First Taste by Frank Shortt
Retching like a dog, that has eaten grass, he lay face down in his own vomit, sick from drinking the cheap, sweet, foul, concoction known as bathtub gin. He, and his best friend, had bought it from a bootlegger up Fork Ridge Hollow, where most law-abiding citizens, of the Shortt Gap area, feared to even visit. Virginia was ‘dry’ in those turbulent days of the 1950’s.
Bathtub gin is made in a galvanized washing tub, poison to begin with. It consists of over-ripe fruit, hastily fermented in crocks of clay, the maker’s only motive, a quick buck. In the early 1950’s, the only legal liquor that could be had was in ‘bottle bond’ sold in government controlled alcoholic beverage stores. One had to be twenty-one to buy it.
“Aw, c’mon Frank!urged his best friend Bill White. Yu ain’t ‘fraid of a little gin, air ye?”
Frank went with Bill, like a henpecked husband, led by the nose, and his lack of pride. Frank had never drunk anything stronger than milk but pretended that he had. They wended their way up Fork Ridge Hollow to the location that had been described to them by another ‘friend’. They were supposed to honk twice, wait a minute, then, honk twice again. This was to let the bootlegger know that they were not the local constabulary. He would know, as soon as he seen the old beat-up Chevy Bill was driving.
Soon, over the brow of the hill they were approached by a grubby, unkempt old hillbilly, looking as if he had been in the un-winning end of a cat fight. If he had any extra money he surely did not spend it on clothing. The two teenagers almost fled at the sight of him. They expected to be artificially air conditioned at any minute!
“Whattayu two birds want? He asked through tobacco stained teeth. Who sent you’uns up here?”
“Yu wuz recommended by ‘Hen’ Proffitt as havin’ the best brew around and we thought we just might try it out.”
“Yu boysgot’ny money?” asked the purveyor of illicit goods.
“Shore we do or we wudn’tuv wasted our time comin’ up here! How much is a couple’a pints uvyer best stuff?”
“Produce yer loot! The old man snarled. I need ta see th’ color uvyer green before ah make any commitments. It’s three dollars a pint.”
Bill showed him that he had money. The two boys had worked like galley slaves cutting timbers to earn enough money to gallivant a little and maybe go to a show at Raven Theater later. After all, it was Saturday afternoon and they were two healthy teenagers.
The old man soon produced two hastily filled pint bottles of his ‘best stuff’, Bill paid him six dollars out of his hard-earned cash, and they went merrily down the hollow to find a perfect spot to imbibe. Atop an old slate dump down at Premier seemed to be the safest place to hide from the law and partake of the forbidden fruit, ‘nectar of the gods’.
Bill took a long swig first from his pint, almost retching as the stench reached his nostrils. Breathlessly, he said, “Boy, was that good! I could feel my head swimmin’ soon as it reached my stummick!” Bill had indeed drunk this stuff before.
Frank, not to be outdone, pulled out his pint and drank too much too soon! How he got the foul tasting stuff down was not known, but he bragged all the while that he could “drink his pal under the table” anytime. As soon as the brew hit his stomach, it needed a place to be besides cooped up in the innards of a fool.
Frank’s stomach came to his throat! Making a quick exit from the pick-up, green bile began emanating from his mouth. He felt as if his total insides would come out. His head pounded and felt as though it would leave his body at any minute. At that moment, he promised his God that he would never drink alcohol again if He would allow him some relief. It took him a week to get over the effects of his first encounter with home brewed gin. His folks wondered why he was looking a little green around the gills!
Came Saturday, once again Bill White came rattling up in his old beat-up Chevy pick-up.
“Wanta gallivant a little?” He asked with a sly smile.
“Not on yer life, Frank replied. I ain’t ‘bout to taste any more of that pizen up Fork Ridge Hollow!”
“Yu ain’t chicken air ye? Bill cajoled. I thought yu said yu could take yer liquor!”
Frank’s age, pride, and lack of self-discipline, sent him straight as a marten to his box, up Fork Ridge Hollow, with Bill, to the supply, to repeat the process again. Some folks have to be lying flat of their back before they can see up.