“Eight Star”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-19)

Evening.

Alcohol is the currency of value in Slatka’s Mobile Retreat, on Stone Creek Road. A jewel of prefab communities in northern Ohio. Little else can be said to have any genuine worth here, except for the occasional $500 car, or lawn mower in good working order. But cigarettes and drink hold their own among my neighbors. A pack of Marlboro Reds or case of Bud Light may trade hands over work performed or a debt owed and in need of payment. Such goods are the gold of common folk. Struggling, downtrodden, retired, or disabled.

My own condition is the last of those, a status I reached 33 months ago.

While continuing to pursue my career as a retail business manager, there was always some hope of leaving Slatka’s for a fixed residence with greater social standing. Something I had enjoyed in my past life, before divorce, times two. But as debilitated joints, arthritis, chronic hypertension and fading vision began to overwhelm my resolve, that flickering light was snuffed out, forever. Grieving, I stumbled forward into a new era of self. One where at the age of 55, I suddenly had to learn the habits of a citizen in his 70’s.

My progression through denial, anger, frustration, and angst, to sheer acceptance, took about two years. Survival skills learned from my first wife were invaluable. I used old strategies to keep up-to-date on the bills despite having no income other than disability compensation.

I once considered myself an oddity in this mobile village. But with time and failure came a realization that brought revival to my spirit. I was no longer out of place among strangers. These broken and humbled souls, sputtering along through life, were now peers of a sort. Differing in experience and philosophy perhaps, but bonded through need. United in the quest once named on a vintage t-shirt. “Just gettin’ through the day.”

I pondered such things at a recent yard meeting of our social group, informally tagged as ‘Friends of Tater.’ Our past-and-present chieftain held office as the senior park resident, though now officially an expatriate. Living by the river in another township. But no less a spiritual hero of our tribe.

We were sharing stories of life before the great foreclosure. Before the mobile community fell into disrepair, bank stewardship, and an eventual sale to a group of investors from the west coast. As secretary and treasurer, Reba Mae passed out fresh bottles of light beer, Tater noticed that a passing car, boasting black paint and road dust, had circled the neighborhood and returned. It bore the nameplate of a Korean manufacturer, something that would have been unthinkable when he first entered the park, around 25 years before. Yet in the doldrums of post-collapse realities, something sadly appropriate.

As we looked up from our beverage cans, a new soul joined the group. A handled cooler swung by his side. “I’ve been meanin’ to stop,” he said. “I see you people out here every week...”

I did not recognize the wizened fellow. He was gray of hair and grayer still with untanned flesh. But he wore a black t-shirt like my own. Only Tater seemed to recognize him from past experience.

“They call me Dopey,” he laughed. “I grew up in this park. I’m at lot 173.”

Tater signified his approval. “I remember you. Over on the first street with your parents. A damn rowdy kid when I first came to Slatka’s.”

Dopey laughed with bouncing ears and a wide grin. He seemed artificially good-natured and relaxed. When he reached for the cooler, I discovered why. “Anybody want a drink?” From deep in the chest, he produced a two-liter of Coke and a bottle of Beam’s Eight Star liquor. “I also got cans of Bud Light and… Yuengling.”

My eyebrows raised instinctively. Full-strength beer was a rarity at the park. He held out a can which I received with gratitude. A cool prize, grasped gingerly before the first taste. But my gaze remained fixed on the bottle of Beam. Already two-thirds empty. A bottom-shelf blend, dirty and colored like instant iced tea in a glass. Something I had seen gathering dust at one of my supermarkets. The sort of drink bought only by folks who counted out loose change at our liquor window. Busted and bruised by life. Looking for liquid escape.

Dopey began to recount his personal tale, with gusto. But my attention faltered. I cradled my iPhone in one hand and began to search. The results were both intriguing and fearful.

BEAM’S EIGHT STAR (Wikipedia) - “A blended whiskey produced in Clermont, and Frankfort, Kentucky, by Beam Suntory, a subsidiary of Suntory Holdings of Osaka, Japan, which is headquartered in Deerfield, Illinois… an 80 proof mixture of 75% neutral grain spirits and 25% straight whiskey. It is inexpensive due to its high proportion of neutral spirits… (which) do not have to be aged like straight whiskey and can be mass-produced at a much faster rate.”

I began to shudder. Silently, I gave thanks for my container of Yuengling. Then, I kept reading.

EIGHT STAR REVIEW (The Whiskey Jug) - “Nose – Grits before cooking, sourness, boiled peanuts, rubbing alcohol and a new sponge. This is not a delicate dainty thing; its an ugly beast. Palate – Everclear mixed with 7-Up, dried corn, dried wood and an overall essence of rubbing alcohol. It tastes like rubbing alcohol smells… Finish – Short burst of dry toothpicks… just say no to the Beam’s Eight Star, unless you’re mixing it with Coke. It might work in that… or it might ruin your Coke… its likely to ruin your Coke. Cheers?”

Only one brave neighbor, another expat from the mobile community, stepped forward for the bottle. Fawn was tanned and toned, like a California model. Dressed in pink mesh and colorful leggings. Yet no more gifted financially than the rest of us sitting in the yard. She had already slipped deep into a funk of inebriation, and wildly took a hit from the gold-labeled decanter. Otherwise, Dopey was left to imbibe on his own.

Tater had stopped talking. When our long-legged friend decided to leave, he followed in short order. Then, Reba Mae excused herself for a bathroom break.

Now, I was alone on the vacant concrete, with my unfamiliar neighbor and his cooler.

The Yuengling can had gone empty. My stomach growled for something more substantial than a liquid meal. I visualized pork chops frying in my cast-iron skillet. Without warning, the black Kia returned. It was Dopey’s son on a familial errand of mercy.

“Dad,” he said patiently, “I’m here to get you home.”

The Eight Star had nearly evaporated. I stood up with a groan, reached for my cane, and stretched out my hand in a gesture of thanks. He had already begun to pack the cooler.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Take it easy, neighbor.”

The last dribble of Beam would have to suffice for his ride up the street, to trailer 173. He bowed with grace and took a seat in the Korean car. A quick wave ended our conversation. The air had turned unseasonably cold for June. I zipped up my hoodie and pondered the stars before walking across the yard to my own trailer. Gratitude for life, for endurance, and for avoiding the chemical blend from Clermont kept me warm.

Another night at Slatka’s Mobile Retreat had ended.

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