Drinking in Mississippi: some of the changes over the years.

One thing about life that is certain is that it changes. One thing about Mississippi that never changes is that it always changes behind or out of sync with the times. One of those areas is in regards to alcohol and drinking laws. When constitutionally mandated prohibition against alcohol was officially ended at the federal level, Mississippi instead chose to remain a dry state, meaning you couldn’t legally purchase alcohol any where in the state. Louisiana which was a wet state allows it. There are still counties in Mississippi that remain dry to this day and even one I know of that’s considered “moist”.

That county is Oktibbeha County and the moist concept totally blew my mind when I first learned about it. In a moist county if you’re over the age of 21 you can buy all the hard liquor and wine you want, but no beer. I shit you not, that’s the law in a moist county. When I was in school at Mississippi State University which is located in Oktibbeha County the legal drinking age was 18 for beer and 21 for liquor and wine. The next county over which was Lowndes County was a wet county.

Back to when I was a very young kid and Mississippi was totally dry. My dad was a moonshiner and bootlegger. In fact moonshining was a multiple generational thing in my family going from the previous generations down to the following ones. I was the first Harris in the family not to learn the family business and trade. My father was arrested a couple of times for making moonshine, often for the former sheriff of the county, which he also later became a deputy sheriff for. Well when you roll the dice of fate one time too many you’ll eventually crap out and my dad’s luck with the law ran out and he wound up going to federal prison in Ft. Walton Beach, FL for a stretch. That’s an interesting story in itself; I’ll probably go into some of it.

After my dad went to prison for making moonshine he decided to not teach me anything about it. He reconsidered right before he died (before he could pass it on) knowing it to be a valuable survival tool or rather skill to have. He used to tell me, “Son even in hard times whiskey will sell when ass won’t”. Knowing that whiskey was one of the first currencies in our nation and General George Washington even had to put down a rebellion when the government decided they needed to tax it I can believe it. Another thing my dad said was “Son there’s nothing wrong about making whiskey; it’s when you don’t pay the taxes on that you get into trouble”.

Another fable about whiskey making or at least the way my family made it was that it was NOT done in some scummy operation run through car radiators and using battery acid. I’ve personally seen some of my dad’s rigs over time and they were first class rigs made from stainless steel and using copper condensation coils and proper oak barrels for fermentation. Anytime my dad made whiskey he did it right and it was VERY popular with his product in high demand locally.

My dad was a very intelligent man, but he had no education, yes that’s right he couldn’t read or write. After they sent him to prison they had a time trying to figure out exactly what to do with him since he didn’t have the reading and writing skills they would have liked for him to have to give him some job to do as a non-violent offender. Sometimes my dad had the kind of luck where he could fall off a shit wagon and come up smelling like a rose with a handful of the flowers. After he had been there for a few weeks they made him a trustee.

He was supposedly even given a jeep to ride around in and had free run of the air force base there as well as being able to run into town unguarded. The only real restrictions he had on him was to be back by bed check and he was required to run a mile every day. Now I don’t know if this part is true, but knowing him it could very well be. Supposedly a local judge that became acquainted with him and heard his reputation had him make some of his brand of moonshine while he was in prison while “incarcerated” on the tax payer’s dime. After my dad was released he looked fantastic, LOL, trim and lean and in the best shape I’d ever seen him in. He said about the only thing he didn’t like about the experience was that he wasn’t allowed to come home, but my mother could drive down to visit him. We didn’t get to see each other the whole time he was incarcerated which was hard on us both.

Well like I said earlier while he also made whiskey he also transported (bootlegged) it from Louisiana the wet state into Mississippi the dry state. My dad was fond of Pontiac Bonneville autos back in the day. They were very powerful cars right off the production line which sometime came in handy when you had to out run the law and had huge trunks to load up with illegal hooch. Sometimes on some of his runs my mother and I would go along and it was a great experience and something of entertainment and educational in a way.

Every now and again it would just be him and me alone. I missed out on some of the greatest music any one could ever experience as a kid, because I got to see and hear some of the traditional old school real act Mississippi delta blues men perform and play. I’m talking guys that would play just for a few bucks or a few drinks. I didn't appreciate it because it was “my old man’s music”, what a shame on my part. Now those guys are legends.

One of the most amazing to me things I’ve ever heard and seen was a guy playing soulfully beautiful music without a guitar. He had a unique instrument. He used a long length of 2 by 4 lumber, which had a couple of blocks attached at both ends. The blocks had a single strand of bailing wire nailed to the blocks running the full length. There was a little bit of slack in the wire which he would use an old Dr. Tichenor’s bottle to take up and make tight. He used a rock for a pick and would slide that bottle up and down the wire to make different notes and that weird thing sounded wonderful to me. I took great delight in watching and listening to that guy play. I’ve never seen anyone else do that.

Back in those times there was only one bridge over the Mississippi River at Vicksburg and it was a toll bridge. It used to be the funniest thing to me when the toll both attendant at the old bridge would stop each vehicle and ask whether or not there were any agricultural products or booze in the car. My dad would always say no, when the car would be weighed down heavily enough that the body was riding on the frame.

Hmmm, thinking about some of those times my dad went on his runs with just him and me I think my mother made him do that (carry me along) on purpose to keep an eye on him. Imagine you’re the only man with whiskey in the county or several counties, sometimes women would try to get “next” to my dad, which having me along totally thwarted any serious plans of wrongdoing. I remember my dad blowing up at me once saying “I CAN’T TAKE YOU ANY WHERE THE WAY YOU RUN YOUR MOUTH!” I didn’t say it (you didn’t back talk my dad, it just wasn’t healthy), but I thought what was I supposed to do when my mother was interrogating me about our route, times spent, who exchange the money and who talked to who and what was said.

Like I maintain to this day women should run all the covert intelligence agencies, they make better spies being better at ferreting out information. My mom was and still is scary with the things she can find out about. I seriously think if she could speak the language and had a telephone and several women in those countries she could find Bin Laden, before sun down… especially if she knew the multi-million dollar reward bounty out on him. I used to look at my dad sometimes and shake my head wondering why he’d do some of the stupid stuff he’d do with other women because my mother always found out.

Growing up with my mom it was a lot that same way with me. I could get away with very little; often the devilment or dumbassery I often engaged in would have the news of it arrive at my home before I did. The woman had an intelligence gathering network that would make the NSA, CIA and FBI envious. Sometimes it was like I grew up under total surveillance in a police state. After I read George Orwell’s “1984” I laughed thinking you don’t have Jack Schitt on my mom.

Rolling forward to my college years at MSU I became pretty popular my first year there for being able to bootleg beer in from the next county. Believe it or not the Oktibbeha County Sheriff’s department would set up road blocks just inside the county line to check for “illegal” beer. I learned some of the tricks of the trade from watching my father. It also helped that the car I had at the time (1976 Ford Elite) had a trunk with a false bottom where the spare tire was normally stowed. After you took the spare out you had a considerable area for transporting beer. ;-)

I still remember the near panic I experienced the first time I got stopped and they checked the trunk of my car. I was shocked when they didn’t think to lift the false bottom and never did in repeated checks. That fist time my butt cheeks were clinched so tight together I doubt you could have driven a stick-pin between them with a ball-peen hammer. They had very heavy fines for any infractions and would charge you for each individual beer, not just overall so if I had of ever been caught over 30 years ago, I’d still be trying to work and pay off the fines. (Whew, sometimes I really wonder at myself looking back on the risks I’ve taken.)

I don’t recall if I’ve ever said in this blog, but in case I haven’t I’m a fifth generation Mississippian. Four of those generations have lived, worked and died right here in this county. My son was also born here, but he doesn’t live here and doesn’t value that linage or heritage, some day I think he might. Over the years I met a lot of different people through my parents and a lot more people I still never met knew who I was because of knowing my family. I still encounter people who will stop me and tell me “Yeah, I know who you are. I knew your daddy (or I went to school with your momma), back in the day when me and him used to… yada, yada, yada”.

One of the people I met through my dad was “Eddie M.”. Back when I was in high school Eddie had a liquor store named “Ryan Coal Yard”. The legal drinking age for beer back then was 18 for and 21 for beer. Society was a lot different than it is now. While it was never a good or righteous thing to do few cared that much about black kids hanging out and drinking just as long as you weren’t tearing stuff up or breaking any other laws. I stared my “adventuring” in various bars when I was 14. I’m 6’5” now and was about 5’7”to 5’9” back then. If you looked big enough to pass for older no one checked or very rarely checked.

My dad was the type that knew I was going to “screw up”, but would give me guidelines how to do it without getting into really bad trouble with him. I may have gotten close to the line a few times, but never thought about crossing that line. It used to really piss my mom off sometimes I remember her once losing it and telling me “YEAH, WHEN I TELL YOU TO DO SOMETHING YOU TAKE YOUR TIME ABOUT IT, BUT WHEN YOUR FATHER SAYS IT YOU JUMP TO IT!!!”

Once again I had sense enough not to answer the woman, but thought to myself “Well, mom that’s right, you’re pretty good at getting in my ass when I screw up, but dad is a dedicated professional ass kicker. I don’t mess with the man, because it just ain’t healthy and conducive to continued existence.” When my dad kicked your ass once you didn’t want any more of that treatment for a very loooooooong time. Those beatings he issued out were motivational to say the least.

As good as my dad was at kicking my ass I still remember that last whipping my mom gave me as one of the better ones. I’m not exactly admitting to always getting into things I shouldn’t have, but let’s just say I received a lot of physical discipline… yes often merited. (Ahem) Well, as things were I got whipped on such a regular basis that my ass got rather toughened to it and really didn’t take too much notice, even though I’d put on the act and go through the motions of screaming and holler and crying as if I was being killed (made the whipping stop faster). Where I messed up that last time was not doing the regular routine, while mom was just a whipping away. Like I said I can really do some very dumb assed things at times and that time was no exception. While she was whipping and not noticing I made the serious mistake and miscalculation of saying the following words to her: “Let me know when you get finished”. WRONG MOVE!!!!

It was like I had dashed her full in the face with ice cold water, the shock snapped her out of it then the full fury of “Hurricane Mildred” was unleashed upon me. I don’t remember how many years ago that was now, but I still recall it like it was yesterday and can vividly remember the sequences as if I was looking at old 8mm film frame by frame. “WHAT DID YOU SAY LITTLE NIGGER???” At that point I knew I had seriously erred, but it was much too late to do anything about it. Mom threw the belt down, put up her dukes and to my total astonishment I found out that my mom knew how to box… very well!!! Up until that day I never knew black people could get purple bruises.

When my dad got home he didn’t get pissed off and give me another whipping like I thought he would. He just took one look at me and sort of laughed and said “Yeah, I bet you won’t piss your momma off again will you?” and walked off. He was right too! After that point my parents entered the “lecture – guilt trip” form of discipline. I found to my chagrin that was more painful to suffer through than any series of beatings. Many were the days and times that I wished we could have gone back to the beatings they were much less onerous to endure. My mother is still a masterful guilt trip layer. I laugh when other people try to lay guilt trips on me these days thinking “amateur” come back when you’re no longer a rookie and try it again.

My dad knew I was drinking and hanging out in bars back then, but as long as I didn’t violate his guidelines he was okay with it and while my mom was none too happy about it she didn’t raise too much fuss because of my dad’s lead. So on the week ends my buddies and I would hang out in our favorite watering hole named “The Kitchen In The Garden” and had many good times. Sometimes when we wanted to do a little bit more we’d visit “Eddie” sometimes Eddie would sale to us and other times “Eddie” would be “What in the hell are you boys doing in my liquor store, you know I don’t sell no booze to no minors”. In other words the people who regulated and controlled the sale of alcoholic beverages were in town or cracking down. (Dang it!)

In Mississippi there’s not a whole hell of a lot to do, even less now. It’s one of the reasons why we have one of the highest percentages per capita of people who drink. It beat watching the grass grow. I was rather proficient to say the least. I used to drink a LOT of really hard stuff years ago. One of my dad’s rules was not to get totally snookered then get behind the wheel of a car. Most of the time I stuck with that with that, I remember one occasion going to a private party at a friend’s house. I had made previous arrangement with my parents and my friend to spend the night at his place after the party then come home the next day. Another one of my buddies was the bartender. I was drinking “Old Granddad” and coke back then.

He thought it was a pretty slick trick to make my drinks and I didn’t notice that with each drink he increased the amount of whiskey and cut back on the amount of cola. It snuck up on me and I got zonked. I dimly remember going outside for some fresh air then going back in search of a bathroom. There were so many people at that party inside the house that the floor buckled. I was walking pretty well until I hit that sagged part of the floor and lost my balance. I teetered back and forth like a pendulum swaying in time and people started clearing a space around me figuring rightly that I was going to fall, but not knowing which way.

I can still remember alcohol fueled logic clicking in and saying “Hey buddy you know if you let yourself fall you won’t be teetering and swaying and stumbling all around the place.” I thought, “Hmmm that sounds pretty good”. My friends that witnessed it said I fell just like a tree making no attempt whatsoever to brake the fall or brace for impact. I went full face down and can still remember looking at the floor with my nose mashed into it. My buddy come bartender was informed “Hey Twine your tall friend just passed out!” He came over to me and said “Mack are you woke are you okay”. I replied back “Yeah man I’m fine can you help me find the way out of here”. He picked me up and set me in a chair and would come by every so often come by and check on me.

A couple of other funny things happened that night. I saw one of my female high school classmates (We were in our first year of college back then) and I hadn’t seen her since high school graduation. My “fire” burned a lot hotter and higher back then, so I decided to “rap” to her. Ooooo, thankfully I don’t remember what all I said to her, but I do know she didn’t speak to me again for about three years afterwards. I’ve been told by some outside observers that it was quite amusing to hear the things I said and witness her reactions… I think she was still a virgin back then. (Ahem)

The next thing that occurred that night was another one of my buddies arrived at the party late. The first thing he discovered was me zonked out of gourd trying in vain to sober up. He freaked thinking I would get into big trouble not being able to drive myself home. So disregarding my protestations to counter the gesture and attempts to explain it was okay, he threw me in the back of my car and drove me home. He didn’t feel confident enough to park the car under the carport so left me in the back seat of my two door car and the car in the middle of the driveway and my house is on a hill and I’m plastered. It took a monumental effort to get out of the back seat, get the door open, and get up the driveway and to the house.

Imagine my surprise when it seemed as if the house started running away from me. I finally caught the house, but couldn’t mange to get my key in the door. My mom never slept well when I was out of the house so she of course heard someone fumbling at the door trying to get in the house. It was another surprise to have the door suddenly fly open wide and find my mother standing there. It would be an understatement to say the woman was not happy with me that night.

Looking back it was very funny now seeing her wrestle me into the house and trying to get me into my bed. I think she went to get a bucket for me to get sick in and left me standing in my doorway. The lights were already hurting my eyes so I decided to turn the light off. Instead of just reaching up and simply switching off the light some how my mind made the connection to a candle being light so alcohol fueled reasoning let me know I could simply blow them out at the switch. So when my mom returned there I was trying to blow the light switch into the off position. It didn’t work and did nothing to improve her foul temper.

She finally got me into bed. The next thing I remember after that was INTENSE PAIN!!! I felt just totally awful. My father came in and read me the riot act. In all seriousness I begged him to “PLEASE JUST SHOOT ME” to put me out of my misery. He stopped and looked me over carefully and said “No, I’m going to let you live so you can suffer more”. I was moaning in agony for him to reconsider as he walked out of my room. Talking hurt, breathing hurt, light hurt, thinking hurt, even my hair (and yes I had more hair back then) hurt. It took me years and months to live down the laughter of my escapade that night. It also wasn’t until I managed to get out of bed two days later that I found out that my friend drove me home and informed my parents which got me out of the dog house with my father and somewhat eased tensions with my mother. It was weeks before I could even think about looking at a beer without wanting to hurl and slacked up on partying for a while.

Back in ’79 I “went on the wagon” for 11 years and yes there were a lot of things that happened in my life during that period, but that’s for another story and time. I decided to totally stop consuming alcohol cold turkey after a serious close call in a car on a stormy night. I also started to think there just might be a purpose in my life or a mission that I came here to do at that point. I was 19 at the time and came home from college on break. One of my friends was in the U.S. Marine Corps and was home on leave. We hooked up and were hanging out. One particular Saturday night we went out it was storming outside. We didn’t let that stop us. I was drinking scotch back in those days. I never meant to have as much as I did that night, but challenges were issued and braggadocio became my name.

Outside it was pouring heavily, lightening flashing regularly and thunder booming and rumbling shaking the shelves while me and my military friend were tossing ‘em back trying to see who could out do who (A lesson for my younger friend and gentle readers: DON’T try to out drink a U.S. Marine or an Australian or a Russian, they have no livers or fear of death.). My friend couldn’t put me under and I couldn’t put him under. There was a break in the storm and some more of my friends came out. Later they all decided as the storm started back raging to go back to our place “The Kitchen” which was closer to home. The place we were in at the time “The Disco Lounge” (really) was out in the county. My original plan was to sleep it off in the back of my car. My friend again laid down the gauntlet. So of course I just had to show him “I can handle it”.

One of those things my dad taught me showing me the right way to screw up was to drive real fast, because he rightfully figured I’d get out there rip roaring raw hiding burning up the roads and highways driving like a bat out of hell so he wanted me to know how to do so, being an old moonshiner and bootlegger the man could drive like that himself. Living with him I can also tell you he had no fear except for flying in an airplane which I couldn’t understand when he drove like he was flying. I have no doubt some of you know the history or origin of NASCAR racing; it evolved from moonshiners racing on a track.

I’ve learned and discovered many things on my sojourn as I trod my path through life. That particular night I learned that some things just don’t mix. I’m sure there’s some mathematical formula out there that can be expressed in figures stating the same fact and irrefutable proof. Heavy drinking of hard liquor, very heavy blinding down pouring rain and high speed do not mix very well for very long. My military friend and I shot of from the Disco Lounge parking lot in typical bat out of hell fashion. That Ford Elite I had came with a 351 Cleveland engine and had full throated Holley carburetor. To this day I have no idea how fast that car could go. The speedometer stopped at 110mph and the car could go a bit faster than that. What a ride! I miss that car (called her “Eli Mae”) to this day.

If any of you have never been to or through Warren County, Mississippi it’s a rather hilly county. It can be a real “OH SHIT!!!” kind of moment when you top a hill flying and find both lanes occupied by other vehicles. I don’t know how fast I was going, but I managed to get the car slowed down to about 70mph when it seemed there was no way to avoid a rear end collision with the pick-up truck in the same lane. “Okay, self what do you do now?” – “No problem, I got this!” I rather calmly whipped the car to the shoulder of the road, which was wide enough and to accommodate the car with no problem.

The normal idiot at that point would have continued to slow down if not stop and drive normal. Seeing as how I am not normal by any scale of measurement I didn’t. I still remember the look of shock and disbelief the woman on the passenger side of that truck had on her face when one moment there was nothing beside her and the next instant there I am. Being courteous to a fault I smiled big and waved then punched to accelerator to pas him on by and continue on to our destination. All while we were on that shoulder everything went smooth enough, but when I picked a point where I thought it would be good to cut back onto the highway wouldn’t you know it, there a very big puddle on the highway.

I’m pretty sure most of you have seen “The Wizard of Oz”, well imagine my car going into a similar spin then leaving the highway airborne in that same spin. I can tell you first handed that is a very sick feeling sensation to be in a high speed spin and free fall at the same time. It was another time that life slowed down to micro-seconds seeming to extend into eternity. It was like looking at things frame, by frame on old 8mm film. I remembered looking at my military friend and thinking this is it. The guy has survived war only to die with me in this car. I know it had to be a trick of my mind, but I really feel like I saw the old Grim Reaper himself sitting between us.

After what seemed like forever the car landed. I guess I’ve watched too many “Twilight Zone” episodes, but since neither he nor I had a scratch on us and the car looked intact I figured that we were dead and waiting stuck between this world and the next waiting to be processed or led to where we were supposed to await judgment. The car windows were fogged up; steam was coming from seemingly every thing. I turned on the dome light and looked at my friend. I calmly asked him if he was okay. He calmly replied back that he was. I next asked him if that scared him. He calmly said that he was a Marine and that didn’t scare him. He asked me if that scared me, at first I said no, then a few seconds later said “HELL YES!!!”

I know medical science says that a big shock can’t sober you up, but I disagree with that because I was stone cold sober at that point. I cranked the car back up and put it in gear and got nothing but a spinning noise with no movement. My first thought was that I must have knocked the drive shaft loose. I gathered myself a little more, unbuckled the seat beat (safety first) and decided to get out to see just how bad the damage to the vehicle was. I opened the door and stepped out into empty air “AIEEEEEEE!” (BOOMP). I got up and looked back up into the car. The rocker panel came level with my chest and my military friend looked down at me totally puzzled. I looked and none of the four wheels were touching ground. The car had landed at the bottom or a ravine shaped more or less like a “V” with just the front bumper and back bumper touching ground suspending the car. I reported back to my puzzled friend “I think we’re stuck”.

About 15 minutes later my more normal and less of idiot friends came along and spotted the car lights down in the ravine and stopped to investigate. One of them just had a feeling it might have been us. They yelled down asking if we were okay. I yelled back and told them we were. They asked if the car could be driven. I told them I didn’t know because none of the wheels were touching the ground. A few minutes later a country constable stopped to find out what was going on. Luckily he had a hot date in the car with him and didn’t want to get out in the bad weather. Without elaborating I told him that the car ran off the road in the rain and was stuck, he got on his radio and called a wrecker to come pull us out. The frame got bent a little and one fender got a minor crinkle in it from the wrecker’s pulling angle reeling it up the hill. I was able to drive it home later that night and drove that same car for another five years, but never that fast ever again. I took my friend to the next place we were supposed to go that night and didn’t touch another drop of alcohol for another 11 years.

Me being the guy I am and thinking the way I do, if I had of been seriously injured that night it probably would only have registered as my rightful due and I wouldn’t have thought that much more about it. After coming through that whole thing without the first scratch or even a bruise and even be able to drive the car away afterwards really got my attention. I started that night if there had to be some special purpose, or reason for my life to have been spared, because I knew beyond any shadow of doubt that no skill or ability of mine accomplished that, another hand had to of intervened on our behalf. I have to admit that possibility scared me even more than the wreck. I didn’t touch another drop for 11 years without A-A or any other help or counseling.

I’ve had a lot of other occurrences besides that one where that other hand has intervened saving my life. I can recall times where I should not be here now at least fifty times over. Some of you who knew me back when I was doing security work know that number should be adjusted much higher. I have been rather reckless with my life and recognize (finally) that I’ve more or less had a serious hand of protection surround me. I believe in angels and especially guardian angels. When my time to cross over does come I’m going to look mine up to thank them and apologize for putting them through so much. I figure they’ll be easy to identify because they’re sure to look beat to hell and back.

Skipping that 11 year break, again another story I may or may not recount, a lot of things occurred. As I’ve stated earlier in this blog my 30’s was a very bad time in my life. I got married to a very mentally sick woman (yes, I suspected some, but had no idea just how severe her problems really were until after I said “I DO”). I more or less lived in hell and called it home. It was a HUGE relief when she finally left (LOL, she hated Mississippi, life for making her the way she was born and me equally). What did hurt was her taking my only child and son away when he was six months old. Mississippi child custody laws really suck if you’re a man. I’ve heard things have improved somewhat and become more fair, but haven’t become equally fair just yet, but they nearly in all cases gave custody to the mother back then. Even her lawyer admitted to me she was nuts, but that didn’t change the custody ruling.

Well I didn’t have much anything else going at that point. I didn’t even have a TV or a radio for entertainment and my mind was in too much turmoil to read books with much satisfaction. I sat home for about a year all alone, only going to work and home. It felt like I was slowly loosing my mind. I know some of you are thinking I never had a mind to lose (no debate from this quarter). I don’t know where it came from, but one afternoon as I was sitting here I just finally said “Screw this crap” (not the exact wording I used gentle readers, but essentially said something to the same effect as fornicating the excrement). I decided right then and there to get in my truck and stop at the first bar I saw and have a drink.

That first bar just happened to be the old “New Orleans Café”. I walked in and sat down at the bar. It had been so long and my memory being what it is I felt I was in foreign territory. As I was sitting there trying to decide what to do next the bartender “Morris P.” came up to me and asked “hey buddy, what can I get for you”. LOL, I hadn’t thought it out that much and I’m sure he must of thought “oh yeah this guy is a real winner here”. I sat there trying to figure out what and finally managed to say, “I want a drink”. – “Okay, what will you have”. (Oh crap, another conundrum, think quick) “Umm, a beer!” (Happy that I finally came up with an answer.) “What kind?” (At that point I was like damn if I’d have known there was going to be an exam to this I’d have studied before taking this test. Okay unused brain wheels turn and give me an answer.) “Umm, a Michelob!” – “Mich light?” - “Ahhhh, Yes that’s it, that’s what I’ll have.” I looked around and didn’t talk to any one.

I don’t know how long it took me to finish that beer. I drank a second one and went home later drunk off my ass from just two beers. I went home and had to lie down and the bed started spinning. “Oh man that was a rush. I think I’ll go back next weekend and try it again.” Any of you that got to experience that New Orleans Café period knew how unique and special it was. It my travels around the country it is the closest place I’ve ever been that was actually like the old TV series “Cheers”. I loved hanging out there.

The place was an odd mixture of people where everyone talked to everyone else and got along. It was nothing to find a doctor sitting next to a plumber engaged in a good conversation about whatever. If you moved down you could find another guy in a three piece business suit talking lively with a guy in flip flops, a ratty looking pair of shorts and a T-shirt with holes with neither of them giving a second thought about what the other guy is dressed like. Everyday for happy hour that place would pack out three deep at the bar with people stopping by on their way home and there would be just as many women in there as men and it was a really cool happening. The bartenders were even very cool people and I met a lot of new people and made a lot of new friends, some of which remain my friends to this very day even if we don’t get to see each other that often.

This more or less led me to the next chapter in my life’s story some of which I mentioned previously in this blog. One of the new friends I met was Thom H. He is younger than me, but we none the less became quick friends. He started hanging out at a sports bar down the hill around the corner called the “The Levee”. He’d invite me down come hang out with him from time to time. While it was nothing at all like the New Orleans Café, it was still pretty cool in its own way.

One night when we in there hanging out watching a game on one of the bar’s TV’s a really nutty guy got too heavy into his cups. He started getting loud and verbally abusive to the bartender. She was a nice lady to me and that pissed me off. I started to get up and do “something” about it, when Thom grabbed my arm and said “just be cool”. - “Okay, I’m chilling out!” Later on the guy got even worse. He took the cup he was drinking from and threw it at the lady bartender and then spat towards her. Once again, I got up to “handle it”, one more time Thom held my arm and said “chill out, relax”. “Okay, I’m relaxing.” Morris P. from the New Orleans Café was off that night and happened to be in there also with his brother James P. we were having a pretty good time except for that one a-hole screwing up for everyone else.

The owner “Jimmy B.” was sitting on the other side of Thom H. and we talked for a little bit and he said he thought he might know me and welcomed me to his place. Later Jimmy B. asked us if that guy became a problem if we wouldn’t mind helping him get that guy out of there. Thom H. told me and I smiled and said “no problem”. Well, that guy went one step more and started threatening the other customers. He turned to the guy next to him (Rick C.) and said “What the hell are you looking at you fat four eyed mutherfu*ker” and made a move like he wanted to advance on him. At that point Jimmy B. said “okay he’s got to go now, come on help with him”

Thom never got up, he simply took his hand off my arm and said “This is Mission Control Huston we have a GO! You have permission to KICK ASS!!! I REPEAT KICK HIS ASS!!!” Ahhhhh finally!!! I went over to him and said “You’re gone!” picked him up. It was so easy I though some of the other guys had hold on him also at first and I looked around and it was only me with him jacked up in the air. LOL, Morris P. and James P. were right there a half step behind me with Morris shouting and pointing his finger in the guy’s face “YEAH, Um Hum! THAT’S WHAT YOU GET, THAT’S WHAT YOU GET! YOU WANT SOME MORE OF THIS ASS COME GET IT!!!” The bartender came racing from around the bar with his tab in her hand shouting “WAIT HE HASN’T PAID HIS TAB! HE HASN’T PAID HIS TAB!” I used that guy’s head to open the door and flung him out into the parking lot to have more space to react if he got up wanting to fight he did, but thought better of it when I broke back in fighting stance ready to throw down. I stayed there until they had called a cab for him and he left peacefully.

After I came back inside there were cheers and congratulations and smiles all around. I sat back down next to Thom H. Jimmy B. came and sat on the other side and said that was pretty impressive and asked me if I wanted to make a little money on the side? I asked doing what? He said “doing what you just did now”. I really needed some extra money back then so I said “okay” and that where my sideline really got a boost. He asked how do I get in contact with you and I gave him one of my cards to which he looked and said you’ve got to be kidding me? My card simply said “Hero For Hire” it also had my name, phone number and address on it. I had a lot of “interesting” nights down at the Levee club and I also went on to “clean up” other places as my reputation built and got around. I eventually took on too much and got seriously burned out and quit. I didn’t stop hanging out with my friends though.

A few more years passed when I was out and about one night and ran into “Eddie” again. He came up to me and spoke asked how I had been doing and what I had been up to. He told me that his son “Neil” had started going out and if I would look after him and help keep him out of trouble. I said, yeah, sure, I’ll do it. I want to say it was a couple of nights later that I actually ran into Neil. He was hanging around outside a club I was about to enter. I saw him, knew who he was from his dad describing him. I walked up and said “What’s your name boy?” He looked up at me and said “Neil M.”- “Are you Eddie’s boy?” – “Yeah, that’s me.” – “My name is Mack Harris, what are you doing here?” “Well Big Mack (my dad was really ‘Big Mack’ and I was ‘Little Mack’) I wanted to get into this club to check out the band, but they won’t let me in because I’m too young.” I asked him “Are you over 18?” – “Yes, I’m 19, but I can’t get in” – “Well come on boy, I’ll get you in.” – “How are you going to do that Big Mack, I’m not old enough.” – “Just follow my lead boy and come on.”

The laws concerning drinking were different than they are now. While you could no longer buy a beer in Mississippi or enter a bar unless you were 21 you still could if you were with a parent or an adult guardian. Neil and I went up stairs and there was a young lady I didn’t know at the door taking the cover charge. You have to know that this was back with “political correctness” first started catching on around the country and also to a lesser degree in Mississippi.

I paid the cover for myself and Neil and held the door open and said “Come on in son.” The door lady reacted about like I thought she would saying rather primly “YOU can come in, but HE can’t”. Knowing all the time where I wanted to go with that I looked back at Neil and said “Why not I just paid the cover for both of us and he’s with me. This is my son, I’ve paid the cover and he should be able to come in with me.” – Of course the door lady replied again like I was totally expecting, “That’s not your son!” – (OH YEAH, I had her then!) I didn’t crack a smile but started shouting: “WHAT THE HELL!!! ARE YOU SAYING BECAUSE I’M A BLACK MAN IN MISSISSIPPI I CAN’T HAVE A WHITE SON???”

The music didn’t stop but every body close enough by to hear it looked around. I shouted out “DO Y’ALL HEAR THIS SHIT!!! THIS WOMAN IS SAYING I CAN’T HAVE A WHITE SON!!!!” I pointed to one of my female acquaintances at the bar and shouted more “AND THAT’S HIS MOMMA RIGHT OVER THERE!!!” she didn’t blink or hesitate or even raise her eye brow the slightest bit and calmly said “That’s right baby come on in”. I felt sorry for that poor door lady later. She turned shock white, blushed red then turned a slight shade of green gathered herself and laid her arm on my arm and said “OH! I’M JUST SO SORRY!!! I’M SO SORRY!!! I DIDN’T THINK!!! I’M SO SORRY!!!”

Neil just smiled really big and laid his hand on my shoulder and said “That’s alright ‘Dad” and we calmly walked in like we owned the place. The bartender also a female acquaintance knew us both and just shook her head and said “You ought to be shamed of yourself!” and as she gave us both a beer and I just winked back at her smiled. Neil and I did that a number of other times less dramatically to when it got where he was no longer asked around town whether or not he should have been allowed in. It would have been really funny if she had of stuck to her guns and called “BULLSHIT”!

We joked about it for years afterwards when he’d introduce me to some of his friends and say “This is Big Mack, my black daddy”. The night after my own father died Neil was one of the few I actually wanted any where around me. He sat down next to me didn’t say a word, which is what I wanted and shooed away everyone else and laid his little hand on my shoulder and I just nodded as we just sat there in silence my friend and me.

Okay, I’m tired, yes there’s a whole lot more that can be said. Whether or not it ever will be remains to be said; thank you for stopping by and visiting for a spell. :-)