Back in the '70's there wasn't any such thing as cell phones, personal computers or video games. Except for 'Pong'. If you lived in the city, you could always go to the arcade or to the park or whatever kind of amusement that kind of life offered. But, if you were like me and growing up in the country, personal entertainment had to be invented.
It wasn't that late on a Saturday night in Saratoga, Texas. I, along with five or six other boys, were sitting on the front deck of a store that used to be called Babe's. If one was to cross the highway from Babe's, and walk down the street that intersected it, he would come up on West End Baptist Church after a little more than a quarter mile walk. In those days, they still had the one liter 'glass' soda bottles. With all of us being between seventeen and twenty years old, our high levels of testosterone were telling us to do things that would make us look more like men. Things that we had seen men do. Like chewing tobacco and dipping Skoal.
So here we were, lined up like turtles on a log, dipping Skoal and chewing Red Man, sharing this glass soda bottle as a spit jug. As I look back on it, it wasn't too sanitary and the mixture at the bottom got uglier as it got deeper. We were mostly listening to this one guy who was the oldest. His name was Haney Hunter. Haney wasn't too much good, as far as some of his actions went. But he was always polite to me and seemed to like me. Not only that, I felt as if he had a charisma about him that exuded cool. He wore a fedora under a mat of long, black hair. His stories also oozed a coolness as he told it to us and the smoothness of his voice made you feel like you were listening to Walter Cronkite. Haney's sense of humor was very good, and we were having a great time laughing, chewing, dipping and spitting....in the same jug.
Suddenly, a car came driving up at a high rate of speed, coming from town. The driver came off the highway and threw dust in every direction as he pulled in to the small parking lot in front of Babe's. Now, I won't tell you this gentleman's name; as I think he might be offended if I did. So we'll just call him Hiawatha. Anyway, he staggers from the car...obviously drunk...and walks up to where we are sitting. For a few moments he just stood there, a blank stare on his face as he tried to find his balance. It was finally Haney who spoke up.
"You been drinkin' tonight, Hiawatha?" The question elicited laughter which just egged him on. "Or are you always that clumsy?"
The roar of laughing made Hiawatha mad, but his intelligence level wasn't up to the task. He was going against a master, and we all knew it but him.
"Don't matter, none," Hiawatha belched at Haney. "I kin drink you under the table any day and twice on Sunday."
That statement has never made sense to me. Why, on the day of rest, would you want to do something twice as much? But, I digress. Haney had set the hook, and it was now time to reel Hiawatha in.
"You don't know nothin' about drinkin'," Haney accused. "All you drink is beer."
"What's wrong with that," Hiawatha shot back, his chin jutted out in defiance. "Beer's good."
"Yeah, beer's good," Haney agreed. "But only drinkin' beer don't make you a drinkin' man."
"I kin drink anythin' you can drink, and twice on Sunday." Hiawatha slurred.
Haney was holding the spit jug. It was dark and the only illumination came from a street light about thirty yards away. He held it out to Hiawatha.
"I bet you can't drink this and keep from pukin'," Haney challenged.
Hiawatha would not be outdone. He stepped up to where Haney was sitting and grabbed the jug.
"We'll see about that!" Hiawatha exclaimed.
He then lifted the jug to his mouth and craned his neck as far backward as he could. We all watched in horror as the contents slowly drained from the jug...into Hiawatha's mouth...and down his gullet. The bottle was about one-fifth full and it only took seconds for him to drink it. He threw the bottle on the ground and spat, almost retching.
"Whut the hell was that?"
"You never mind that," Haney scolded. "Now, you got to keep from pukin' for thirty minutes. If you do, I'll give you ten dollars for your trouble."
"Thirty minutes?!" Hiawatha complained. "I ain't hangin' around here for no thirty minutes."
"Suit yourself," Haney said with outstreched arms. "But you gonna hate losin' that ten dollars."
Hiawatha thought about it for a moment and finally agreed to stay. I guess his inebriated state was so advanced is why he didn't see the rest of us giggling like school girls. Even while our stomachs were still churning from what we just witnessed. Hiawatha lit a cigarette and began to chit chat with Haney. After about five minutes, Hiawatha started to rub his front and groan.
"What's the matter?" Haney asked, smirking.
"My stomach's burnin'," Hiawatha muttered.
With a loud groan he fell to his knees, both arms wrapped around his front. From that point came a tirade of rude monosyllables that were directed straight at Haney. Now, I don't know what all that tobacco spit was doing to Hiawatha's insides, but whatever it was we knew there was a goshawful battle going on in there between that nasty crap he just drank and his stomach. Eventually, he rolled over on his back, knees drawn up to his chest and he was praying to anybody that would listen to kill all of us. About fifteen minutes later he rolled over on one side and curled up in the fetal position, begging for his momma. I had to hand it to him, though. Hiawatha didn't puke. He almost died. But, he didn't puke. Haney helped him to his car and stuffed a ten dollar bill in his shirt pocket.
"Haney," I said, "you aren't going to let him drive, are you?"
Haney smiled with, I'm sure, a twinkle in his eye.
"Why not?" He said, chuckling. "If that didn't kill 'im, do ya think a car wreck will?"
Hiawatha started his car and slowly drove away. I heard he had the drizzles for about three or four days after that. He had a heck of a time keeping anything down while that odious and foul mixture coursed its way through his system. I always wondered if he was ever the same after that. Physically, I mean. I'm also very confident that he never told any girl he ever dated...and especially the one he married, that he drank the tobacco spit of several dudes for ten dollars. Even if he was drunk, that was pretty stupid...and pretty disgusting.
A couple years later I heard the sad news that Haney had been killed in a boating accident. We were never close, as friends. Yet, I will never forget that night. It's as clear to me now as if it happened just moments ago. I suppose you never forget something like that. Whether you want to or not.
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