Riegelwood, NC (Part 2 of??)
If you haven't already, Part one is just below this and should probably be read first. If you have, then by all means, continue.
There was a guy down the road named Nathan Pitts. I think. I remember him well, but am not certian I remember his name right. I'm 80% sure about Nathan and 60% sure about Pitts. I just remember I felt a little sorry for him because his dad was a little, shall we say, rough around the edges. He was blue collar, not a touchy-feely kind of dad, had pornography laying about and drank. I don't know that he was a drunk and I'm not trying to say that he was. I was too young to know that. But I did know he always had beer at the house.
How do I know? Because that is where I drank my first one. Well, drank is not correct. I took a swig and spewed it right back out. It was the nastiest thing I had ever tasted. But having seen all the Tastes Great/Less Filling commercials, I decided that I may have just done it wrong and took another, albiet more tentative, swig. Well, nope!, that wasn't the problem. The stuff was just plain vile. And It would be a long, long, long time til I tried another.
I think as you grow older your taste buds realize that if they keep working so hard your going to starve and/or dehydrate and so they back off their zealousness a tad. How else could we ever have learned to keep down, much less enjoy, a draft beer, black coffee and cayenne peppers? Just a thought.
So anyway, Columbus County was a dry county which made it very easy to get beer, wine and whiskey. If you're breaking the law just to sell it, then there's really no need to worry about what time it is, what day of the week it is or how old your customer is. And trust me, everybody knew where the botlegger lived.
If your idea of a bootlegger is a mountian man in a souped up Chevy tearing through the hills and hollows one step ahead of the revenooers, this may be a bit disappointing to you. Because the bootlegger I knew was really no more than a reseller. Don't know where he went or how often he went, but he always had something. You just went down HWY 76 a ways to the house with the circular driveway in the back. You drove up outside the back door and honked once. The old dude would come out and say, "What d'ya want?" and we'd say "Miller High Life" and he'd step inside and come back with a six pack for us. And it was pretty expensive, but we were kids and therefore were extremely limited in our purchasing options, so it all came out in the wash.
Before I go much farther I have to make an admission. I did not drink very much at all. Didn't like it. Tasted nasty, made me dizzy, and if the folks didn't know I'd done it, I was always freaked out that they did anyway. So a lot of what I know was because we were out and my friends would want some beer and I'd go with them.
The old bootlegger came back to help me out a few years later in Brandon, FL. Not literally came back, but still, his memory helped me. See I was working at a gas station but I was only 17. I was supposed to be 18 but when I asked why he said because if I was under 18 and stole money they couldn't prosecute me. Cool. Since I wasn't planning on stealing their money I lied about my age. A little later on they put in beer coolers.
Even though the "manager" of the station (I won't say he was white trash, but I went to Dade City with him one day and his people were sitting around drinking sterno. Honest. They told me, "It'll really get you high. If you can keep it down.") was ripping me off a few dollars a day I stayed on. The reason? Because I was selling $2.25 six packs of beer on Sundays for $5 each and had 'em lined up to pay it.
I was raking it in, and at 17 years old I figured if I got caught that if anybody was going to jail over it, it would be the guy who hired me. Nobody went to jail though. So I would write down the number of six packs I sold on a piece of paper. The manager, not wanting me to get in trouble for Sunday sales because he had my best interest at heart, would put them on his Monday sales report as if he'd sold them. Again, so I wouldn't get in trouble. He always thought I wasn't snapping off that he was also keeping the 10% commission we got on each item we sold. He was so proud of how he was making close to $15 off of me every Monday, and I never bothered to tell the dumb peckerwood that he was thinking small.
So, there you have it. Small town Saturday nights. There's more later. I really want to tell these stories
Travelin' Ed
There was a guy down the road named Nathan Pitts. I think. I remember him well, but am not certian I remember his name right. I'm 80% sure about Nathan and 60% sure about Pitts. I just remember I felt a little sorry for him because his dad was a little, shall we say, rough around the edges. He was blue collar, not a touchy-feely kind of dad, had pornography laying about and drank. I don't know that he was a drunk and I'm not trying to say that he was. I was too young to know that. But I did know he always had beer at the house.
How do I know? Because that is where I drank my first one. Well, drank is not correct. I took a swig and spewed it right back out. It was the nastiest thing I had ever tasted. But having seen all the Tastes Great/Less Filling commercials, I decided that I may have just done it wrong and took another, albiet more tentative, swig. Well, nope!, that wasn't the problem. The stuff was just plain vile. And It would be a long, long, long time til I tried another.
I think as you grow older your taste buds realize that if they keep working so hard your going to starve and/or dehydrate and so they back off their zealousness a tad. How else could we ever have learned to keep down, much less enjoy, a draft beer, black coffee and cayenne peppers? Just a thought.
So anyway, Columbus County was a dry county which made it very easy to get beer, wine and whiskey. If you're breaking the law just to sell it, then there's really no need to worry about what time it is, what day of the week it is or how old your customer is. And trust me, everybody knew where the botlegger lived.
If your idea of a bootlegger is a mountian man in a souped up Chevy tearing through the hills and hollows one step ahead of the revenooers, this may be a bit disappointing to you. Because the bootlegger I knew was really no more than a reseller. Don't know where he went or how often he went, but he always had something. You just went down HWY 76 a ways to the house with the circular driveway in the back. You drove up outside the back door and honked once. The old dude would come out and say, "What d'ya want?" and we'd say "Miller High Life" and he'd step inside and come back with a six pack for us. And it was pretty expensive, but we were kids and therefore were extremely limited in our purchasing options, so it all came out in the wash.
Before I go much farther I have to make an admission. I did not drink very much at all. Didn't like it. Tasted nasty, made me dizzy, and if the folks didn't know I'd done it, I was always freaked out that they did anyway. So a lot of what I know was because we were out and my friends would want some beer and I'd go with them.
The old bootlegger came back to help me out a few years later in Brandon, FL. Not literally came back, but still, his memory helped me. See I was working at a gas station but I was only 17. I was supposed to be 18 but when I asked why he said because if I was under 18 and stole money they couldn't prosecute me. Cool. Since I wasn't planning on stealing their money I lied about my age. A little later on they put in beer coolers.
Even though the "manager" of the station (I won't say he was white trash, but I went to Dade City with him one day and his people were sitting around drinking sterno. Honest. They told me, "It'll really get you high. If you can keep it down.") was ripping me off a few dollars a day I stayed on. The reason? Because I was selling $2.25 six packs of beer on Sundays for $5 each and had 'em lined up to pay it.
I was raking it in, and at 17 years old I figured if I got caught that if anybody was going to jail over it, it would be the guy who hired me. Nobody went to jail though. So I would write down the number of six packs I sold on a piece of paper. The manager, not wanting me to get in trouble for Sunday sales because he had my best interest at heart, would put them on his Monday sales report as if he'd sold them. Again, so I wouldn't get in trouble. He always thought I wasn't snapping off that he was also keeping the 10% commission we got on each item we sold. He was so proud of how he was making close to $15 off of me every Monday, and I never bothered to tell the dumb peckerwood that he was thinking small.
So, there you have it. Small town Saturday nights. There's more later. I really want to tell these stories
Travelin' Ed
That's what I'm about. Ramblin' Ed at 1:54 AM
4 comments:
Ed, Thanks for the trip down Remembering Lane. I love to hear old stories about how people developed maybe partly cause there are so many holes in my memories- guess age and bad things will do that to a person. Feel free to throw in more Brandon thoughts someday so I can relive what I mighta forgotten.
I remember somehow snagging a 6 pack of Coors while visiting my Dad in Texas. I carefully wrapped up 5 cans of Coors to take back and share with my underaged friends. I had to sample one to make sure they were worthy of friends-hehe and when I got home to Brandon I was in for a real big surprise- One can exploded and all my clean clothes smelled of brewery!!! And I still love that smell even today.
Brandon'll probably come next.
How's my storytelling? Been a while since I wrote full paragraphs.
You ain't got too much age on you my friend. You're same age as me and I'm still a pup.
Called Dale in Brandon this morning and we talked and talked. Like we were back in high school. Except now we only care about being friends and the whole "how do we come off to other people" thing is gone. So I guess if I have picked up any age, that is how it has manifested.
Look forward to when we can sit and talk again. Like old times. But this time....I cook for you.
Ed
sounds like a someday kinda plan which I am liking- maybe I can bring Jn along too.
Well, you done shot that age excuse right in the ass didnt ya- maybe it was the drugs then but I dont remember doing too many of them.
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