Long ago when I lived in the deep south and worked as a migratory construction worker, I bought and drank my first ass pocket of whiskey (an 8 ouncer) at a gasoline station. The job site and the rental trailer I lived in were way out in the sticks, there were no bars or roadhouses within an hour’s drive on backroads, and it was Friday night, so even cheap, lowdown, green label, southern whiskey was a better choice than the shine — some locals called it gin — that was a buck cheaper for twice the bang from under the counter.

All that was needed was some ice and a bottle of cola for it to go down easy and happiness would ensue. Well, that was true for this Yankee but not for all of the southern boys I worked with.

For some of the younger ones, brown liquor would almost always inject chaos into an evening’s mix. One June night almost made me wanna cry out for my momma to gimme some milk and a cookie.

All of us animals were into our third glass of Evan and coke out back of the gas station sitting at worn, sun bleached picnic tables under live oak trees, and the party had become a monkey festival of fools. Someone had a small boombox playing bootleg tapes of southern rock-n-roll and blues bands. I should have known something especially crazy was about to happen from some of their names — Fat Possum, Brown Kenni, Luni, Cool Lee, Wizzer, Juda . . .

The well-after-sunset arrival of one Alice Mae commenced the fireworks. Unknown to me, strange attractors were secretly at work providing a kind of boundary or shape or limits for the waves of sexual attraction, jealousy and mayhem that we all were about to witness.

Alice Mae was that night’s 180-proof chaos on wheels. Her appearance caused a grizzled fellow, an ex-con and Vietnam era Army vet by his tats, who obviously knew her and was seated nearby to mumble my way, “Oh sheee-it, she’s about to yell fire again in this goddam crowded movie house of drunk-ass f#ckers. Watch out. Don’t look her in the eye.”

If this had been a dark roadhouse, I might have head-down slow-moved to the restroom to escape out the window. But that wasn’t possible as we were all lit up by the wood fires around us and by our ass pocket whiskey.

Alice Mae was a good looking, violet eyed, blues walking and talking women whose man had left her and the kids after his back door slamming the trailer to join his boys. She wanted his week’s check (before he drank it up) and his ass back home. I understood — my own family plate was full; but, I always made time for such nonsense. Despite the advice, I failed to close my eyes and put my arms up in front of my face.

It was then that I briefly looked her in the eyes from across the clearing. She fixed me and shouted at her man that I was her choice for the evening. Oh sheee-it, I muttered to myself in my best good ole boy imitation.

I stood up and extended my palm out and said “No, ma’am.” She was on me like white on southern rice in a NY instant. She was armed with a small pistol and pointing it at her man, while fondly declaiming her desires for me.

Off to the side, I thought I heard the quiet snickers of a few locals, who knew this dance of the jealous and were enjoying it at the expense of this ignorant Yankee.

Her husband said go ahead, so off I was dragged, her hand on my ass, until he could stand it no more. It was when he had enough, he stood and pleaded:

“Alice Mae, I done drank my ass pocket of whiskey and my front pocket gin. Let him go, and we’ll go home. I don’t want to do this again.”

“No, Lee, I fancy him. Not you.” as she tightened her grasp on me.

“Leave him be.”

“Uh uh.”

“I got my long .44 and a front pocket full of rounds, Alice. Let. Him. Go. Now.”

“No.”

BOOOM!

Folks scattered into the campfire shadows. I grabbed some dirt. Alice stood her ground waving her pistol around while Vicegrip-locking down my right wrist.

“He’s mine. You’re not.”

BOOOM!

“Ah, you care, babe.”

Her lion came a-walking up to her with his .44 still smoking. Her grip on me loosened.

From their fire flame-lit faces I could tell they were gonna have a party back at the trailer of angry southern summer love after talkin’ this shit. It couldn’t have meant a thing. They were just bullshitting the public, as they engaged in this crazy, booze fueled, gunpowdered foreplay.

The two love-mad monkeys departed, and the boys returned, offering me up a fresh ass pocket of whiskey and a cola. I opened it up and poured it long but a bit wide.

“All you assholes gotta stop clowning me ’cause you know you did me wrong. Threw me down at the feet of that red queen of diamonds and her four of diamonds husband. Coulda had my legs blown off at the knees by his .44.” I shouted at them.
“Yeah, woah. Drink up, college boy.” was all they said.
And I did as my new nickname had been assigned. College Boy never did any more low down, ass pockets of southern whiskey on the summer Friday nights that followed. Just 7-UP and front pocket gin. Never saw Alice Mae, her Cool Lee or his long 44 again. Didn’t ask why or when or where.

Postscript: A month after that night one of those present said while wondering about this pair’s continuing absence: “They’d a’ been great fun to hang with if someone had stood up to be there to shoot at them every minute or so.”

He meant it.

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