Chapter
Five
"Behold!" Ron said as he
walked me to the bed of the pick-up truck.
"Ooo. Aah. Ohh." I said
sarcastically. "A bunch of cardboard boxes and a big-ass
something or other under a moving pad. I swoon. I plotz."
"You will in a minute," Ron
said. "Look behind the curtain."
I
wasn't sure I wanted to touch the filthy, smelly quilt covering the
whatever it was, but sometimes you just have to roll up your sleeves,
say what the fuck, and go for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I
lifted a convenient corner.
The
setting sun glinted gloriously off the shiniest conglomeration of
metalwork I had ever seen.
"Is
that what I think it is?" I said.
"It
is, indeed. That, my friend, is a genuine, all-copper, hand-hammered,
hand-riveted, hand-constructed, never before used twenty gallon pot
still. And it's ours."
"Sweet
Jesus, it's beautiful," I said, slowly pulling off the cover.
"That's a work of art. It's functional sculpture at its finest.
It's glowing and shiny and curvaceous and sexy and I want to marry
it. Where the hell did you find it?"
"Four
words to know and live by: 'Craigslist is our friend.' Some guy out
in Goochland bought it and then had second thoughts or something.
That, or his wife raised hell when she saw the price tag. Anyway, he
put it up for sale at about half of its original cost and I haggled
him down a little more by waving some cash under his nose."
"It's...
it's... beautiful. I'm afraid to touch it."
"Well,
cover it up. No sense in advertising to the neighborhood that we've
got a still. That's just asking for trouble. We'll move it in after
the sun sets, safe from prying eyes."
"Actually"
I said, looking around, "we should move it in now. In these
parts, if you leave something of any value lying around unsecured
it's considered a donation to the community. Copper is a big ticket
item in distressed neighborhoods, which is why you'll never find
electrical wiring in an empty house."
Ron
scanned the anarchists' collective across the street and said, "I
see what you mean. Okay, let's move it."
"What's
in all the other boxes?"
"Oh,
well the big one houses the still condenser assembly and the others?
Well, take a look."
Ron
reached into his pocket, pulled out a Swiss Army knife, slit the tape
on one of the boxes, and uncovered a dozen one liter Florence flasks.
"Aren't
they cool?" Ron said.
"Well,
yeah, I suppose, but what do you want with a bunch of round-bottomed
flasks, unless..."
"Exactly!
You said Ball Mason jars were trite and passé and, let's face it,
with the exception of Crystal Head Vodka, most liquor bottles are not
particularly exciting, so when I saw these on Craigslist..."
"You
bought a shitload."
"I
bought a shitload. A double shitload. About five hundred of them, to
be exact. For cash, so there's no paper trail, and at a huge
discount. Incidentally, there are more where these came from in case
we should need them." Ron was grinning from ear to ear. "I
could have gotten a bunch of old-school ceramic jugs, but they all
had labels and needed some serious cleaning, so I figured that was
just too much damn work. These things, on the other hand, are almost
sterile and laboratory-ready."
"I've
got to admit, I think you're on to something. Then again, we're not
going to have anything to put in them for at least a couple of weeks
and maybe longer if things don't go well. There are about ten
thousand details we've got to consider." The immensity of what
we were about to do swept over me and it must have shown on my face.
"And
there go the negative waves again. You need to embrace the power of
positive thinking or you're going to become an old man before your
time. Visualize. Actualize. Synthesize."
"Yeah,
and in the meantime I'm tired as shit and we've still got a bunch of
boxes and one highly illegal still to move."
"So
let's get cracking," Ron said.
To
my surprise, we got everything into the basement with only a minimum
of trouble. The boxes of flasks were easy; as far as weight was
concerned they were inconsequential. The main body of the still, on
the other hand, though not particularly heavy, was big, bulky,
slippery, and awkward as hell to move, but after only a couple of
sphincter-clenching moments when it didn't look as though it would
fit through the door, we got it down the stairs and into position.
"Look
at it," Ron said. "That's our future gleaming there."
"That
was almost poetic, ya big lug," I said. "Only, let's hope
our future doesn't involve prison cells and big bad men in need of
butt buddies. I'm fragile." I thought for a moment then looked
at Ron. "Now what?"
"A
couple of things. I've got to get the pick-up back to my sister's
husband and I'm thinking we'd better get a padlock for the basement
door just in case."
"Just
in case of what?" I asked.
"Just...
in case. Nosy neighbors. Wandering landlords. Desperate crackheads.
Whatever."
"Based
on what I've seen, our landlord is not apt to wander anywhere on
foot."
"I'm
still going to pick one up on the way back. You need anything?"
I
stared at the still shining in the center of our basement floor and
thought for a moment. What did I need? The name of a good
lawyer? Just... in case? A copy of Virginia's legal code? A bottle of
Valium? Zen mind? A nap?
"Nah,
I'm good. I'm going to go upstairs, set up my bedroom, then sleep for
about a hundred years."
"Uh,
don't forget I've still got stuff to move," Ron said.
"Tomorrow,
dude. Tomorrow."
Ron
glanced at his wristwatch. "Yeah, you're probably right. I'll
drag your ass out of bed somewhere around, what, the crack of noon?"
"And
not before. Thanks."
Ron
clomped up the wooden stairs, leaving me in quiet solitude.
I
could hear a faint music and a police siren in the distance. A couple
of neighborhood dogs barked half-heartedly, then all was silence as a
profound sense of melancholy overcame me.
"Well,
buddy," I addressed the still. "It's just you and me. I
suppose we're going to become close friends, eventually, but right
now I'm just a bit overwhelmed by everything."
The
house creaked in response.
"I
suppose if Ron is right and there really is a market for artisanal
booze, then all this is going to be the start of an exciting new
venture with us right smack on the cutting edge, and let's be honest,
I've never been on the cutting edge of much of anything ever. I
should be thrilled as all get-out."
The
still said nothing.
"But
let me tell you something: I'm not. I'm not fond of unpredictability
and this little project is about as unpredictable as anything I've
ever encountered. And yeah, maybe Jobs and Wozniak started out in a
garage, but I bet they had access to working plumbing. I have no idea
what's going to happen the first time I flush the toilet in this
place. Maybe a sewage apocalypse. Or worse."
The
dogs started barking again, then quieted.
"I'm
broke, my girlfriend is long gone, I don't have any family to speak
of and no close friends, except for Ron, and here I am starting a new
life on the wrong side of town in one of the world's older and
shadier professions. 'John Griggs, potential urban moonshiner.'
Sounds like a Saturday Night Live skit."
Silence.
"On
the other hand, I'll be my own boss and at least have the chance of
making some money without having to say 'you want fries with that?'"
More
silence.
"Oh,
well. It's getting late and as much as I hate to leave you alone on
your first night here, I'm exhausted. See ya in the morning." I
trudged up the stairs feeling more tired than I'd felt in years.
The
bedroom was in total disarray, though the Four Stooges had been kind
enough to assemble my bed, even to the point of making a half-assed
attempt at fitting it with sheets and blankets, which was a little
creepy now that I thought about it. Unfortunately, they had then
piled it high with clothes, boxes of books, a couple of suitcases,
and my two nightstands. I appreciated the effort, I did, but
really... the dresser was facing backwards, its drawers against the
wall, and my writing desk was standing on end in front of the closet.
An errant box of dishes peeked out at me from under the bed. The
floor was covered in bits of cardboard and packing tape, my lamps
were nowhere in sight, and the whole scene was more than a little
stark, gloomy, and depressing, lit as it was by a single bare bulb in
the ceiling.
"You're
going to want curtains."
"Sweet
screaming Jesus!" I shouted, then whirled around to face the
bedroom door, my heart pounding, adrenalin coursing through my veins.
"Relax,
man," said Sarah, leaning against the door frame. "The
serial killers hang out on Southside this time of night. You're
reasonably safe here, though if I were you I'd start locking my front
door. Otherwise, you'll attract an unsavory element... like me."
"You
scared the shit out of me."
Sarah
did an exaggerated neck-craning thing. "I dunno... your floor
and pants look pretty shit-free to me, but either way, you're still
going to need curtains."
"I...
Curtains? What are you talking about?"
"Well,
whether you know it or not, right now you're putting on a show for
the whole neighborhood. The way things are lit, you've got a kind of
shadow puppet thing going on." Sarah started poking through some
boxes. "Do you even have curtains?"
"Probably
not. My girlfriend took care of that kind of stuff, uh, back when I
had a girlfriend. She was the one with the domesticity gene. I'm more
of a patterned sheets in the window kind of guy."
"Well,
I think we can do better than that." Sarah pulled out a huge
black and orange beach towel emblazoned with a young, svelte Elvis
somebody had given me as a gag gift many years ago.
"Yeah,
this will do nicely," Sarah said. "Nothing like sleeping
peacefully while being watched over by a glowing King. She moved one
of my nightstands, climbed on top, pulled a tack hammer and some
nails out of her back pocket, and fastened the towel into place.
"You
came prepared."
"Told
you you were putting on a show. Moe was concerned you were going to
undress and start wagging your dick around or something, so I figured
I'd better take action before he had a stroke. He comes across as
homophobic, but really, he's so deep in the closet that he's finding
Christmas presents."
"That
was entirely too much information."
"Wasn't
it, though? Cool platform bed, by the way."
"Thanks.
I picked it up at La Difference a couple of years ago. It's
the only decent piece of furniture I own. The rest is thrift shop
chic."
Sarah
held out her hand and waited until I took it to help her down from
the nightstand. I noted the faint aroma of sandalwood. "Yeah,
Curly liked it because there are so many places to attach ropes. He's
got a mild bondage fetish, loves to be tied down. Funny how so many
otherwise macho men like to be the passive ones in bed."
"Again,
too much information."
"Then
you definitely don't want to know how many piercings he's got where."
"Yeah,
I'll pass on that."
"Thought
you might. Want a hand getting your bedroom organized?"
"Yeah,
that would be great."
With
Sarah orchestrating, it took us all of half an hour to get the place
into some semblance of order.
"Damn,"
I said, surveying the results. "I could live here."
Sarah
looked around. "It's a little too multi-purpose for my tastes,
what with the desk and computer and printer and all, but get rid of
that shit, add some mood lighting, a canopy, maybe a bar and small
refrigerator, and yeah, you've got yourself a fuck pad."
"Uh-huh,"
was all I could say.
She
threw herself on the mattress exposing a great deal of bare abdomen
and what looked to be a diamond navel ring. "Oh, yeah, baby,"
she said. "That's memory foam. Nice stuff. I take it
back; this is a fuck pad. And I would know."
"Uh,
I'll take your word for it."
"Oh,
you won't have to do that. She shot me a huge grin. "But it's
late and I've got a pirate radio station to get on the air so, we'll
pick this up tomorrow. Later, dude!"
And
with that, Sarah was off, leaving me to wonder what just happened.
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