Thursday, December 20, 2012

Packies

As I drove home through Massachusetts Tuesday morning I re-discovered an old love.

Package stores.

No I did not stop and buy booze for the ride, although it would have been a wonderful compliment to my reflective mood on that day. I know where all the packies are on this road because I used to commute from NH to MA to work. I hate highways, I love the back roads, so this is the route I used to take.

 A one and a half hour commute one way. Truthfully I used to drink my way home at the time. The job ripped my guts out every day because I was over my head and it was a fast paced, highly competitive environment.

I'd blow out of there and stop fifteen minutes down the road to buy beer. The rest of the ride would be enjoyed as I casually sipped my beer-way home. It wasn't heavy duty. I might only drink three, but it relaxed me and allowed me to believe that I could still find Jesus.

On the really bad days I'd pick up a bottle of ginger brandy to go with the beer. I'd take a swig of brandy right out of the bottle, then sip that heavenly ice cold beer. A few swigs, a few beers, and before I knew it I was cradled in the safety of my driveway.

I loved those rides. I felt so free. Especially in the summer when the windows were down, the radio was up and I was in good voice.

Packies have character. Especially the countrified ones. Crass neon beer signs in the window, creaky wooden floors and usually a gruff kind of guy behind the counter.

And you can buy beer, wine and booze all in one place. And cigarettes. And beef jerky. What a concept.

States like NH have made the purchase of alcohol antiseptic. You buy booze in the liquor store and beer in the grocery store. The liquor store is frightening because they interrupt the piped in music every 4 and a half seconds to run ads. You hear cheery, faux friendly voices telling you how wonderful the employees are and how amazing the sales are and how very very much the customer is appreciated worshipped ass-kissed. You want to strangle these people.

The beer in the grocery store is incongruously placed next to the bakery or the pharmacy or the men's room. Anyplace that can detract from the religious rite of choosing just the right beer for a specific mood. Unless you drink Natty Light. Then it doesn't matter.

And you pay for the beer at a checkout counter with a 10 year old clerk.

I have been in package stores where I was afraid of the owner. And I liked it. There should always be an undertone of evil around booze. It makes it taste better.

When I was a kid we had our favorite packy. It was called Magee's Corner Liquors and is still there, although I am sure the ambiance is radically different. We called it Harold's because that was the owner's name. A very strange guy but he was good to us kids.

One of my fond memories was rushing back to Harold's at 10:55 p.m., five minutes before close, to buy more booze. We had already consumed more than enough at that point, but there is no lonelier feeling than wanting a drink after the packy closes. We would take an inventory around 10:30, see who had what left, and then make a run to Harold's.

This happened a lot.

When I first moved to NH the liquor stores closed around 4 in the afternoon. I remember my first booze crisis when I decided I needed something and drove out to a closed liquor store. I was horrified.  In this state you have to plan your booze purchases ahead of time. No last minute decisions or cravings. This is unacceptable. It relegates buying booze to the same category as computing the family budget.

You could also buy single 12 oz. beers in those days. Rip them right off a six pack or visit the cooler section where the loose beers accumulated. Now if you want to buy a single beer it has to be 144 ounces. It's pretty hard to inconspicuously drink a 144 ounce beer while you are driving.

The point is package stores had personality. An element of mystery, a hint of evil. Rumor has it that there was a robust drug business pumping out of Harold's. I don't know. I bought my drugs elsewhere.

Which reminds me. Another fun angle to booze buying was Gaff. This guy's parents died young, leaving him sole owner of the family manse. He was a delicious derelict a few years older than us. A role model. A real likable guy.

Never worked, his house was a constant party scene, he could always get us drugs and he was never averse to making a booze run. His hair was grey at the age of 22. We'd pool our money, including a little extra for Gaff, and he'd run out to buy us booze.

My childhood was idyllic.

I miss packies. I really do. They are an oasis of originality in a world of blandness.

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