SPIRITS

POSTCARD #24 • Badlands Special Reserve

“What’s wrong with your grain?”

“What do you mean?”

The gap-toothed old coot plunged his hand into the grains, pulled out a handful, and held it out over the sack letting rotting corn, barley, and rye fall slowly from out between his fingers. The grains were softer even than the last batch, and off-color.

“Smells moldy. And they got weird little black spots on ‘em. Weevils too.”

The trader looked in. Shrugged. “You want ‘em or not?”

The moonshiner shrugged.

“There’s other ‘shiners ‘sides you.”

“Now don’t be so hasty. It’s just I got a reputation to maintain is all. Don’t go getting your knickers all up in a bunch. Ain’t nothing personal.” The words were practiced and casual.

Mr. Moonshine, that’s what the folks who drank his product called him, dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out a dozen silver coins. He handed them over to the trader who took them and nodded.

“Just tell your clients this here grain comes all the way from DC. Specialty product. Call it Badlands Special Reserve. You can turn your paint stripper into a premium product, you market it right.”

Mr. Moonshine thought on this. “Not a bad idea.”

The trader helped transfer the sacks of grain from his wagon into the small shack with the still. Their deals always went down this way. The one complaining that the product wasn’t up to snuff, the other threatening to ride off with the goods and sell somewhere else. They’d built their banter up over the years, refined it. Now the words spilled out by habit. The relationship was solid.

Except, the ritual wasn’t just an act. There was something off with the grains. They both knew it. Chalked it up to the world going bad. Shrugged it off because that’s what you do when you’re making do.

They shook on the deal and the trader rode off, his wagon several pounds lighter and his pocket heavier with silver. He’d fetched a fair enough price for the delivery, as Mr. Moonshine would from his liquor. Tidy profits for both.

When the trader disappeared from sight, the moonshiner ducked into his old shack. It was time to make some liquor. But first things first.

He uncorked a jug and poured a generous serving, toasted the burlap sacks, and tossed the contents back.

Now it was time.

The shiner worked with a practiced ease.

Light the fire, heat the water, add the grains, mix the mash.

“Tonight we’re making us some white lightning…oh yes we are!” He did a jig and had another swallow.

Stir. Check the temp. Adjust. Stir again. Another swallow of the good stuff. He sang while he worked.

Before the bomb

Before the dead

Back before the world went crazy in the head

Before the fever

Before the storms

We were making liquor from our blighted corn

We were making liquor from our blasted corn

Stir and hold. Wait. Have another swallow. Check for starch conversion. The old adage holds. He says it out loud in a sing song voice…

Iodine blue, halfway through

Amber or red, let it sit in the shed

In the morning he’d transfer the cooled mash into his barrels along with the stillage from the last batch and then it would be a couple of weeks until his favorite part—firing up the still.

But for now, his work was done.

The shiner had one last drink, shut down the works, and turned in for the night. He’d be hurting tomorrow. Nothing a little hair of the dog wouldn’t cure. Just one of the benefits of being a shiner.

On his way to bed, he turned the name over in his mouth.

Badlands Special Reserve—it had a nice ring to it...

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