No Booze Here

It's been six years into the war on booze. I live in Brooklyn, New York, where most folks haven't had a drop to sip in nearly three months. Mr. Capone has been in hiding all this time due to some trivial gun-down matter of a fellow bootlegger. Ever since Mr. Capone hid himself, his shipments have been scarce, and the price, when the local blind pig did receive some, would soar out of my price range.

I can feel the shaking beginning to take my hands and lips. This commonly happens when I've been away from the bottle for a spell. The only thing that can help me now is just a small swig of that wonderful corn whiskey. It may smell like boot polish, but when it begins to slide down my throat, the liquid feels cool and tangy. I am at my happiest when I've had something to drink, just like when those fancy politicians receive their heavy check at the end of the week. Imagine if we were to take away a fancy suit's pay like they did our whiskey. Bet ya then they would understand how it feels.

As I walk down the strip looking for somewhere that may be serving, I notice two men in big overcoats coming from the opposite direction. Crossing paths with these prohis or prohibition agents was evident, and I quickly took the sleeves of my long brown overcoat and pulled them down to cover my shaking fingers from their impending view. These petty officers were on the job looking out for bums like me who were desperate enough to lead them to a joint that was breaking the prohibition laws.

They kept their eye on me, but I played it off smooth and gave them the slip once I turned the corner. At the end of the street sign was one place that was always reliable for the good stuff. Benji’s was what it was called. I walked to the front of the building and was very excited to see that they were open. As I walked past the thresh, I read the sign that hung in the window: “NO BOOZE HERE.” This was in place for those men I had just encountered on the road. It fooled them all too well.

Inside the place was a long line of tables with stick-back chairs. The walls were in prime condition, and the whole place smelled of milk. When Benji’s was serving the stuff, they hid the small bottles in larger bottles of milk. You couldn't consume anything in the place, so you would have to take the bottle home to get your kick. I started towards the old bar in the back, which had been recently cleaned with wood polish. I had a feeling from this sight that the place had finally gotten a shipment in. As I drew closer to the bar, I spotted the sign hanging in a place where the liquor used to be sold openly to the public. The sign read “Fresh Milk $5.”

“Outrageous,” I cried out to the man who was sticking his head up from behind the counter.

“It's up a whole dollar from the last time you had it,” I cried out again to his face.

“If you don’t like it, get out,” the milk bar-tender said in a threatening tone.

“Those are my prices since Milk has been so scarce; go to Charlie's on the other side of town if you want it cheap. But it won't be the good stuff like I got here.” The brawny man leaned on the bar, and by the looks of him, he was done conversing over the matter.

I pulled out my $5 bill that I had been saving for this occasion. The man across the way changed his smug look to a grin when he saw the green of my bill. He took it from my ever-shaking fingers and quickly put in its place a quart of milk that carefully hid the delectable smaller bottle of corn whiskey inside. My eyes grew bright over having in my hand the object I longed for. As I turned to head back out of the place, the sound of the door being swung open stopped me in my tracks. I looked up and saw the two agents I had just passed by on the street before me. They were staring at me and the milk I held. I looked back and noticed the man behind the bar move his arm beneath him. Obviously, he was reaching for the gun he had stowed behind the counter. He used it to protect his business from crooks and the law alike. He kept ahold of it but made sure it remained under the counter until the moment presented itself where he would need to use it.

One of the agents walked towards me and hovered on me like a vulture finding a sweating pig out in the middle of the desert. I clung to my bottle of milk and watched the other of the two agents make his way to the bar head.

“Milk, huh?” He snarled at the man behind the bar.

“I’d like myself a bottle if you don’t mind.” He held out a crisp $5 bill that was not nearly as tattered as mine was. He placed it on the counter for the bartender to accept. But the man behind the counter pushed it back in the agent's direction and stated, “Sorry, this gentleman in front of you just purchased my last bottle of milk from me. Hence I got none to give you.”

The agent scowled at his clever response and picked up his bill much quicker than when he had pulled it out of his jacket pocket. The agent who had been with me began to walk behind me blocking my way to the exit door. The agent who had been at the bar walked towards me, his clean shoes clicking as his heels came into contact with the floor.

“I sure was hoping to take some milk home to the misses,” he brushed the side of his hat up to try to intimidate me, “you know she might just take the broom to me if I don't get what she asked me to bring her.”

I tried to clench the shaking in my voice as I answered him, “Sorry, sir, but if I don't bring this jug of milk home to my wife, she will take a strap to me, and I think a broom to you is better than the strap to me.” I turned around happy with my snarky tone.

The agent behind me, though, changed the conversation abruptly before I could take another step. “Come on; we know you've got alcohol in that milk jug, and we ain't leaving here till we get it along with all your law-breaking friends.” He had turned the discussion into a stand-off between the two of them and my lying capability.

They tried to reason with me over the bottle in my hand. “Here we'll let you keep the milk and booze in there too; all you got to do is tell us who sold it to you.” one said in a snake-like tone that I bet the snake in the Garden of Eden used to trick Eve. It was no dice for me.

They knew who I had bought it from; all they needed was someone willing to squeal. But I ain't no stool pigeon.

I clutched the bottle to my chest and called out in a giddy voice, “Sorry, no booze here” and ran out the door of Benji’s. All the time hearing the sound of their threats in the distance. It didn't matter any to me because I had what I had come for that sweet tonic that would cure the shaking that now had spread throughout my whole body because of my encounter with those two prohis.