One of the Seven.

I can recall sitting in an Elks Club somewhere in Tennessee in the Fall of 1985.  I had been riding around the Eastern United States since late summer, carrying several shows in the back of the van, and there were four of us altogether, from various backgrounds and such, and bound together by that test of endurance known as touring.

We didn't know very much about each other; the truth is, I didn't really know much about myself; but in that year's time, I learned.

Tennessee.  Elks club.  Conservative Bible Belt Elks meet long haired college graduate theatre-type.  Judged by a group of strangers simply by the way I looked.  Wasn't the first time; wouldn't be the last time.  But this was a defining moment...otherwise, I wouldn't remember it......

After the show and the strike, a group of them invited us to join them.  Elks are traditionally friendly folk, but I never met an Elks Lodge that didn't have a bar.  And beneath the bar, of course, was where they kept the stuff that separated the men from the boys.

Shine on, Shine on Harvest Moon.  The homemade stuff.  When done right, it simply burns a little; when done badly, it's like drinking a cup of cold poison.  Liquid fire.  Death in a shotglass.

I can still hear the condescending voice of the 'tender: "Awww, son, you don't want any of that."  And in the meantime, pouring shots for the ladies.

Slow burn.  Silent.  Set up the shotglasses in front of me....one, two, three, four, five.  Even stare at the 'tender.....a simple hand gesture, full of meaning:  "Rack 'em up."  He poured with a secret smile.  I smiled back.  He thought I was a soft Northern boy. 

Five shots.  One after the other.  Straight face.  Boom Boom Boom.  Staring at the 'tender.  No expression.  The liquid is warm and taste slightly like sharp knives, but I've had worse.  Spilled not a drop.  Turned them over as I finished them.  Until there were five spent soldiers on the wooden table; and when it was done, I smiled slightly......

Pride is a funny thing, but youthful pride even more so.  There would be several more shots before the night was over, but there were no more condescending comments, or smiles.  I had proven myself worthy of their respect.

Back then, it mattered.

But today, I wonder why it was so important to impress several small minded idiots in a small Tennessee town who's name has been permanently deleted from my memory.  And, I wonder why my relationship with alcohol became so cavalier so soon.  And I wonder, given the recklessness of my pride, how I managed to live so long.