stay out super late tonight
My childhood coincided with the decline of the juke joint. Real "jucks." Today people confuse them with clubs or former jukes co-opted by white college kids who mistake a dying lifestyle for cool. Granted most of my knowledge is retroactive. I was too young at the time to grasp the concept. Store by day, juke by night. Work the devil out of you and invite him right back in tonight.
When I was still little enough to say "Daddy" he'd taxi me from field to field, farm to farm -- stopping hourly for Double Cola in the jumbo glass bottle and Stage Planks. He would get a pack of BCs and a Moon Pie. I gagged watching him swallow the BC dry and I gagged again from the smell of stale marshmallow in a chocolate coating. Biscuits were a quarter. Sausage or bacon biscuits were fifty cents. If you didn't have enough, Mr. Frank took a bite out of it and said, "Now that's about a quarter's worth." Then you'd find out who was really hungry.
Everybody's breath had a twinge of ether until about noon when they'd sweated out the night before. I heard all sorts of stories I had no business hearing while they ate chicken or bologna or the odd Bubba Burger. No matter what you brought to the counter he'd holler, "Get whatcha want, boys! Get whatcha want!"
All stores seemed to have the same dusty boxes of cereal, spaghetti noodles, and laundry detergent. More cooler space for beer than pops. Most had a sawed-off shotgun hanging under the counter. Loaded, cocked, and pointing at whoever was eye-to-eye with the cashier. Some had a baseball bat beside the register. They called it their "drunk stick" among other things I didn't get until I was much older. A few stores looked much bigger on the outside than you'd have guessed from inside. Usually back by the deep freezer was a padlocked door. If the lock was undone, one of our guys might kick in the door and yell, "Y'all need to get a fuckin' job! Don't be comin' up to me tonight beggin' 'cause I ain't givin' you shit!"
If I was quick enough I'd see somebody sitting on a bar stool in front of a video poker machine with a video game woman stripping after a good hand. Or some old men playing dominoes on a pool table. Or a guy passed out on a stained couch. Daddy cleared his throat and I sulked back to the front.
The humidity kept my nose wet and running when the heat didn't have it dry and bloody. So I kept it plugged with tissue or a finger or my t-shirt. Anytime Mr. Mike heard me sniffling he told me there was a 2-liter Sprite bottle that would clear me right up under his driver seat. Daddy laughed and prodded me to trust him. Fishing it out I asked for a cup and Mr. Mike promised one swallow was all I'd need. "Pinch your nose first." The laughing stopped dead because once I got a taste the bottle fell between my feet. Then Daddy muttered he'd replace it and barked at me to get in the truck.
A few weeks later I refused Jim's bet that I wouldn't drink none of the Listerine Daddy's daddy kept behind his passenger seat. Looking around first Jim grabbed the bottle to chug a good third of its contents. He closed his eyes and exhaled like he was blowing out birthday candles. "That ain't no fuckin' mouthwash." He loosened his belt and tucked the bottle in the back of his pants. "You a snitch?" I spit and said, "Nope." I guess I just made myself a liar.
When I was still little enough to say "Daddy" he'd taxi me from field to field, farm to farm -- stopping hourly for Double Cola in the jumbo glass bottle and Stage Planks. He would get a pack of BCs and a Moon Pie. I gagged watching him swallow the BC dry and I gagged again from the smell of stale marshmallow in a chocolate coating. Biscuits were a quarter. Sausage or bacon biscuits were fifty cents. If you didn't have enough, Mr. Frank took a bite out of it and said, "Now that's about a quarter's worth." Then you'd find out who was really hungry.
Everybody's breath had a twinge of ether until about noon when they'd sweated out the night before. I heard all sorts of stories I had no business hearing while they ate chicken or bologna or the odd Bubba Burger. No matter what you brought to the counter he'd holler, "Get whatcha want, boys! Get whatcha want!"
All stores seemed to have the same dusty boxes of cereal, spaghetti noodles, and laundry detergent. More cooler space for beer than pops. Most had a sawed-off shotgun hanging under the counter. Loaded, cocked, and pointing at whoever was eye-to-eye with the cashier. Some had a baseball bat beside the register. They called it their "drunk stick" among other things I didn't get until I was much older. A few stores looked much bigger on the outside than you'd have guessed from inside. Usually back by the deep freezer was a padlocked door. If the lock was undone, one of our guys might kick in the door and yell, "Y'all need to get a fuckin' job! Don't be comin' up to me tonight beggin' 'cause I ain't givin' you shit!"
If I was quick enough I'd see somebody sitting on a bar stool in front of a video poker machine with a video game woman stripping after a good hand. Or some old men playing dominoes on a pool table. Or a guy passed out on a stained couch. Daddy cleared his throat and I sulked back to the front.
The humidity kept my nose wet and running when the heat didn't have it dry and bloody. So I kept it plugged with tissue or a finger or my t-shirt. Anytime Mr. Mike heard me sniffling he told me there was a 2-liter Sprite bottle that would clear me right up under his driver seat. Daddy laughed and prodded me to trust him. Fishing it out I asked for a cup and Mr. Mike promised one swallow was all I'd need. "Pinch your nose first." The laughing stopped dead because once I got a taste the bottle fell between my feet. Then Daddy muttered he'd replace it and barked at me to get in the truck.
A few weeks later I refused Jim's bet that I wouldn't drink none of the Listerine Daddy's daddy kept behind his passenger seat. Looking around first Jim grabbed the bottle to chug a good third of its contents. He closed his eyes and exhaled like he was blowing out birthday candles. "That ain't no fuckin' mouthwash." He loosened his belt and tucked the bottle in the back of his pants. "You a snitch?" I spit and said, "Nope." I guess I just made myself a liar.