Direct Male

Old Fitzgerald. Patrón Silver. Grey Goose. The Famous Grouse.

You name the booze, I’m familiar with it. I know Jameson and Hennessy. I’ve met the Christian Brothers, hung out with Jose Cuervo and the Kentucky Gentleman, and sailed with Captain Morgan and Admiral Nelson. I’ve been over to Jack Daniel’s place.

Whiskey, rye, rum, vodka, brandy, cognac, mezcal – from Kentucky Straight to Ole Smoky Tennessee Moonshine, I’ve had them all by the box. I’ve gone into the ABC store so many times lately that the clerks just give me a cursory nod when I push open the glass doors. I don’t need their help. I know where the cases are.

Yet I don’t drink. Not a drop. All my life, I’ve been a social dud – a bore at parties and a tap-water-only disappointment at cocktail hours and neighborhood get-togethers. I couldn’t tell you what’s in a Cosmopolitan or a Manhattan, and as far as I know, a mojito might be something you smear on a quesadilla. I know as little about alcohol as I do about cryptocurrency, and I’ve invested the same in both: zero.

Still, I have a close relationship with booze. That’s because I move every now and then, as I’ve done recently. And moving requires, well, it requires lots of things – energy, organization, patience, and the nerve to drive a U-Haul through rush-hour traffic. Mostly, though, moving requires boxes. Many, many boxes. Good boxes. Whiskey boxes.

Since I don’t tipple, swig, quaff, or imbibe, North Carolina’s Alcoholic Beverage Control system has never made a profit off me. I go there only for the free boxes stacked in the corner after the crews unpack the bottles of bourbon, Scotch, tequila, and Irish cream for the drinking (and paying) customers. It’s all casual and easy, and it’s a mighty effective recycling program.

•••

This was my first move in twenty years, so I had work to do. I had an easy time with the essentials: coffee maker, computer and stereo, and a rocking chair that’s been in my family since before I was born (so, yes, a long time). A twenty-two-year-old with a strong back and a good attitude helped me with the bed and a heavy-as-granite cabinet I use to store important papers.

I delivered the kitchen table and chairs, two end tables, and a bunch of wall art to a reseller. I sold a broken lawn mower and gave away a fixed one. I also gave away the gas can, two weed eaters and a leaf blower, the TV, the rugs, and the vacuum cleaner. I donated my reading chair, the dresser, the lamps, a paper shredder, two sets of jumper cables, three blenders, the placemats I never used, and a giant bowl that could hold enough popcorn for a whole movie theater. I invited my wonderful neighbors to take what they wanted from the garage, and they picked the shelves clean. (They took the shelves, too.)

That left everything else – the countless mountains of small, everyday items, useful and useless, that I had accumulated in two decades of nesting in the same roost. For these, I needed boxes. And for those, I needed the ABC store.

•••

With each armful I set into a Lunazul or Smirnoff box, I dealt with so many questions. Why do I have a Mr. Peanut coin holder? How many bottles of eyeglass cleaner does one person need in a lifetime? How many coffee mugs? How much hand lotion? Does this electric toothbrush work? There, in the back of the closet – is that a tweed fedora? And does it have a feather tucked in it?

Here they were: two decades of bad decisions and impulse buys, the good intentions gone wrong, the amateur attempts at decorating, the stupid things that seemed like smart ideas at the time. This move forced open the dusty vault to an embarrassing trip back through time, all the way to the day I moved in. This house glowed with sunlight, and I could’ve played racquetball against the high walls in the den. All the place needed was warmth, a human touch to give it an air of invitation and social connection.

Crown Royal. Woodford Reserve. Platinum 7X.

Box after regrettable box proved my failure at doing anything but accumulating stuff I didn’t need. The more I moved, the more dejected I grew. Along the way, I came to understand, long after it was too late, all I’d really needed: one bed, one dresser, one lamp, one clock. One recliner and one side table. One pot, one pan. Maybe two plates, on the off chance I ever had a dinner guest.

•••

Some anthropologists believe they know why Homo erectus finally climbed down from the trees and stopped dragging their knuckles: They had things to move. Mostly this was food, according to the researchers. I have a feeling they had to haul other stuff, too, like shorts and hiking shoes, travel cups and phone chargers, stacks of towels and rolls of dental floss and bottles of witch hazel, a few hundred family pictures, an award plaque or two, and some high school yearbooks. And maybe a tweed fedora.

In my twenty years in that house, I was up there in the leaves with our ancient ancestors. Finally, we hopped off the branches together and landed in the weeds, straightening our posture and ambling to the ABC cave for boxes freshly emptied of prehistoric Baileys, Tito’s, and Cabo Wabo.

Here’s to you, my paleo pals. I’ll tell you this much about moving: We’ll get dirty. Our backs will hurt. We won’t remember where those unneeded possessions came from. And when it’s all done, when we’ve packed the last of the booze boxes and folded the final flaps on the things we never should’ve owned in the first place, we’ll be lucky to survive.

Let’s just say we’re still evolving. And from here out, we’ll travel light.

Tim Bass is a retired creative writing teacher and journalist. He lives in Wilmington. Mark Weber is a Wilmington-based artist and illustrator for WILMA’s monthly Direct Male essay. See more of his work at weberillustration.com.