wipers and a windscreen.”

On the way home we discussed our options. I could cut the windshield frame off another cab I had and weld it onto this one. Using shelving brackets, I could fasten a couple pieces of plexiglass where the windshield had been. Or I could borrow a pair of ski goggles with the little battery operated wipers, which seemed the most sensible option by far, an opinion which was not shared by the cop.

He seemed a little testy this time. “I thought I told you to get this truck out of Arcata."

“You said unless I had wipers and a windscreen,” I reminded him.

“Well...?” he said, expectantly.

Taking the goggles from where they lay on the seat beside me, I turned the wipers on, pulled back the elastic strap and snapped them on my head. The big smile I had on my face when I turned to show him how well they worked disappeared when I saw he did not share in my enthusiasm. “If you don't get this truck out of Arcata right now I'm going to haul you in," he said, "even if I have to make something up." He said the windscreen had to be permanently attached, “...and turn those God damn wipers -- better yet, take the goggles off."

I went to look in the rear-view mirror which was no longer there. "I'll get a ticket without them."

“You'll go to jail with them,” he said.

I took them off.

Fucking great. Love the dialogue with the cop.

[vodkagal613]

HAHAHA! This is spectacular mate! What did your father do? Just curious.

[prodigalson]

HAHAHA! This is spectacular mate! What did your father do? Just curious.

Nothing, right away. I hit the hills and didn't come home for awhile. By the time we crossed paths again, he'd cooled off. I don't remember what the punishment was, but generally, when we got punished, we knew we had far more coming than what we got, which made it a bit easier to bear.