Confederate Moonshine

On a bus from Mobile to New Orleans, I scanned the remaining open seats.  I spotted an Australian guy with whom I spoke on an earlier train and moved toward him but the man in front of me beat me to it.  I learned quickly that when an opening pops up, I must seize it immediately.  There is no time for manners on a Greyhound where comfort is concerned.  Having two seats to yourself is an extremely enviable position worth a hard fight.  Sitting next to someone with a pleasant odor is akin to a silver medal when selecting a seat-buddy. 

Slightly crestfallen, I scoped out the scant leftovers and hoped for an attractive and single woman eager to hear my life story.  At this point, I would settle for a docile man who is likely to make little noise.  I realized my chances were slim and accepted my slim picking.  A chubby black man sucking on the meat of a chicken leg offered the spot next to him.  I could hear his lips vacuuming the tiny tendons and inhaling them off the bone.  I plopped down in the seat. 

As he spoke quickly and mumbled with an Atlanta accent, I had trouble understanding him.  He was once a boxer who never got a shot at a big gig.  After taking too many blows to the head and the body, he quit and started drinking, for both business and pleasure. 

He’s an independent contractor who sells beer at football games and concerts, mostly in the South and the Midwest.  He was heading to New Orleans to attend a meeting at the Superdome where the Saints play football.  He frequently traveled back and forth to Texas to Georgia and up north to Ohio.  There’s good money to be made in his business, he said, but he works a lot, even though he dictates when he works. 

His job keeps him from seeing the woman he first referred to as his baby mama.  Later in our conversation, he confirmed that this woman is his wife, who was recovering from a severe illness in the hospital.  I thought it unwise to inquire about his wife’s maladies.  I did not know the man’s name, but he seemed very distressed.

“I hope she don’t croak,” he said, “But what can you do but keep working and supporting the family?”

Although the subject matter was gloomy, this is what I loved about sitting next to strangers, especially the revealing ones.  This man was unveiling incredibly personal information as though I were a priest onboard this Greyhound confessional.  He obviously felt the need to get this information off his chest.  I don’t think he needed anybody to listen and give him advice; he just needed to console himself by talking.  What better way to accomplish this than to unburden your thoughts to a complete stranger who is unlikely to go around circulating the news?

I didn’t press him about his wife, but I did inquire about his drinking problem.  I realized the topic is sensitive, but this man had already divulged so much personal information that I thought he wouldn’t mind if I asked him.  My family has a history of alcoholism and because of that I don’t drink, but I am always curious to see what drives a man to abuse the booze.  This objective opportunity allowed me to learn about his motivations without getting tangled in sympathy or nepotism.

Then he told me about moonshine, a highly illegal substance brewed in the backwoods of the American South.  Having recently moved to Florida, I wanted to develop a better understanding of life in the southern United States.  Despite my upbringing in the north, I am familiar with rednecks, and country music introduced me to themes such as southern hospitality and the desolate landscapes that most people fly over.  I’ve grown accustomed to the aggressive-driving, Obama-hating, slightly-racist populace, but moonshine remains an enigma worthy of folklore.  Florida Georgia Line mention the drink in some of their songs, but they don’t discuss specifics.

When I asked the man on the bus where one acquires moonshine, he said way out in Georgia country, but he was laughing, too.  He must’ve believed I was trying to score this outlawed drink, and he couldn’t picture an innocent white boy from Pittsburgh poking around in the Appalachian hills searching for back-country brewers.  I wasn’t asking for directions to his dealer; I was just curious, although if offered to see the headquarters I would not pass down a guided tour. 

I mentioned a show I saw on the Discovery Channel where mountain men brewed the concoction using bananas, and I asked him how they make moonshine. 

“That’s just for TV,” he said.  “It’s not the real process.”

The media would not show the general public how to make the real stuff because it is illegal.  You could spend five years in prison for possession of white lightning.

With a trunk full of hooch, the man was driving home from the boonies when a cop pulled him over.  A bottle had smashed in his trunk and a hundred dollars’ worth of moonshine spilled.  The police officer found the illegal booze and offered to let the man go, on one condition:  he give the moonshine to the cop, not for confiscation but for personal consumption. 

The man beside me on the bus laughed and said, “I’ll throw in a couple of dollars for you if you want, I said to him.  Just so long as he didn’t take me to jail, I didn’t care.”

His story reminded me of bootlegger's tales of peddling booze and speeding away down country lanes to avoid the police during the Prohibition.  I could imagine a weed dealer making an exchange with a customer, but buying moonshine out in the sticks still seemed a foreign concept to me.  I imagined a family of moonshine makers who passed down their trade and their hand-me-down overalls from generation to generation. 

The fact that moonshine was still being made consoled me.  I liked the idea that certain sections of the United States didn't change much.  The ruggedness of our modernized country is steadily being compartmentalized into shopping districts and cookie-cutter neighborhoods connected by non-descript highways.  It's nice to know you can still drive into areas without cell-phone reception where you can buy illegal substances from hillbillies.