LESSON 1: You never purchase whiskey alone, even if you want to
There was a man wearing a thick flannel coat standing behind the check-out counter at the ABC Store in Cameron Village, a shopping center in Raleigh, North Carolina. As I approached with a handle of Virgin Bourbon whiskey, he said, "You know, I'd pay $30 for that stuff."
The man was only about 5 feet 5 inches tall. He was clean shaven and wore blue jeans. He appeared to be a friend of the man working the check-out counter.
"Yeah, it's good stuff," I said.
"No, I mean it's really good," he responded.
"This is the third handle I've purchased since I moved here a few months ago. And I have to say, it's better than anything you can purchase for $20."
"It really is," he said, pausing for a second, presumably to make sure no one else in the store could hear what he was saying besides me and his confident, the clerk. "Hell, it's better than anything Jack Daniels makes."
"And it's only, $12."
"You can't beat that, especially these days."
The man behind the counter dutifully performed his task, scanning the bottle of whiskey, not saying a word, not checking for my ID, and I was aware of this, wondering how old he thought I was.
"A man came in here the other day and bought each bottle on the shelf," the friend of the clerk said. "He said he was from Virginia, and they don't have any Virgin Bourbon in Virginia."
"Virgin is good stuff." With bottle in brown paper bag and a wave g'bye, I walked out the door.
LESSON 2: Community and the Good-ness of a place
Just as I was opening the door to my car to leave the ABC Store, a voice as deep as California's desert valleys boomed behind me, "Where in California are you from?"
My car here still has California license plates.
I turned around. It was a large man, casually dressed, African American and standing next to the red truck parked next to me with one hand on the hood.
"Southern, southern California."
"Oh, I'm from southern California too," he said. "San Diego."
"Riverside," I said.
He nodded and asked, "How long have you been in Raleigh?"
"I've been here for a few months. I'm here for school."
"Do you go to State?"
"No, Campbell School of Law, over there downtown."
He nodded and said, "You know, I like it a lot out here."
"Yeah, me too. The people are great."
Again, he nodded and said, "And the weather is not bad. When I left California, everyone asked, 'why would you do that?' But the weather is not bad here, you know? It's never too cold. I have family who live in D.C. and when ever they come down here, they always say it's so much warmer."
"Of course," I said, leaning in a little now. "You can't beat San Diego weather. It's certainly the best anyone can ask for, 75 degrees all year round. But there's so much more here."
"Yes, oh yes, there is. You can't judge a place until you've been there."
He then went on to explain, convincingly (as if I needed convincing), that so much of our perception, prejudices and judgements of places are based on the media. He said that you have to live in a place to know it. And these places will surprise you more often than not with their good-ness.
LESSON 3: Aim low, miss high, buck meat stays good for two years
The true destination of the afternoon was my barber shop up in Five Points, a quaint neighborhood just north of downtown Raleigh. My barber is a daredevil, crazy man, who jumps out of planes and fishes semi-professionally. His barber shop, located under a pharmacy/diner (think circa 1950), closes for weeks at a time as he goes on fishing trips far off the Atlantic coast, or goes on vacation to skydive with naked women in Puerto Rico -- and he as video evidence to back up these perilous and nude adventures. For privacy sake, he'll be referred to here as "John."
When I walked into the barber shop, John was talking with two other gentlemen. Or rather, John and the other gentleman were listening to the third man talk. This man wore a hunting shirt, or at least I assume it was a hunting shirt, because where the left breast pocket should have been, there was a stitched figure of a deer and two flags, one of the old Confederate States of America and North Carolina flag.
He was an old man. Hell, they were all old men. I was the youngest in the barber shop by at least a quarter century.
As I sat down in one of the chairs, John looked at me and said, "This here is a buck story."
The man talked about approaching a deer, getting within only 10 yards of it, before pulling back his bow and shooting the arrow and nailing the damn thing. He went into more detail than that. But it's all I remember, frankly.
The other man sitting on the opposite side of the room was a man I had met before. We appear to be on the same hair-cut schedule. He has three adult daughters, two nurses and one lawyer. He used to be a cop for the city of Raleigh and he was a part-time butcher for a grocery store in Cameron Village back in the day. He was retired now.
The hunter and the butcher then talked about deer meat. The difficulty for the hunter is skinning, packaging and freezing the meat before it goes bad. Most of the time hunters are in isolated areas, hours away from anywhere that can freeze the meat. But once the meat is frozen, it can stay good for two years. Buck meat is unlike beef, because it has less fat, so it can stay better longer.
Lesson 4: Detective fiction was a whole lot better before CSI
Perry Mason was on the television while I was getting my hair cut. Perry and another fella were looking at the rear of a car. A woman was found in the trunk. But the two sleuths were just poking around.
"If this were modern-day television, there would be CSI people everywhere," Johns said.
"Yeah," the other man said, watching ol' Perry poke around, looking at the bumper. "Back in the day the detectives you'd to tell that a woman was the killer by finding a dent in the spoiler."
Lesson 5: Man massage
"I've never had a man give me a massage before," a woman said to her two girlfriends as they walked on the sidewalk. "I liked it."
And then I was out of earshot, having walked passed them. I went into my car, turned up the music to hear Leon Redbone sing, "Bart began to sigh, and told the moon a little tale of woe.
"Shine on, shine on, shine on Harvest Moon."
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