Blackout: Still Surviving

by Boyd Craven III

  “I will when the time is ready unless you want more time to run around the house bum naked. Then I’d run screaming like hell.”

  Raider barked in agreement, and I reached under the table and pet his head.

  “Don’t you get smart with me,” Grandpa said, pointing with a nub of cornbread, and I snorted.

  When Raider realized that the silly humans were partaking of his favorite hobby, he started digging furiously nearby. I had to bite my cheek when he starting digging at Grandma’s marigolds at the edge of the garden and I called him back over when she started cussing, but it took us two days to dig the rows of potatoes. I used a wheelbarrow half full to take them into the barn. To cure them, we laid them out on a tarp, out of the sunlight. Too much sunlight and they’d turn green and poisonous, at least according to my grandma. All I knew was that it gave you stomach cramps and the runs, so I always did it the way I was taught. Put them in someplace cool and drafty, out of the sun on a tarp.

  I’d roll them over after a day or two, and by the end of the week, I’d be taking them to the root cellar under the house and loading them into bins. To store, you placed them in a single layer then cover them with dry sand and repeat until the bin is full. When the sand isn’t needed, it’s moved to a bucket or an empty bin. That way, we’d keep our tubers good for almost a year. By the end of that week, I’d cleaned out the henhouse and taken off the deep litter to a spot where I composted. I scooped the old composted litter up in the bucket of the tractor and then shoveled it in where the potatoes were and tilled it in deep.

  If you use too fresh of chicken manure, it burns the plants, kills them. By composting for a season or more, it improves the soil and adds a lot of rich organic matter to it. It also adds weed seeds, which is why half the time spent in a one-acre garden is spent with a hoe in your hand and the other half on your hands and knees because you forgot the hoe. Only during harvest time did we really see the payoff of all the labor.

  Despite that, I had an interview the following Monday and a delivery to make later on that night. With more than a quart or two, I always used dead drops. Lester would tell the buyer to leave the money in one place, and I’d drop the shine at another. Neither of the buyer nor the producer should ever really meet. I mean, I’d done it on a small scale and broke that rule all to hell and back, but anything of any kind of quantity was handled carefully. Getting busted with a few jars of white lightning would be hard for the law to prove you didn’t get it from one of those crafty distiller boutiques upstate somewhere, but when you had twenty gallons worth in five-gallon buckets at drinking proof… You get busted, you do some hard time.

  I loaded up and turned on my burner phone after putting the battery in.

  Are we a go? I sent a text to a pre-arranged number that had been left with Grandpa.

  Sez first round is complete. Old Sunoco in the back by the dumpster I got back a moment later from Lester.

  Rolling.

  The first round was him letting me know the buyer had sent confirmation that they’d dropped the money and where. Me telling him I was rolling was letting him know I was on my way. When I’d confirmed I’d gotten the product dropped off and out of the area, he’d text each of us the location of the other spot. There was always a risk to me that they’d lie about dropping the money, but that’d be a good way to get their ass beat and shunned by everyone. Nobody robs the guy who brings the sunshine, as Grandma liked to say.

  I mean, making shine was like prepping. Something I did. I’d unlocked the hows and whys in chemistry class. I understood it better, but it really didn’t have an overall effect on how I did things, though I had come up with ways to improve on the ways I’d first learned as a kid. I put the truck into gear, Raider sitting on the front seat next to me, sitting up so he could see out the windows.

  “Your first run,” I told him. “We better watch out for Johnny Law, or we’ll find ourselves in the hoosegow.”

  Raider made a small bark that I took to mean he understood.

  I knew the old Sunoco he was talking about. The tanks were no longer safe, and the owners didn’t have the money to pull them out and get the ground cleared, so it was abandoned and had been for quite a while. This spot we’d used a time or three, but the drop-offs were always rotated. I pulled in and unloaded the four buckets in a hurry behind the privacy fence area that the dumpster had been in and pushed the gate door half closed and put a brick in front of it so it wouldn’t swing open. Lastly, I tossed some old cardboard I’d brought through the crack to cover the front of the buckets before heading back into the truck.

  I turned my phone back on and texted Lester.

  Dropped off

  I started rolling and was driving around town, slowly when my phone chirruped.

  Old Mill Road, mailbox #3374

  I grinned before turning my phone off and pulling the battery. I liked the symmetry of this. It reeked of karma, and I had to wonder if this was Lester’s way of getting back at the man. See, he’d gotten caught with five gallons of high proof and arrested by the old sheriff before I was ever born. The house I was going to was currently up for sale, but it was his old house. It took me ten minutes to get there, and without anybody else on the road, I pulled up next to the mailbox and opened it. Taped to the inside top of the mailbox, out of sight, was a fat envelope. It was stuffed with fives and tens. I counted it out, letting the truck idle till I was done. It was all there, minus Lester’s cut.

  “Now, show him the command for sit,” Jessica said.

  I did, liking how well the pup had taken to the nonverbal hand gestures. Raider sat immediately and then got up when I changed gestures.

  “Good boy,” I told him scratching his ears. “So nobody else is doing the training on Fridays anymore?” I asked Jessica.

  “No,” she said, “I think they got busy or got enough of what they wanted to do it on their own.”

  “How’d you get into this?” I asked her suddenly.

  “I was an MP with a K9,” Jessica said.

  “Wait, you were in the military?” I asked her.

  “Six years,” she told me, “then I came home. I thought about getting a job with ICE or DHS, but I’m waiting for the next round of hiring.” She suddenly blushed, appearing shy.

  “That’s pretty cool,” I told her. “I hope, either way, it works out for you.”

  “Yeah, listen, you mind if we cut tonight off a little early? My boyfriend just pulled in.”

  We were using some parkland that was fenced off, but what had just crushed me was the two words I hadn’t been expecting. Boy and friend. Ack.

  “Yeah, no problem,” I said, turning.

  A newer pickup had parked next to her car on the other side from my old Datsun.

  “That him?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you remember Lance Warcastle?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah,” I said.

  “Oh ok, I was going to introduce you.”

  “No thanks, but I’ll see you next Friday,” I said, suddenly in a hurry.

  Jessica looked like she wanted to say something, but waved and turned, jogging to the gate.

  “Sit,” I told Raider who looked like he had wanted to chase after her.

  It took him a moment, but he did. I watched as Jessica put her arms around Lance and gave him a kiss. Raider growled, his body shaking.

  “Good boy,” I praised him.

  He growled a little louder as Lance got in his truck, and Jessica drove out, following him, but not before I saw the stencil work on his tailgate: “The Banded Rooster.”

  I knew that name, it had caused quite the stir when it had opened up one town over. It was an old-school type honkey tonk that specialized in loud music, a mechanical bull, line dancing and bartenders who could tempt God to drink. The bartenders were all supposed to be young ladies also, eye candy for the thirsty wanna-be cowboys. I spat and then started walking to the gate.

  “Come on, boy,” I told Raider who fell into step next to me.

&
nbsp; I didn’t need the leash much, only when around a lot of people. Since starting training, Raider had been learning in leaps and bounds.

  4

  The interview canceled on me. I was in the barn packing dried storage food when I heard the gravel crunch. It didn’t sound like the misfiring old Chevy my grandpa drove, and it drove right up to the barn. I hurried out of the stall, throwing the doors closed and putting the locks on them. I did the one with the still first, then had made it back to mine when I heard a door slam. I walked over to the door and slid it open. I saw Lester's black Suburban, his federal agent super-secret man vehicle.

  “Les,” I said, putting my hand out.

  “Wes,” he said, shaking it.

  “What can I do you for? Gramps is out with Grandma today, he might be back a bit later.”

  I’d finally pestered him enough, or he’d eventually got worn down enough, that he’d finally consented to go to the doctors. Plus, I’d promised him I’d make Raider sleep outside his door, howling all night if he didn’t. When Raider wasn’t with me, he made a racket unless I told him not to.

  “Actually, I could talk to you about it. The folks from last week?”

  “Yeah?” I said, remembering how flawless that transaction had gone.

  “You think you could make double that?” he asked, taking his hat off and mutilating it.

  “Forty gallons?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry your hat none,” I told him. “Let me do some thinking.”

  I already knew I could do it, but to do it with any kind of consistency I would need to make more improvements and figure out a schedule where I ran new mash just about daily, as well as running the still. If we wanted some for ourselves or to get ahead for the winter, we’d need to ferment and distill more of it now, unless we wanted to start heating the barn.

  Did I want to do that?

  “How often are they going to want this?” I asked him.

  “That’s the thing, they think every week or two.”

  I whistled, and he nodded.

  “That’s some serious volume,” I told him.

  “Yes, at some point they’ll want to cut me out,” he said nervously.

  “Well yeah, and if I take on something like that, it’s going to dry out your other customers.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” he admitted.

  “Forty gallons a week,” I said, knowing why he’d mentioned him getting cut out.

  Even if he eventually got cut out, he wanted his cut. This could be a big thing for us, or it could be a trap - an invitation to spend a long time locked up. A few gallons could get you locked up for a while, twenty gallons added a whole new level of pain and hurt, but forty gallons a week?

  “What do you know about these guys?” I asked.

  “Run a bar, like a lot of people who buy from me,” he said. “But I think they might be a little greedy. More they use the shine, and less they worry about taxed liquor, the more money they make.”

  “Yeah, but greed makes people stupid,” I told him seriously. “Forty gallons. We still getting $65 per gallon?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, at fifty percent, hundred-proof liquor.”

  That left them room to water it down however they wanted to. Since it was an unregulated white dog, white lightning, whatever… unaged whiskey, they could proof it down to thirty percent or sixty proof and the customers would still get the taste and wouldn’t know the difference, because they were used to forty percent. It was a good deal.

  “They aren’t asking for a volume discount?” I asked him.

  “No, said the first batch they got from you was great, and the customers loved it. He wants more. There’s only one problem, though…”

  I sighed. “What’s the problem?”

  “He wants it delivered—”

  “Lester, you know we don’t—”

  “I know, I told him, but he said if my supplier wants the business he needs it delivered. Says he doesn’t have time to play super spy.”

  “I’m going to have to think about it,” I told him.

  Raider barked happily and sat down next to my feet.

  “Who’s this fella?” he asked, reaching down to pet the dog.

  Raider growled, and Lester pulled his hand back wisely. “Raider. He’s funny about people. Some he likes, some he doesn’t like. Saying we take this deal and I deliver it, how do you get paid?” I asked him.

  “My ten percent would come from you instead of them,” he said softly.

  “I’ll text you and let you know. I want to talk to Grandpa first.”

  “Ok, I’ll see you around.”

  I waved, and he got back in his SUV. I fished out my regular phone and looked through the contact list and then hit send.

  “Cakes n Things,” Mrs. Guthrie answered.

  “Hi Mrs. G, this is Westley.”

  “Well hello there, sugar,” she said. “You needed to order some stuff?”

  I told her, and she laughed softly. “Sure, when do you need it by?”

  “As soon as you can, even if I have to pay a little extra?”

  “I have a delivery coming in two days, let me add this on my order.”

  “Thank you.” I hung up the phone.

  I had two days to get ready. I’d need to order more propane, which we needed anyway, and I wanted another few blue barrels to rotate when my mash started and finished; instead of losing two days to ferment, I’d have to go to Wally’s to pick up what I could from there.

  “Want to go for a car ride?” I asked Raider.

  He barked happily.

  Whether or not Grandpa wanted to do this deal, I, at least, wanted to be ready. That was how I found myself going to every grocery store in town and buying sugar, loading the bags on the passenger seat floor, and putting shag rug over the stack. Raider thought it was great and didn’t complain as we drove around. I called the contact I’d found on Craigslist about the barrels and asked him if he had any, and he told me he had twelve left until next week. I didn’t think I needed that many but told him I’d take four.

  “That garden of yours must be getting big,” he said as I loaded them up.

  “Sort of, going to paint some of these black and put compost in them.”

  “No kidding?” he asked me, curiously.

  “Yeah, put a pole through the middle, cut a door in the side, and load your compost in it. Supposed to totally break down stuff within a week or two in the summertime,” I told him.

  “Son of a bitch, betcha I could make some of those and sell them for more!”

  “I bet you can, want me to email you the plans?” I asked him.

  “Sure!”

  I took down his information and decided that I’d stuck my foot in it, so I should follow through with it. I remembered seeing an article in Mother Earth News; I’d find it online and send him the link. With four in the back of the truck, I had to strap them upright. It wasn't as stealthy as I wanted, but there were country boys all over the world hauling some kind of barrel. I wasn’t worried. I started to back out when a familiar car pulled up in the driveway and parked next to my truck.

  “Hey there,” Jessica said bouncing out. “Hi Daddy!”

  “Hey, sweetie,” he said, kissing her on top of her head.

  “Hi,” I said, feeling stupid and caught out; her Dad?

  “Buying those old syrup barrels?” she asked.

  “Yeah, a gardening project,” I told her lamely.

  “Oh yeah, I remember. Your grandma always had the best produce at the farmer’s markets! How’s she doing?”

  “Pretty good,” I told her. “Slowing down a little bit. We don’t sell at the market anymore.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. With you gone off to college for a while and them getting older…”

  “Yeah, hey, it was nice to see you,” I said suddenly, realizing she had just parked on the side next to close to three hundred pounds of sugar. “I’ve got to run though.”


  “Ok, see you Friday!”

  “See you,” I said to her and turned to her dad. “Thanks again!”

  “Anytime!”

  Four more barrels gave me another two hundred gallons of mash as a capacity. If you figured an average all grain corn whiskey fermented out to near ten percent, that was maybe twenty gallons of liquor. I could push the percentages up with sugar, and I was planning on it, but I couldn’t overdo it. The trick was, I needed forty gallons. In a week’s time, I had to run almost eight fifty gallon barrels of mash, which meant they needed to ferment a lot. In a usual corn liquor, you used corn, malted barley to help convert the starches, hot water, and some sugar, but not much. Then you pitched your yeast bomb and waited until it was done fermenting to run.

  Grandpa used to run with just a lid cracked, but I’d converted us to running with airlocks, or bungs with a spot so we could run a plastic hose into a bottle of water to work as the same way. To run eight barrels a week and have enough going for next week, I’d need to have ten to twelve barrels going, all told. Instead of running everything once or twice a month, I was going to be running it daily. It took me about an hour to warm up, and an hour and a half to run out and make my cuts. With three kegs, I could pull the hot one off, use that backset to make the sour mash for a new load, and put a new batch of mash on the burner…

  I shook my head. I could also run both stills. I might need another propane burner. That would be the easiest thing to do. I had three kegs and two stills.

  “I’m over complicating things and already buying trouble before I even told Lester I’d do it,” I told Raider.

  The dog put his head in my lap.

  “I know, buddy, I’m driving myself crazy. I mean, that’s like $2,600 a week, just one customer. I could maybe build a bigger still to run volume faster, but we’d have to be careful not to raise any red flags, and I might have done that on my sugar run today.”

  He yawned and then rolled on his back, showing me his belly. I rubbed him, and he turned back over, standing on his hind legs to lick my face.