usadeepsouth.com
Applejack and Rent Money
by Jim Goudelock
Today, I drove in to Ripley to collect rent. I intended to go over to BB's trailer to make sure he was mollified about a recent biker incident. I saw his pickup at the Booze Bank and stopped there instead.
The Booze Bank is a whiskey store/cafe in a defunct Ripley bank. Darryl keeps the good stuff in the old vault. He doesn't know the combination, so he can't lock it, but it adds a touch. The former bank has the best "Inner Sanctum" squeak to the door. I tell Darryl that if he's ever short of cash, he could sell that squeak.
In the office, "This is the office. We don't sell no stinking whiskey in here," the sign says on the door. Darryl sits behind the office desk. BB sits on a stool to the right in his oily canvas porkpie hat, holding a smoking Kool in his grimy fingers. He offers a new pack to Darryl.
On the north wall, under the window, sits Joel, the new guy in town. He's less than thirty and green as grass, but he's got a wisdom and seasoning that comes from living in central Georgia tending apricot orchards. He's a tree man. He's already cut down a dead locust tree on the bogue property and stacked the wood perfectly for burning. He has designs on the apple and cherry trees.
The room is beginning to fill with blue smoke from the two Kools. On Darryl's desk sits a clear bottle without a label. It's about two thirds gone. The remaining third, a light honey color, and two glasses about half full sit on the desk. It's 5:30 and the afternoon light coming through the north window is just right, no electric lights, just early dusk on the dark brown wood, accenting the smoke swirls. The bottle contents look slightly effervescent.
"Pour Jimbo some of this," Darryl says. "I'll get him a clean glass," says Joel. "Nah, use this one, he don't care," Darryl says. Joel gets up and pours me a dose in a dirty glass. I don't care.
I take a sip. It tastes like a very fine, semi-dry sherry. I mull it over in my mind. What is it? It doesn't taste like apples, but I think maybe it's applejack. I've drunk my share of moonshine and home brew. I've tasted homemade tequila. I've never tasted applejack, so I can't be sure.
"What is it?" I say.
"Applejack," says Joel.
"Deelicious," I say. "I thought that's what it was. Who made it?"
"I did."
"I've never had applejack before. What kind of apples you use?"
"Red delicious, some Romes, some others, I don't remember. I made it three years ago when I was working up in Colorado. Been dragging it around with me ever since."
"What's the alcohol content?"
Joel shakes his head like he doesn't know exactly and says, "It won't freeze. That's what the jack is. You make the hard cider, then freeze it. Scrape off the ice and freeze it again. That takes the water out, you know. The more water you take off, the stronger it is."
"How much of this stuff do you have?"
"Two more cases. Want a bottle?"
A dark-haired young woman walks by the store window. She slows, looks in and waves. She almost walks by and then turns around and comes into the office. She sidles over to Joel and sits in the chair with him. She looks up at him and flutters her dark eyes. Really.
"This is Wah Lee," Darryl says. "She works for Icelandic Sweaters in Clarksdale. Speaks fluent Chinese." She doesn't particularly look Chinese.
"Do you read and write it?" I ask.
"No, only speak."
"She works for the company that makes Icelandic Sweaters in China and sells them in Gatlinburg at the Icelandic Sweater Outlet Factory. She designs the sweaters."
She's also not Icelandic either, but in today's global market, you don't have to be, I guess.
"She graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design," says Darryl. "Do you know about the Rhode Island School of Design?"
"Sure."
Joel and Wah Lee want to rent the back trailer if Chauncey moves out this summer. We swap whiskey stories and music yarns for a half-hour or so. I say my goodbyes, then go see Mother and get the rent she's collected from BB and the other tenants.
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Al Fresco con Amici
Sweet Home
Pelican Ballet
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