KT

Five of nine. Only folks in Potts Liquors were drunks either still drunk or slowly sobering or riding line between the two with panache languid and vaguely vampiric. Stourley Waits was still drunk. He pulled one fifth and then another and looked at the labels and then checked his wallet and then replaced a fifth and then another. He looked down. There a row of bottles, their shoulders heavy with gray dust. He picked one up. Old Crow. He blew on its shoulder. Dust didn't move. Dragged a finger through it. Picked up in a single slab of ash. He looked around. Black man ran an old vacuum over short-haired emerald green carpet. Black man whistled so loudly Stourley heard him over the vacuum. Stourley stood looking at the black man until he finished. When he looked up from the carpet he smiled and slapped his large hands together and acted like he was going to run over to Stourley. What you need partner, he said. You need some help. Anything I can do, let me know.

You keep KT in the house, Stourley said.

The man scratched his hairless chin and looked up at the lights and whistled.

Kay tee, the man said.

Uh huh, Stourley said.

Can't say I done heard of it now, the man said. Can't say I have. What is it? It vodka?

Nosir, Stourley said.

The man stood and looked back into the light and Stourley looked at his right eye and realized he was blind in that eye as it looked all scattered and queer. A wanderin and hanged ghost like an egg poached and fixin to set. He tried to look away and not stare at it and before he could stop himself he was speaking his mind.

What the hell happen to your eye mister, Stourley said.

Oh, that a long time ago, the man said.

Well what happen? Aint mean to be impolite, Stourley said.

Long time ago, the man said chuckling a little. He put his hands out like he holdin a pole and jerk it back hard.

Fishin Lake West Point, the man said. Get a strike somethin hard and set the hook on that fish and crankbait came flyin out the water and damn if it aint stick in my eye hard.

Godamighty, Stourley said. Must've hurt like a sumbitch.

Not a memory I like to dwell on, the man said.

Sorry, Stourley said. I jus though I ask. Sorry now. I jus come in to get some KT.

Is all right now, the man said. I try to help but I aint known what it is. Is it gin? the man asked.

Nosir, Storley said.

It liquer? the man asked.

Do what now, Storley said.

Liquer, the man said. It like syrupy somethin with bite on the back. The ladies love the liquer. Jus love it.

Nothin like that, Stourley said. Magine it jus whiskey.

Damn that a new one on me, the man said. Kay tee. Mus be some small-batch whiskey nowdays. Fancy label onnit. Can't say I heard of it. Not at all.

Naw, is old, Stourley said. Been round a long time.

I been round a long time too, the man said. An can't say I heard of it. What it taste like?

Like Jimmy Beam comin back up, Stourley said.

Goddam, the man said. That aint somethin I ever seek out. Here I is thinkin it somethin new and with that name kay tee it sound like somethin good for you to sip on. Sound green you hear me. An now you say it taste like upchuck.

Bein straight with you, Stourley said.

The black man walked over to the whiskey aisle and walked from left to right and dragged his index finger across the waists of all the bottles at the top and then at the middle and he got down on a knee and went slowly through the bottles and then grabbed one and held it up.

Fightin Cock, he said. You ever drank this?

Nosir, Stourley said.

It'll bend yo ass sideways, he said. Bad ol shit.

He put it back on the shelf and picked up a bottle of Kentucky Tavern.

Good for you money here, he said. If you can keep it down.

Thas KT, Stourley said.

Aw hell, the man said. You shittin me.

Won't shit you, Stourley said. But I want a handle. Not a fifth.

We aint got handles of kay tee, the man said, laughin.

Why aint you? Got handles of Old Crow and Fightin Cock and Ol Grand Dad, Stourley said.

Don't think they make em, the man said.

Why not? Stourley said.

Ever think maybe a fifth's all you gone need, the man said.

It aint, Stourley said. I need a handle. I came in here to buy a handle.

Why aint you buy two fifths then, the man said.

Cause then I could buy me a handle of Ol Grand Dad for that money, Stourley said.

I feel you, the man said.

Aint make no sense, Stourley said.

Both men looked around the store. It was quiet and a muzak version of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" played. An old woman pushed a cart loaded with handles of Fleischmann's Gin. It said "charcoal filtered" on the label. She stopped at the men and looked up at them. Her hair was pulled back into a greasy gray knot and snot hung from her nostrils in thin yellow fangs.

Yall got pickles, she said.

We have olives, the man said.

I aint ask bout olives, she said. I asked bout pickles.

No mam, the man said. But we do have olives.

I aint ask bout no olives, she said. I asked bout pickles.

The woman looked at the black man. She stared at his eye.

What in the hell happen to your eye? she asked.

Stourley laughed. Stourley looked at her and then looked at the cart and all the handles of gin.

How much a handle of that gin cost? Stourley asked.

Six eighty-nine, she said.

Thas for one handle, Stourley said.

Naw it for twenty, she said laughing. You a bit dense aint you?

The black man laughed.

What you gone do with pickles anyhow? Stourley asked.

Garnish, the woman said.

For what? Stourley asked.

For a Porterhouse steak, the woman said laughing. For a drink, dimwit. What the hell else you think?

Never heard of no one usin a pickle, Stourley said.

Never heard of no one gettin fucked in the ear neither but it don't mean folks aint done it, she said.